“You might be able to get me, but there will be others.”
“I think not. If I know you, Martha Ann, you probably saw this in heroic terms. High Noon with Gary Cooper, or maybe you thought you were Dirty Harry. I suspect you had to confront me by yourself. Now, please hand me your weapon carefully, Agent Thomas.”
There was little that Martha could do but comply. She reached into her purse and carefully brought out her pistol and laid it on Morrison’s desk.
“Now, that’s a good girl,” said Morrison, as he put Martha’s gun in his waistband. “Now we’re going for a little ride. What I must do cannot be done in this hallowed classroom. That would be a sacrilege.”
“Obviously you’re not Arthur Morrison,” said Martha. “Who are you?”
“Now, now, my dear Martha Ann, that would be a state secret. But it doesn’t matter anymore, since it will go nowhere. I am Gregor Ivanovich Lechenkov, Colonel General of the Army of the United Soviet Socialist Republics and a director-resident of the KGB, assigned to command the forces of the Motherland in this decadent land under Project Cicada.
“As the leader of the hundreds of dedicated men and women of Project Cicada, I have a duty to them. A duty that transcends even the national pride that first brought us to these degenerate shores. I must shepherd them, justify their existence. So you see, my dear Martha Ann, you have stumbled on to the biggest catch you could have ever made in your career with the FBI. Too bad it has to work out this way.”
Perplexed, Martha said, “But why now, with Russia and America moving toward unrestrained cooperation? Doesn’t that eliminate the need for your mission?”
His eyes flashed. “Silly girl. Do you really believe that because a few old weak men in Moscow decide to turn on the Motherland, in favor of whining women and misdirected children, that the cause is lost? Like the proverbial bear, the cause must go into hibernation to survive this chill, this cold wind from the west. In time, even the so-called Newly Independent States will realize that only central planning can deliver a full stomach. Then, Martha Ann, then my people will rise again. No, the struggle didn’t die simply because that drunken traitor Yeltsin climbed on to a tank. No, it has just begun.”
All the while, Lechenkov got more agitated. He pushed back his chair and stood balancing by one hand as he kept his pistol aimed at his former student.
“The same pressures that compelled the formation of the Soviet Union in 1917 are once again at play. The centuries-old wounds, such as between the Serbs and the Croatians, resurfaced immediately when they were granted your so-called freedom. All that your so-called liberty has done is to kill innocents so that some zealot can avenge some long lost hatred. So much for your freedom. Only the might of the central government of the Soviet Union could channel those hatreds and jealousies toward a common good, which it did for more than seventy glorious years. No, my dear Martha Ann, my services will be needed for a long time to come, despite the crude attempts to terminate my valuable mission.
“What right do these revisionists have to redefine our goals at such a late date? What right do they have to tell us that only 38,000 out of 500,000 KGB agents will survive to continue in the service of the glorious state? What do they realistically expect the remaining 462,000 trained agents will do? Disappear into the shadows of life? Become taxicab drivers, shopkeepers, pensioners? Come on, Martha Ann, surely you can see my point.”
“But, Mr. Morrison, surely you have …”
Lechenkov’s voice became even more strident.
“What right do they have to take my heritage away, my years of work, and leave me with crumbs? I have served the Motherland well and this is what they, the so-called saviors of the Russian nation, give me in return? They don’t have a right to liquidate my mission and order me to simply cease and desist. What is left for me at home, no apartment, no dacha, not even food on the table? What is the inheritance I shall leave my grandchildren?
“Hero of the Soviet, bah! I spit on it. You can’t eat medals and accolades. These old men and their whimpering women are fools. My troops are conditioned to respond to no one but me — not to the weaklings in the Kremlin or their suckling lap dogs in Lubyanka. They will do as I want and I shall be in a position to take the Motherland back to the clear thinking that would have never permitted the travails of Glasnost or Perestroika. We have resources that even the Politburo never imagined it had. The funny thing is that I haven’t needed the fools in Lubyanka for years. They just didn’t notice.
“We can survive in this weak land of yours for decades, rising to serve the Motherland when the time is right. Like the noble cicada, my troops shall hibernate for years, for decades, until I give them the signal to attack. The information that your CSAC people have been transmitting will surely be useful to the few of my trusted comrades who remain in Lubyanka, who serve to wait for the right moment to strike and restore the glory of the October Revolution.
“Even if the Motherland doesn’t come to its senses, there will be others: the Bosnians, the Croats, the Serbs, the Iraqis, the Syrians, the Colombians, the Iranians, the North Koreans, and, yes, even groups inside your own decadent nation who will find good use for our services. Yes, there are groups that would welcome the discipline and mastery of skills that my troops have developed. Even more than Mao Tze Tung, I have learned to swim like the fish in the sea.
“My men and women are specialists in all forms of military conquest. There are weapons specialists, sappers, pilots, marine experts, you name it. They merely await my word and they strike. They live their lives quietly. They could be your neighbor, your co-worker, the bus driver, your best friend, or even your lover. But they are all cicadas and they belong to me.”
“What about Ted Grayson?” said Martha.
“Such a poor boy, never could get along with his mates. After he was suitably alienated from his schoolmates, it was a simple matter to bring him in.”
“You exploited your own son?”
Lechenkov shrugged. “Exploit is a harsh word. I did nothing more than any American parent in guiding my son into the family business. He has a special skill, a skill that enabled us to know what you were doing at all times.”
The matter was concluded. Martha now knew the startling truth. The attacks on CSAC personnel were not directed from Moscow or any other foreign government. They were the last futile strikes of Colonel General Gregor Lechenkov, totally without orders from his superiors. The creature that Russia had created in the Cold War survived even as its creator did not.
As the two walked out the door, Lechenkov held Martha’s right arm tightly with his left hand. His right hand held the snub-nosed .38 hidden in his jacket pocket.
Lechenkov looked out the door to the hallway. All he saw were a few students loitering in the hall and an old lady in a silk summer dress and dark blue blazer drinking water from one of the porcelain fountains in the hall.
“Please don’t make any wrong moves, Martha Ann, or innocent people will be hurt,” whispered Lechenkov, as he and Martha left his classroom.
“Hi, Mr. Morrison!” said one young girl, looking for the world like a young Martha Ann Thomas, so bright and full of energy. Her honey blond hair bounced as she tilted her smiling head in greeting. The student was a part of the Cambridge Summer Fun program, in which gifted and talented students could take one or two courses for extra credit.
“Hi, Sue Ellen. Now don’t forget your computer project is due next week,” said computer teacher Arthur Morrison.