Falling Star (40 page)

"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.

"Okay, Mr. Morrison.  Don't worry, it's almost done."  She bounced along her way, her silky hair swinging in time with her walk.

Taking Martha firmly by the arm, Lechenkov started down the long corridor toward the stairs, past the white-haired old woman drinking from the porcelain water fountain.

As the two walked past her, Mildred spun around, aimed her Beretta at the back of Lechenkov's head and pulled the trigger several times.  The loud reports of the Beretta echoed through the brick and wood corridor, kids flattened themselves on the highly polished linoleum floor, and Sue Ellen started screaming hysterically.

The three bullets found their mark in the right rear of the Lechenkov's head.  The small caliber slugs of the Beretta did not tear his skull apart but they did their deadly duty nonetheless.  Only one of them exited from his forehead leaving a comparatively small exit wound and eventually lodging in the opposite wall.

Searing pain turned to brilliant whiteness and was followed by utter blackness as Lechenkov's lifeless body jackknifed and fell to the hard floor.  His grip on Martha' right arm loosened as he collapsed in a pool of red blood, his right hand still clutching the snub-nosed .38 in his right suit jacket.  In his death throes, his right hand squeezed the trigger of the .38, the loud report and ricochet of the slug echoed in the hallway.

Martha Ann knelt down to cradle the bloodied lifeless head of the man she had come to know as her second father, the genius who had taught her the world of computer science, and the marvelous things that those computers could do.  Martha gently closed the eyelids of Arthur Morrison, eyes that stared lifelessly at his favorite pupil.

As Martha knelt, her emotions welled up in her hazel eyes.  She remembered the gentle, exciting computer science teacher who had such a way with his students.

Martha put her forehead in her right hand as she hugged herself in pain. All she could say was, "Damn, damn, damn."

Mildred came up, holding her gold Defense Intelligence Agency badge for all to see.  "Are you okay?"

"Yes, Mildred.  You saved my life, but God it hurts."

2100 Hours: Wednesday, June 30, 1993: Arlington Heights Apartment, Arlington, Virginia

A tired and mentally exhausted Martha opened the door to her apartment in Arlington Heights, overlooking the maze of roads called the "Mixing Bowl" by all the radio traffic announcers.  This had been the worst day in her life.  The emotional drain of watching Arthur Morrison die left Martha shocked and depleted.  It was hard for her to separate Arthur Morrison, the beloved computer science teacher, from Gregor Ivanovich Lechenkov, the despised enemy agent.

After locking the door, Martha turned on her personal PS/2 computer and checked her E-mail.  The blue screen indicated that she had mail.  Martha keyed in the code to open her mailbox.  There was only one new message.  It said:  "I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE."

Martha stared at the ominous message.  Muttering to herself, "You perverted fuck, you can't scare me," Martha reached inside her handbag and took out her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol.  With her gun in the ready position, Martha carefully checked out her small third-story apartment room by room, including the balcony off her living room.  Having satisfied that she was alone, Martha dialed the Hyatt Regency in Bethesda, Maryland, where Mike and Mildred had established their headquarters.

"Hi, Mildred," said Martha as Mildred answered the telephone.

"Oh, hi, Martha.  How are you?  Long time no see," answered Mildred, as she put down the burlwood pipe she had been admiring.

"Look's like that slime ball Grayson is still lurking around.  He left a message on my E-mail."

"What is E-mail, dear?" said Mildred.

"Sorry, E-mail stands for electronic mail.  Anyone who has your E-mail address can leave you a message.  It looks like Grayson found my address."

"So what's our next step?" said Mildred.

"We probably should find out what George and his group found for starters."

"I'll call him in the morning.  Try to get some sleep, dear," said Mildred.

That night, as Martha prepared for bed, she made one more sweep of the tastefully decorated rooms, her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol at the ready.  Her living room was neatly laid out with a moderately expensive set of matching sofa and armchair of white crushed velvet.  A black wood rocking chair sat in one corner of the living room, the gold crest of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology was impressed on the headrest of the chair.  On Martha's parquet floor was a braided brown rug, given her by her mother.

In the dining area of the living room, instead of a dining table, Martha had opted for a computer work station made of oak hardwood.  Her IBM PS/2, Hayes Modem, and Epson 510 printer sat on the work station.  Martha's bedroom was where her femininity showed.  Her single bed was covered in a frilly white comforter, matched by the lace curtains on the windows.  Her antique dresser and makeup table were constructed of solid oak.  The entire apartment glowed with Martha's personality and her favorite perfume, Esteè Lauder White Linen.

Having satisfied herself that Grayson was not in her apartment and having once again checked the door and window locks, Martha undressed, glad to be free of the restraints of society, and stepped into her bath for a long hot, stress-relieving shower.  Her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol sat in its holster, hanging on a towel hook within her easy reach.  The hot water splattered on her tired body, each drop washing away the sadness and terror of the day.

After her shower, Martha dried herself carefully and, wrapped in her large soft white towel, walked into her bedroom.  Dropping the towel on the white wall to wall carpet in front of the full length mirror on her closet door, Martha admired her lithe, athletic body, her terrific mane of strawberry blond hair, the accent of her hazel eyes that got greener when she was excited, her flawless skin, her firm full breasts, the flat stomach that was the product of countless sit ups, and her slim hips.  If Martha had any regret, it was that God had denied her fuller hips.  She turned once in the mirror checking her smooth back and well turned legs one more time.  Yes, she was beautiful, but with a soft sigh she turned from the mirror.

Still nude, Martha turned down the covers on her bed and climbed in, happy that this day was finally over.  She placed her Glock pistol under her lacy pillow, turned off her table light, and fell fast asleep.

Down in the parking lot of Martha's apartment, the round-faced driver sighed as the lights went out in Martha's third story apartment.  In the relative coolness of the summer night, the interior of the car was steamy.  He removed his fogged rimless eyeglasses and wiped them dry with his yellowed handkerchief.  He brought to his nostrils the silk panties that he had so carefully taken during his time in her apartment.  He had conducted his raid so stealthily that she would never miss this one item.  He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Esteè Lauder White Linen.

His fantasies had run rampant as Martha's shadow had moved about the lighted apartment and especially when she appeared at the windows, checking the locks.  He was happy that his message to her had concerned her; she was his.

His hand reached for the ignition key and turned it, starting the recently stolen Oldsmobile Cutlass.  Without turning on the lights, Grayson drove out of the parking lot.  Once on the main road, Grayson turned on the car lights and drove to the Starlight Motel in Roslyn, where he was currently staying.

0800 Hours: Thursday, July 1, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"So, our boy Ted has taken a liking to you," said Smith in a weak attempt at humor.

"I can't prove it, but I have this uneasy feeling that Grayson may have broken into my apartment.  God, that gives me the creeps," Martha shuddered.  "What should we do?"

"A strange bird," said Mildred, as she looked up briefly from her knitting.

"Martha, I'm going to post some agents to guard your apartment," said Adams, who now felt sorry that he had involved her in this tragic mess.

The three were in a conference room in CSAC's Tenley Circle headquarters in Washington.  The other people in the conference room were Mildred, Bateson, and Joyce Ellington.  Smith had invited Bateson and Joyce to the meeting because he had a plan to catch the elusive Mr. Grayson.

"This guy is a sicko.  Bateson determined that Grayson is into calling singles party lines, deviant sex practices, and other weird stuff.  I think we might be able to trap this guy with a decoy."

"What kind of decoy?" said Martha.

"We thought we could get you to pose for Hustler," said Bateson as he cast an admiring eye over Martha' shapely body.

Martha replied, "Watch it, creep!"

"Just joking."

"Quit clowning around," said Smith.  "I want this creep.  He's responsible for too many dead CSAC people."

A serious Bateson took up the discussion.  "Grayson is obsessed with a particular phone-in service, LUV LINES.  From his telephone bills, it seems that he spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone to this one service.  My proposal is that we monitor this service and when Grayson calls, try to set up a sting."

"How do we do that?" said Mildred.

"You and Martha are the only ones who recognize Grayson's voice.  I propose that the two of you monitor the phone-in line.  We'll get a court order permitting us to do so.  Compulsive behavior like this usually is highly predictable.  Grayson normally calls in between the hours of nine and eleven in the evening.  I suggest we monitor the line during these hours."

"What happens when he calls in?" inquired Martha.

"That's when Joyce steps in.  Grayson might recognize your voices.  When you have determined that he's joined the call, get Joyce on the line.  Her cover is that she's a computer analyst at the Department of Transportation, new in town and anxious to meet other hackers.  We reckon our boy won't be able to resist that."

"Pretty slick," said Martha.

"After the fish is hooked, it's up to Joyce to reel him in.  We'll set up a rendezvous and snag him."

Mildred started to gather her things.  "When do we start?"

"Tonight," said Smith.

2100 Hours: Saturday, July 3, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

"Hi, this is Jean.  I'm twenty-six, brunette, five foot two and love to jog."

"Hi, Jean.  This is Scott, six foot two and I jog every day."

Covering the telephone, Martha said, "I sure hope Grayson gets on soon, I'm not sure I can take this too much longer."

"Wait a minute, dear," said Mildred.

"H-Hello, t-this is Ted.  I'm l-looking for someone w-who s-shares an interest in computers."

"Get Joyce."

Joyce came into the room, sat down, and picked up the handset.  "Hi, this is Joyce.  I just started work at DOT as a computer analyst.  I'm five feet tall, with long black hair.  I'm new in town and would like to meet some nice hackers."

"H-Hi J-Joyce, I'm Ted.  I w-work as a computer analyst too."