“Pete, I’ve got a live one for you. He claims he’s a secret agent. Do you want to see him or should I just get rid of him?” whispered the police sergeant into the telephone.
“Secret agent, huh? Well, it’s a slow morning. Why don’t you send him back,” said Detective Sergeant Peter Wilkinson.
A moment later, Sorenson knocked on the door to the detective squad room.
“Come in. Take a seat,” said Wilkinson, as he put a blank interview form into his typewriter. “Now what can I do for you?”
“My name is William Sorenson. My real name is Nikolai Sakurov. I was sent to the United States to infiltrate your country and to spy.”
“By whom?”
“Russia.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten years.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the James Arms Apartments at 36th and South James Avenue, Apartment 28A.”
“What is your telephone number?”
“436-4009.”
“What do you do?”
“I operate the Lake of the Isles Bicycle Repair Shop in Lowry Hill.”
“How is the security of the United States going to be hurt by a bicycle repairman?”
“You don’t understand, I was sent here in deep cover.”
“What?”
“I said deep cover.”
“Can you explain that to me.”
“My masters have been infiltrating the United States for years, particularly across the Canadian border.”
“Who are your masters?”
“The Soviet military. They have a program of training spies who can infiltrate a country like the United States. The committee called this project ‘Cicada’, after the insect by that name.”
“What’s a cicada?” said Wilkinson.
“You know, the insect that hibernates for years,” said Sorenson. “We’re told to go underground for long periods of time. We’ve been penetrating the shores of the United States for over thirty years. We’re trained from youth in special camps in the Urals until we’re indistinguishable from Americans. We enter the country using either false visas from western European countries or travel through Canada and slip into the United States in such places as International Falls, Minnesota, Vancouver, or Detroit.
“The crossing guards at these stations on the Canadian border do little more than say hello to the occupants of cars. And when we answer back in a mid-American accent, the guards assume that we’re United States citizens. Once in the country, we’re instructed to live a modest life, drawing no attention to ourselves. Often we don’t hear from our controllers for years or even decades.”
“That’s a very interesting story, Mr. Sorenson. What do you want me to do?”
Sorenson bolted out of his chair. “You’re the policeman, not me.”
“Now calm down, Mr. Sorenson,” said Wilkinson. “Please take your seat.”
“What I’ve been trying to tell you is that the KGB has infiltrated this country, your country. Not in small groups, but in hundreds.”
“But why are you telling me all this stuff?”
“I think my controller has gone crazy. He shot this guy last week because he thought he was a CSAC agent. I didn’t think being a cicada meant we had to kill. I just thought it would be a game.”
“Who was this guy you say was shot?”
“A CSAC agent named Richard Winslow.”
“What is Seasack?”
“CSAC. C-S-A-C.”
“What is C-S-A-C?”
“I don’t know.”
“What? Who is your controller?”
“I only know his first name, it’s Tim. His real name is Dimitri.”
“Where was this Winslow shot?”
“Near Mankato.”
Sensing he was getting nowhere with this person, Wilkinson looked at his watch.
“Mr. Sorenson, I can’t continue this discussion now because I have to be across town in ten minutes. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“No, Dimitri might find out. I’ll call you.”
“Well, have it your way,” sighed Wilkinson as he escorted Sorenson out to the lobby.
As Sorenson left the precinct house, Wilkinson asked the police sergeant if he had heard of any shootings in Mankato, involving a Richard Winslow. The sergeant said he would check InfoNet and switched his computer on. After the greenish prompt, he typed in the alphanumeric identifying the precinct and requested the search mode.
The computer responded: SEARCH KEYWORDS:
The police sergeant typed in: Winslow, Richard Winslow, R. Winslow, Mankato. In a short minute, the computer responded: SEARCH TERM NOT FOUND.
Wilkinson looked over his colleague’s shoulder at the response.
“What are you gonna do, Pete?”
“I guess we should write it up and send it down the chain. Maybe we should also send it to DODNet, just in case. My guess is that we’ll never see him again. I wonder what he was smoking.”
Wilkinson trudged wearily back to his desk.
Sorenson worked on the aquamarine Diamond Back trail bike trying to get the derailleur to work right. “Damn kids, they spend five, six hundred dollars on an expensive bike and then they hop curbs and go up and down steps like they were in Sherman tanks,” he muttered.
Here, at least, surrounded by his beloved bicycles, there was order to the world.
Visiting the police station had a cathartic effect on Sorenson, but had instilled anger as well. That detective had been making fun of him.
When he arrived home, Sorenson went into the bathroom, took a shower, got a beer out of the refrigerator, and sat down before the television and then went to his shop for the first time in days.
Sorenson was thoroughly engrossed in the problem of straightening out the derailleur that had been mangled in a fall its rider had taken while going down a flight of stone steps. He did not hear the front door of his shop open and the man walk in.
Feeling a presence, Sorenson turned to see the outline of a man framed in the doorway. The outside light, shining behind the man, made it difficult to see who the newcomer was.
“Can I help you?” said Sorenson.
“Nikolayevich, I’ve sent you many messages, but I’ve heard no response.”
“Dimitri.”
“Nikolai, why have you not responded to my commands?”
“I’ve been very busy with my repair shop. I haven’t gone by the canoe racks.”
The canoe racks on the northern shore of Lake of the Isles was the drop point for messages from Walsh to his subordinates. They were required to check for messages regularly. Sorenson has ignored this duty in recent days.
“But you know your prime duty.”
“Yes, Comrade. I know my prime duty.”
“Nikolayevich, you have failed me one too many times.”
Sorenson saw the glint of the pistol and the silencer in Walsh’s hand. He turned to escape. Walsh calmly squeezed the trigger of his Colt Commander auto pistol. The silent bullet found its mark. It entered through Sorenson’s upper right arm, coursing through his chest cavity, tearing muscle, exploding lung tissue, breaking bones, and tearing membrane along its way. The exit wound was big enough to put a fist through. As the bullet exited, it tore a gushing, gaping wound. Sorenson’s blood flowed out in waves, splattering crimson on every surface.
The force of the bullet threw Sorenson against the aquamarine Diamond Back trail bike, which fell to the floor in a metallic clatter. The wheels of the bike caught other bikes that were in storage and caused a chain reaction with bikes of all colors and makes falling and jumbling into a heap of rubber and metal.
Sorenson lay in this wreckage, still conscious. His brown eyes met the pale blue eyes of his executioner. “Why, Dimitri?” said Sorenson, as blood gurgled out of his mouth. “Why?”
Walsh walked over to the mortally wounded Nikolai Sakurov and calmly squeezed the trigger of his silenced pistol two more times.