Fury From Within

Chapter Three

A light breeze blew across the ocean waves as they broke effortlessly for the beach. A refreshing seawater mist evolved, one that would no doubt dampen all objects in its path. The narrow wooden bench that Peter Zarinsko occupied was no exception, facing the ocean that lay before him, basking in the late afternoon sun.

Of medium height, rail-thin with an olive-skinned complexion resembling someone of Italian descent. He blended in perfectly with the middle-aged yuppies that abounded.

Gazing from side-to-side, Peter wondered if it were all a dream. He had arrived in Philadelphia only three weeks before. Once in Philadelphia, he had assumed the role of atypical tourist — following the script thoroughly detailed by his Syrian handlers during his training in Damascus.

As planned, he visited most of the usual historical sites located throughout the Delaware Valley; the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Valley Forge and the Betsy Ross House. He hoped to lull any agents of the US Government into a state of complacency. After September 11th,they suspected all people of his faith, so knew he would be followed — at least initially. Hopefully, after seeing his dull routine they would deem him a “tourist” and leave him to fulfill his mission. Only then could he focus in on his primary targets.

With the mid-August temperature having breached 95 degrees, the beach that lay before him still had a respectable, yet dwindling population for the early evening hour. The remaining sun worshipers would soon roll up their cotton towels and heavy woolen beach blankets and head to their expensive rental homes.

On the boardwalk behind him, crowds thickened with toddlers manipulating parents from one amusement ride to another. Stuffing cotton candy in their mouths as they anxiously floated from ride-to-ride on a euphoria provided by the intoxicating combination of childish wonder and sugar. Not once did Peter notice a parent scold or reprimand his or her child for constantly wanting more. He had been forewarned before leaving his homeland of Chechnya, and then once again during his training in Syria, that this kind of behavior was to be expected in the land of milk and honey.

From his prone position on the bench, he couldn’t help but notice the scantily clad young women who plodded along. Coming from a strict Islamic society this was a shock at first for Peter but he slowly became accustomed to “the show” as the waning weeks of his mission flew by. He didn’t mind this part of his work. This was all “eye candy,” another American slang term he had heard on more than one occasion but alas, something he would never see in his homeland.

Peter turned back towards the beach in time to see a dog as it leapt into the air to catch a Frisbee in its mouth. Peter admired the dog’s skill for a few moments, waiting until the dog received a treat for his hard work. Yes, when my work here is complete that dog will be similar to Russia, catching all that we throw, responding to our simplest demands.

Peter Zarinsko had originally gone by his birth name, Muhammad Maizf, before assuming the new identity provided by his Syrian handlers for his mission to the United States.

He was born in the state of Chechnya to an uneducated tailor and a cleaning woman, the oldest of 8 brothers and sisters. At the age of 15, Peter’s father recognized the boy’s leadership qualities and pushed for the young boy to apply to the Frunze Military Academy, Russia’s equivalent of the American West Point. His father hoped Peter would someday become a military officer and escape the cycle of living in squalor.

Once enrolled in the Academy, Peter did not disappoint. He thrived in the Frunze’s esteemed traditions and camaraderie. Through hard work and dedication, he graduated at the top of his class and earned an assignment to Chechnya as his reward.

Once back in his homeland, he rapidly rose through the ranks, eventually assuming command of Chechnya’s only military armory in Grozny. When Chechnya declared its independence from Russia, it was Peter’s job to command the defenders of the armory until the reserve Russian Army units could arrive in force from their bases located on the outskirts of the city. It would be their job to remove the inventory of weapons for safekeeping. Though he was a Russian officer, his inner allegiance lay with his home state of Chechnya. Instead of fighting his fellow countrymen in its bid for independence, Peter instructed his troops to lay down their weapons and surrender to the mobs that soon gathered around the last bastion of Russia sovereignty in their city. Peter tossed open the doors of the armory to the masses and distributed the weapons and ammunition to aid its citizens in their fight for independence. Soon after, he fled to the hills and mountains of Chechnya, now charged with killing Russian soldiers instead of leading them.

He had to evict them from his country, for they were now the enemy.

After twenty long years of civil war, the battles that had ravaged his country were about to end, victorious for his country if he could follow through with his mission in the United States. The rebel leadership had already appointed Peter as the next martyr for their country.

Unfortunately for him, to attain martyr status—he would have to die.

Peter rested heavily on the bench, wondering if his Russian contact would ultimately show up for their meeting. He did say 8 pm in the last E-mail message? Not 8 am? Nervously fidgeting as he scanned the immediate area for any sign of his comrade.

Before arriving in the United States, Peter was provided with a list of Public Libraries in the area where he would receive further instructions. He simply accessed an Arabic web page run by Syrian intelligence, looking for a message posted under Muhammad Maizf for further instructions. Once he opened his message, it would provide a number from one to 10, a meeting time and an identifying object to wear. The first number was to be associated with a location. So for a typical meeting, the message was broken out as: 3, 8 pm, Beach Boys, 8/17. The number three stood for; Ocean City Boardwalk, Mack & Mancos pizza, bench against beach. Then the time: 8pm, then what type of shirt to wear for recognition and finally the date. The code was simplistic in its composition, yet unbreakable. The instructions and meeting times meant nothing to anyone reading them, unless you had the exact locations associated with the times. And these were only provided to Peter before he had left Syria, which he promptly memorized and ripped into pieces before disposing of them in the aircraft lavatory.

The Ocean City Boardwalk made for easy drop due to the masses of people that typically gathered on a Saturday evening. The more people, the easier to mingle in and get lost once the exchange was complete.

Boris Stevensky enjoyed living the good life since his retirement. Unfortunately, retirement had also added many pounds to his small stature, providing him with a Buddha-like girth. His shaven head only enhanced the look. His Swiss doctors pleaded with him to shed some of the weigh. He ignored them all, referring to them as “witch-doctors.”

At one time Boris was considered the top KGB agent for the old Soviet Union. Now, under the new Russian auspices, the KGB was better known as the Federal Security Service or FSB. He was “old school” KGB, having trained most of the FSB leadership now in place, knowing exactly where their criminal mindset and reputations lay.

His ride to the top was derailed when caught in a compromising situation with a female FBI agent. At the time, he was employed as one of the Soviet Union’s Senior Cultural Liaison’s at its Washington Embassy, working directly for the KGB Station Chief. It was the old “Honey Pot” in reverse, with many American diplomats having been caught in the same embarrassing situation. His expulsion from the country effectively ended his overseas career. Upon his return home, his superiors assigned him to a minor position at the KGB training academy in Volgograd. In effect, hoping Boris would just simply fade away. But Boris had an ace up his sleeve: his photographic memory. He could view a document for only a few seconds and commit the document to memory.

As the lead “spook” at the Soviet Union’s Washington DC embassy, he experienced many an opportunity to view “red” or “for your eyes only” documents meant for the Ambassador or KGB Station Chief. On one such occasion he was able to view an extraordinary document, one that would never leave the recesses of his mind. He knew the document would have immense value at some point in his future.

Boris despised what Russia had become in its downward spiral from its super power status only years before. Now she lay regulated to hovering between a second or third-rate nation. He had visions that possibly with a little push from his end; the real Russia could once again emerge and regain to its rightful position of power.

Boris had provided Peter with instructions to stand in front of the bench as a signal if being watched or followed that way Boris would simply walk by unnoticed. Boris’s years of undercover experience taught him never to relax. The one time you did, you’d get caught. Just like his Honey Pot sting.

Boris cursed silently as he exited the air-conditioned shop. He had never become accustomed to weather in the states, even after spending six long years in Washington DC.

In front of him the boardwalks pedestrian traffic maintained some resemblance of an American highway with both the right and left hand side’s moving according to roadway etiquette. He waited for a break in the flow before merging and walking toward the ocean side of the boardwalk. He continually scanned the crowd for anyone that may stand out from the ordinary tourist.

After 30 years of being in the business, Boris could detect someone who seemed out of place. Anyone sporting a “high and tight” haircut was usually the easiest to spot, this being the preferred cut for most law enforcement types. Suit and ties were a dead giveaway — inexpensive ones at that. Policing agencies in the United States were not known for being generous when it came to dealing with the clothing allowance. Such a shame thought Boris, scanning the crowd for any tell tale signs. The United States could learn a lesson or two from the Russian FSB. Maybe on his next trip to the US he could make a pitch to one of his old advisories in the FBI, maybe even teach a class on how criminals evade police surveillance.

Sweating profusely as he walked the remaining distance to his contact, Boris knew this would be the make or break point, the final few meters. Should he just walk past and drop the envelope near his contacts feet? Such a move would allow him to blend safely into the background and keep pace with the jostling crowd. No, he couldn’t take the chance of the envelope falling through the board’s cracks and to the beach below. This wouldn’t be prudent with several billion dollars worth of state owned product on hand!

Ever vigilant, he looked from side-to-side as he stopped to mop his brow. Satisfied the area was indeed clear — he sat down heavily beside his contact.

Initially caught off guard, Peter dropped his slice of his pizza on his pants before it slipped to the boardwalk.

Boris tried to conceal a slight smile not wanting to offend his young Muslim contact, realizing it was probably his first undercover operation.

Boris reached into the pocket of his white Panama shirt and pulled out a manila business envelope. He delicately wrapped it with a white handkerchief he had produced from his pants pocket, handing it to Peter as if to assist with the spill.

Peter realized what Boris was trying to do and willingly took the handkerchief, thanking the polite stranger that he was.

Using the handkerchief to blot the red pizza sauce off of his pants, Peter eased the envelope between his legs.

Boris glanced at Peter out of the corner of his eye, careful to keep his head aligned straight as if looking towards the beach. He sat there silently wondering if this young man were as brave and idealistic as his Syrian handlers stated he would be. The information Boris had received on his subject was clear; he graduated at the top of his class and excelled in every area. Boris wondered if he could follow through on an operation Boris himself had lost the nerve to perform several years before? He personally had no stomach for it— age does that to a man.

Within 3 days the whole world would know if his Syrian handlers were to be believed.

The simple exchange of the business envelope complete, Boris calmly bent down as if to tie his shoes. “We are off the communication cycle. No more meetings, phone calls or e-mails.” He now worked on the other lace. “I am disappearing after this. I do not want to be connected with this operation in any way. Do you understand what I am saying my young friend? I am a ghost.”

“Yes, all according to your plan sir,” Peter responded in flawless English, a product of his Frunze Military Academy training. “I have everything we will need right here,” patting the envelope Boris had delivered to him. “You can now retreat back to your safe house knowing you have performed a great deed with your actions here today. Allah and my country will be eternally grateful for your divine intervention.”

Boris pondered Peter’s response for a moment. Why did he make it a point to say safe house? What else did the Syrians tell this man?

Boris turned to face the young man for the first time since sitting down. “You’re right to assume I have a safe house. I maintain a small villa in Switzerland. It’s my insurance policy where I hope to live out my remaining days.”

Peter carefully picked up his pizza slice from the boardwalk, tossing it onto the beach near an unsuspecting pack of seagulls. He watched as the seagulls attacked the food in earnest then each other for the edible prize.

“There will be nothing to connect you with the events of the next three days. You have my word on that. My people are grateful for all you have done. We would never allow any harm to come to our friends. The only people you should fear are the infidels you associate with. They are the ones who will turn on you like Jackal’s — not my fellow brothers.”

Boris stepped over to the rail that separated the beach from the boardwalk, still confident he was with-in earshot of Peter. “In my youth, I studied the great Roman and Greek empires. I was fascinated with their histories, philosophies, and teachings they provided. One particular area of interest was myths, both of the Roman and Greek variety.” He paused for several seconds, looking back to see if he held his Muslim friend’s attention.

Peter nodded.

“Well here I am spouting off about something that may or may not interest you but here goes. The ancient Romans had a myth about the sea. A beautiful sea-maiden sits on a rock out at sea, blowing kisses to all sailors who happen by, trying to lure them into her domain. Of course, her beauty is so enticing they choose to sail closer. The closer they sail, the more her beauty becomes apparent. It’s at this point the vision suddenly disappears, changing back to reality; a rock. This happens all too late for the poor misguided sailors, for they collide with the rock and are tossed into the sea. The sea maiden then dutifully rises up to swallow the results of her actions.”

He paused for several seconds allowing the words true meaning to sink in before continuing. “Well, with that envelope you now have in your possession, I hope you are not a sailor with a vision of a sea-maiden. May God or Allah or whomever you worship have mercy on your soul.” Boris turned quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

Peter slipped the envelope into his pants pocket. He faced in the direction of what he hoped was east, closed his eyes for a few moments and prayed silently. When finished, he stood and made his way thru the crowd in order to buy another slice of pizza before his long journey.

As he waited for his order, Peter viewed the pageantry that was still in progress on the boardwalk. Yes, I will miss this when I return home, his eyes following the progress of a bevy of young women who were parading past him. Cheap knock-offs of Channel and Gucci hung the night air competing with the aroma of his pizza cooking.

Both possessed their own intoxicating qualities.

A smile creased his face as he looked to his left, this time noticing a man with an ear-piece and military style hair-cut quickly look away, now peering into a shop window that sold women’s bathing suits. Peter’s natural instincts took over as if operating on remote control.

The man had to be either a pervert or a cop. Peter settled on cop.

The man’s combination of long pants and loose, baggy shirt, made it easy to conceal any weapon he may have tucked into his waistband. Now the million-dollar question — was he local or Fed? If local, it shouldn’t be a problem. He might just be working on a shoplifting detail and Peter could have looked suspicious with his Arabic profile. If he’s a Fed—well, that could present be problem.

Peter realized he couldn’t run. No, it had to be the bathroom or nothing. He walked to the back of the small, crowded shop, maneuvering around a pile of empty cardboard pizza boxes piled neatly from floor-to-ceiling. Once in the bathroom he hastily bolted the door behind him. With only one escape route before him, he climbed on top of toilet’s ceramic water tank and after some minor effort, was able to push open the bathroom’s only window.

Peter peered out the windows narrow opening only to view a trash-laden alley. Looking from side-to-side, he noticed another man walking towards him — only this gentleman wore a cheaply cut suit. Peter braced himself against the wall to avoid falling, collecting his thoughts as his mind raced.

“Damn it,” he said aloud, closing the window.

He paused for a few seconds on his water tank perch, mentally retracing his earlier drive from Philadelphia, coming to the conclusion that it must have been the Russian who slipped up. Peter knew he was cornered and would have no choice but to fight his way out.

Peter made his way back to the front counter. Better to just play along. The agent was easy enough to notice, leaning against an adjoining store wall enjoying his own slice of pizza. Peter smiled, having heard that most police in the United States only hung around donut shops or all-night convenience stores. This must be a real treat for him.

Peter eased a five-dollar bill across the counter to pay for his slice of pizza.

Then he felt a light tap on his arm.

Not bothering to turn, he chose to ignore the agent who now stood alongside the counter. Peter needed additional time to figure a way out.

As the seconds passed he once again felt a tap on his arm, this one more pronounced. Realizing he couldn’t ignore the agent any longer, he responded by turning and coming face-to-face with the man.

Flashing an FBI badge, he motioned for him to walk outside.

Peter knew the agent was operating alone due to his partner still being in the rear alley. He had to move quickly and overpower his enemy before the other agent showed up.

Looking for anything that might be utilized as a weapon, Peter settled on the only object within his reach — slamming his steaming hot pizza into the agents face.

The ensuing confusion allowed Peter to rush out the door before the agent could react, disappearing into the ever-thickening Saturday night crowd.

The agent fell to his knees in agony as the pizza’s hot cheese and sauce scalded his face. His cries of pain were overheard by his partner via the open link he carried in his pocket.

His partner bolted from his alley position arriving in time to see Peter escaping through the crowd almost 50 yards away.

The agent from the alley paused briefly as he checked on his partner’s status — his partner on his knees with his badge and weapon lying sprawled in front of him.

Satisfied his partner had only superficial wounds, he bolted down the boardwalk in hot pursuit of his suspect.

Peter was able to put some distance between the pizza shop and the agent— before pausing to look back and see another agent in dogged pursuit. He realized he had to pick up his pace knowing the agent would be calling in local support.

The thickening crowd slowed Peter. He knew the slow pace would only increase his chances of capture. To his right, he noticed a children’s arcade. Looking back, he lost site of the agent who was in pursuit. He had only one option. Peter bolted into the children’s arcade. Once inside the arcade he immediately sought out the manager — easily identifiable by the change dispenser he sported about his thick waist.

Peter pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket before thrusting it in the man’s face. “I’m playing a game with my children. I have a Type A personality and have to win, I can’t let them find me,” Peter said, slightly out of breath. “I have to use your alley exit.”

Little Jimmy Salvino, all 6 foot 4, 350 pounds of him, inherited the arcade from his father, Big Jim, 10 years earlier. He had to admit that this was a first — someone paying $50 bucks to use a door. Thinking about his alimony payment coming due in the ensuing week he readily agreed. “No problem. You go straight back and through the office. It will lead you to the alley.” He quickly snatched the fifty from Peter’s hand before he had a chance to reconsider.

Less than 30 seconds elapsed before an FBI agent and three Ocean City Police officers converged from opposite directions, meeting conveniently outside “Little Jimmy’s” arcade.

“Where the hell did he go?” the pursuing FBI Agent shouted to the local police officers, both with their weapons drawn, hungrily looking for any reason to discharge them for the first time in their careers. “I was chasing him towards you. He couldn’t just disappear!”

Little Jimmy noticed the commotion outside his arcade and went to investigate. They were scaring away his potential customers. “What’s up with guns drawn like the Wild West?” he said to no one in particular.

The officer closest to him responded first. “We have a suspect loose around here and can’t seem to find where the son of a bitch went.”

It didn’t take long for Little Jimmy to realize who they were looking for. “Hey wait a minute. Some bum just used my alley door. He said he was playing a game with his kids and had to find an exit real quick. The guy had a dark complexion, skinny. He looked like an Arab.”

“That’s our man,” the FBI agent said, rudely brushing past Little Jimmy in search of the arcade’s alley door. “He’s got to be going for his car.”

Peter had enough foresight to park his car in one of the various pay lots adjacent to the boardwalk’s many on/off ramps. He was already gunning his engine by the time the FBI agent turned the corner with his local police contingent in tow — a mere 50 yards away.

The Agent leveled his weapon to fire at Peter’s car but, at the last minute, wisely held back due to the amount of bystanders on the busy street.

Peter wasted no time, his tires squealed as he quickly sped off. With his cover blown he had no choice but to proceed with his backup plan.

Satisfied he had outrun his pursers, Peter steered his car to the main route moving south. No doubt the FBI and police would set up roadblocks going north towards Philadelphia. He had to outsmart them. Going in the direction they least expected.

Peter still had another hour until he reached his alternate site. He eased his seat back and turned off the cars radio. He wanted to focus on the list the former KGB agent had provided him. According to his Syrian trainers the KGB list would include the exact location of two, suitcase sized, nuclear warheads. The Syrians said the Soviets buried the weapons in the United States during the late 1970’s for “insurance” to hold off the United States and still maintain its deadly threat — a subtle one, but one ever so present. For this “insurance,” the Soviet Union chose to smuggle a total of thirty-four, “suitcase” sized warheads into the US via diplomatic shipments.

Using this cover, the Soviet Union shipped the 40 pound, 3 foot by 2 foot by 2 foot thick black lead-lined cases to the US with routine cargo traveling to the Soviet Union’s Embassy in Washington DC during the 1976-79 timeframe. Upon their arrival in the United States, each suitcase was dispersed to a predetermined location personally chosen by the Soviet Premier and the KGB Directorate Chief.

Once all the warheads were all dispersed, the Soviet Union’s KGB Washington office purposely leaked information about their existence to the American CIA. At first, the Americans brushed it aside as another KGB hoax. Brushed aside, the Soviets then offered to provide one of the weapons as a “sacrificial lamb” for the Americans. What had they to lose? Once a deal was brokered between the two agencies, a lone CIA agent accompanied one KGB Agent to suitcase number seventeen’s location. Number seventeen lay buried on the grounds of the Washington DC Headquarters of the Treasury Building, 2–1/2 feet below a row of Abraham Lincoln rose bushes on the eastern side of the building—and a mere 1 block from the White House. When the suitcase weapon was retrieved from its earthen grave, the CIA weapons expert was horrified, knowing instantly that it was no longer a hoax.

The expert knew the weapon was of such sophistication that it would have instantly wiped out everyone and everything with-in an 8-block radius of detonation; eventually killing many more through radiation poisoning that would linger for weeks after the initial explosion.

The 8-block area they presently stood in included: the White House, Capitol Building, FBI Headquarters, Treasury Building, and the Supreme Court.

The CIA expert reportedly blessed himself and said a prayer as the KGB Agent verified the weapons status.

Once removed from its concealed location, the KGB Agentcarefully re-packaged the weapon for shipment and escort it back to its Washington Embassy — all as agreed before hand with the CIA.

The Soviets were not about to turn over one of their most potent and complex weapons for dissection to an adversary such as the American CIA. This was just a game of show and tell. The Soviets had revealed their hand, now it was time for the Americans to run off like Paul Revere.

After the information and the initial shock wore off, the CIA realized the Soviet Union’s vast spy network located with-in the United States was to be considered even more potent and dangerous then its master. The possibility existed that a small cadre of undercover personnel could strike back at the US even if the Soviet Union were to become incapacitated during a first strike. Even more troublesome to the boys at Langley was the realization that the Soviets also had the ability to perform its own first strike on US facilities. Under this scenario, the United States Command structure at NORAD would have no warning of the actual strike until it was already over. This meant it would already be too late for a response since the Soviets would have wisely planted the weapons near the only persons and facilities authorized to strike back.

For a generation the US military planned for a nuclear response if its command at NORAD-Cheyenne Mountain detected a weapons launch. Now the rules of engagement had suddenly changed.

How could they respond to a weapons detonation, on its own soil, without proof of responsibility?

If the US held any advantage up to this point, this effectively evened the playing field or even tilted it slightly in the Soviets favor. As the CIA would discover years latter via their own Soviet spy network, the weapons were ultimately buried near major military and high profile civilian installations. Included on the short list was a location in Langley, Virginia — a mere 4 blocks from CIA headquarters.

The Russian Government reportedly kept the “need to know” list short. Only 9persons knew the exact locations of the buried weapons. What the Russian Government overlooked was the possibility of the list having been compromised by someone else — possibly a trained spy who also spied on his own people when it suited his own best interests. With this type of person included, the list reached a total of 10 or 11 who possessed the Godlike knowledge.

Boris infiltrated or “examined” his boss’s office on a periodic basis to keep abreast of situations that had or might arise, always wanting to stay ahead.

On one such occasion, the list of suitcase weapons locations presented themselves by making an appearance on his boss’s desk, right in the open for all to see. Boris simply copied the list in shorthand, and then memorized the locations over the next several days and nights. This allowed Boris to burn any evidence of the list and keep this one piece of information as his potential trump card for years to come, waiting until the time was right to prudently make his move.

This was just such a time — but he would only lay down two of his aces — keeping the remaining 32 for some future actions should the need arise.

The person in receipt of those “aces” was one Peter Zarinsko nee Muhammad Maizf, thanks to the actions of Boris Stevensky.

The short list who knew of the existence of the suitcase weapons had now grown by a one, making Peter’s small homeland of Chechnya the world’s newest nuclear power and the eighth most powerful county in the world.