Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (6 page)

 
          
“Andrei
Ivanschichin Maraklov—”

           
“My name is Kenneth James.”

 
          
“You
will not be allowed to leave the Academy. You will never see America except in
your own mind. That I promise—”

 
          
His
smile disappeared, but she couldn’t stop.

 
          
“I
will make recommendations to Mr. Roberts that you never be allowed to graduate.
You could compromise the whole operation.”

 
          
It
pleased her to see the panic in his face that had now replaced his smug
expression. “What are you going to tell them, Janet? That while we’ve been
screwing each other I somehow scared you and you think I’m crazy? You’ve no
credibility. A thirty-year-old ex-whore having sex with a seventeen- year-old
high school student. You’ll make a very reliable witness.” He stepped toward
her, his expression softening. “You’ll drag yourself down as well as me. Don’t
do it. I promise I won’t scare you again. Janet . . .”

 
          
She
pushed him away. “I don’t need credibility. I can destroy you without anyone
ever knowing it was me. A notation here and there, a rumor, a changed grade or
a negative entry on your progress charts. You will be on your way to a border
post before you know it. Now once more, get out.”

 
          
“Don’t
do it,” he was still saying as the door slammed in his face. “You’ll be sorry
if you do . . .”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
His
morning regimen had been the same for the past five years. Wakeup at five
A.M.,
calisthenics and a morning three-
mile jog, breakfast by six-thirty. The Academy even taught students to enjoy
the typical American breakfast dishes while at the same time giving them
healthier, more substantial foods.

 
          
Classes
began at eight. Usually there was a bit of time before the morning
class—today’s was on the stock market and American economics—so James spent his
time reviewing the latest intelligence on his “target”—the real Ken James.

 
          
How
could anyone with so much going for him act the way James had? Maraklov asked
himself. The report said James was going to ace every course he was enrolled in
in his final semester of high school, including several advance-placement
college-level courses. At the same time a police blotter report noted that
James had been caught with a bag of marijuana. He was not charged with a crime,
only reprimanded—his stepfather carried a good deal of influence in the small
town where he lived. But James had risked his whole career on a one-ounce bag
of dried grass. Stupid.

 
          
No
pictures were included in the latest intelligence, but previous photographs
showed a tall, handsome youth shopping in fancy stores, driving expensive cars,
going to parties every weekend. He had seemed like a normal well-adjusted
teenager. Maraklov knew, of course, about James’ unfortunate past, but that was
ancient history. Surely that ugly episode was long forgotten? Maraklov sat back
now and thought about what it was like to be Ken James . . .

 
          
I
have everything I ever wanted. Brains, money, things. What am I missing? What
else do I want? Why did I need to smoke marijuana and get in trouble with the
cops? I have a good family, minus a brother—my natural father killed him in a
drunken rage. I don’t have a father, a
real
father—he’s either dead or in a mental institution. I haven’t seen my mom in
months—the only grown-ups around are the housekeeper, the gardener once a week,
and the occasional relatives of my stepfather who show up and say it’s okay for
them to borrow the Jag or bring their mistresses in for a nooner. “Nooner” ...
Janet would have trouble with
that
Americanism . . .

 
          
The
big house is lonely at night. My “friends” stop by once in a while, but they
study pretty hard, and I’m not exactly popular . . . There are alarms all over
the place—I have to be careful to shut them off even when I just want to get
some fresh air or take a dip in the pool. Cathy Sawyer doesn’t come by much
anymore. I wonder where she is—?

 
          
A
call on the room’s intercom interrupted: “Mr. James, report to the headmaster’s
office immediately.”

 
          
As
he headed toward Roberts’ office he thought of Janet Larson.
Damn her.
She had really done it, had
blown the whistle on him. She would pay for this, he told himself as he
straightened his tie. She would pay . . .

 
          
But
Janet Larson was just as surprised, and just as fearful to see him, as she
walked into Roberts’ outer office. They exchanged no words, only anxious
glances as he knocked on the headmaster’s door. He was ushered in by Roberts
himself and left standing in the middle of the office.

 
          
“The
question about whether or not you will ever graduate has been made for us, it
seems,” Roberts began. He motioned to a message form. “A report from our agents
in place in
Washington
. It seems your Mr. Kenneth Francis James has decided on a college.”

 
          
Maraklov
smiled. Washington, D.C. That must mean Georgetown. Ken James has decided on—

 
          
“He
surprised everyone,” Roberts went on. “We did not even know he had applied for
the Air Force Academy.” Maraklov was stunned. “The
Air Force Academy?”

           
“He received a senatorial
sponsorship last winter, obviously from his stepfather’s connections,” Roberts
went on. “We were fortunate—we learned he had cut his scheduled vacation in
Hawaii short by two months, and one of our operatives did some checking to find
out why. He is supposed to begin summer orientation training in six weeks.”

 
          
Maraklov’s
mind was beginning to catch up. “My father,” he mumbled, then looked at
Roberts. “I mean his father is ... was . . . a highly decorated veteran of the
Vietnam war. Even without political connections he could have received
sponsorship as the son of a combat veteran. There could be a sympathy factor
too. I should have known. The possibility of a military academy placement was
always there ...”

 
          
“Whatever,
this changes our plans for your graduation, Kenneth James.” He was testing as
he said it.

 
          
“Sir?”

 
          
“Your
counterpart-target is about to enter the Air Force Academy. We cannot risk
putting an agent into the Air Force Academy. He has a pilot-training
appointment. He will be in the United States Air Force for four years—”

 
          
“Eight
years, sir,” Maraklov corrected him, eyes bright with anticipation. “Pilot
candidates must serve eight years after UPT graduation ...”

 
          
“You
have learned well, but that is not the point, Mr. James. We have never placed a
deep agent in the American air force’s cadre. He would have little chance of
surviving the security screening. It is very intense, especially for a pilot
candidate. They check every move from present day to birth, check his parents,
his relatives, his neighbors—”

 
          
“And
Kenneth James will pass with flying colors,” Maraklov said excitedly.

 
          
“But
the applicant for a security clearance initiates the process with a detailed
report on his background, relatives, addresses,” Roberts said nervously. “You
would have to supply every detail of James’ life from
memory
—you could not risk being caught with a dossier on yourself.
And the process is repeated every five years while in the service. Could you do
that?”

 
          
“Of
course, sir.”

 
          
Roberts
hesitated, but only for a moment. If any other student had made that confident
a reply he would have dismissed it as bravado. But not Maraklov. The boy knew
his counterpart so well... it was almost frightening. Beyond any of the other
student-target linkages.

 
          
“You
will need plastic surgery,” Roberts said. “And if the scars and bruising from
surgery do not heal in time, you will be discovered.”

 
          
“I
assume James will be in Hawaii until July,” Maraklov said. “The summer
orientation course starts in mid-July, as I recall. That gives us five weeks
before we need to intercept James. Five weeks is time enough for my scars to
heal. And the surgery would not need to be extensive, sir. My ... his parents
won’t be visiting very often. And plebes are not allowed visitors until
Thanksgiving. By then his appearance will have changed enough to explain any
minor differences—” his voice dropped, sounding depressed—“if my parents notice
at all.”

 
          
Roberts
scarcely noticed James’ changing moods, his juxtaposing of himself and the real
Kenneth James, the angry, distant look. But he was too busy marveling at
Maraklov’s extensive knowledge of even the most esoteric bits of information.

 
          
“This
will have to be approved by Moscow,” Roberts said, sounding as excited as
Maraklov had earlier. “But we have a chance to
do
it. .. And if we do, it will be the espionage coup of the
century—”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” James agreed, though he was not thinking about espionage coups, or
success or failure.

 
          
He
was thinking, I will be . . . complete. Yes, that was the word. For the first
time in my life, I will have a chance to become a complete person. Thanks to
Ken James . . .

Wednesday, 1 July 1985
,
2103 EET

 
          
It
was late that evening. As usual Katrina Litkovka, known as Janet Larson, was
finishing a stack of paperwork, clearing her desk and preparing the Academy
administrator’s morning business. She heard the outer office door open. Before
she could look up from her desk, Maraklov was in her office and had slammed the
door behind him.

 
          
Katrina
knew it was Maraklov, but it still took a moment for the shock to wear
off—after all, it had only been a few weeks since Andrei Maraklov had had his
new face. This new one was thinner, with a higher forehead and a stronger,
squarer jaw. The quality of the plastic surgery was excellent—the scars were
nearly invisible and the bruising had all but subsided. This Ken James could be
considered very handsome—except right now what she felt was a stab of fear.
Maraklov, if recognizable, was also much more a stranger now, unpredictable as
any other intruder.

 
          
She
forced down the anxiety she felt and managed an authoritative edge in her voice
. . . “You are not to be here after hours, Mr. James.”

 
          
Maraklov
did not say a word but quickly scanned Litkovka’s desk. His attention settled
on a memo paper still in her typewriter. Before she could react he had yanked
the paper out of the platen and read it, his face darkening with every word.
“So,” he said in a low voice, “you
are
going to try to block my mission to the United States.”

 
          
“It
is a report from the Academy psychologist,” she said. “It has nothing to do
with me—”

 
          
“He’s
another one you sleep with.”

 
          
“You
should know about
that
” Litkovka
stood up and snatched the paper out of his fingers.
“He,
not I, says he is uncertain about your emotional stability. He
thinks you may not be prepared to enter the Air Force Academy. It is my duty to
make sure that Mr. Roberts knows about the doctor’s opinion—”

 
          
“Don’t
do this to me,” Maraklov said. “I’m the
perfect
candidate for this operation. I
am
prepared. I’ve prepared for years. I know exactly what I’m doing—”

 
          
“Spoken
like a schizophrenic bordering on psychotic,” she said with a smile. “If you
‘graduate’ and compromise us, all our careers are in jeopardy. I must not allow
that to happen—”

 
          
Maraklov
slapped his hands on the desktop, then visibly fought to relax, put on a hint
of a smile, and reached inside his jacket. Her eyes widened with fear, but what
he pulled out was a small half-liter bottle of amber liquid.

 
          
“This
is for you, Janet,” Maraklov said. “I know it’s your favorite.” He set the
bottle down and she read the label.

           
“Scotch whiskey?” she said in a
surprised voice. “Where did you get Scotch whiskey?”

 
          
“Never
mind, Janet. It’s yours. Please take it.”

 
          
“But
that is contraband, Andrei—”

 
          
“My name is Ken James
...”

           
He really did seem beyond the edge,
although that identification with his subject-target was what he had been
trained to achieve. Still, wasn’t his extreme, so much so he might lose control
and endanger his mission? Her personal anger over his treatment of her helped
the rationalization, if that’s what it was.

 
          
“Having
that in your possession is a serious offense. I suggest you get out of my
office and get rid of it immediately or I will be obliged to call the
headmaster—”

 
          
“No,
don’t do that. Please—” his tone was abruptly subdued—“I’m going ...”

 
          
He
picked up the bottle, stuck it back into his coat pocket and left without
another word.

 
          
True,
Litkovka had used her well-honed talents to get the school psychologist to
write a perhaps more damaging psychological report on Maraklov than otherwise.
But it was only a matter of degree, she assured herself. Without question,
Maraklov would do anything to go to the United States—his motives were personal
as well as patriotic. Why this was so she didn’t know. She did know that Andrei
Maraklov could be a dangerous man. Well, he had accepted the situation,
finally. At least it seemed so . . .

 
          
She
stayed until ten o’clock that evening—curfew for all students was ten
P.M.
and bed-check was shortly
thereafter, so she would be safe from Maraklov just in case he tried to do
something crazy when she left the office. She gathered up the papers on
Maraklov and locked them in her briefcase—if Maraklov got his hands on a bottle
of Scotch whiskey, he could easily get his hands on this report if she left it
in the office—and headed for her car in the parking lot.

 
          
She
found herself checking around outside her car, checking the back seat and trunk
until a passing security patrol saw her. She had to smile. “You are acting very
strange, Katrina. Go home and get some rest and put Maraklov out of your mind.”

 
          
Minutes
later she was outside the front gate of the Academy heading down the two-lane
chickenseed road toward the main highway. After turning onto the wide, two-lane
asphalt highway she switched her headlights to high-beam and roared east- bound
to her apartment complex a few kilometers from the Academy. The road was curvy
in places but it was wide and fast and she kept the speed up to a hundred
kilometers an hour.

 
          
She
was rounding a gentle right-hand curve when suddenly a figure appeared in the
glare of her headlights, right in front of her car. Litkovka jerked the wheel
to the left and tromped on the brakes. Her Zil automobile skidded in a
half-circle across the road and into the ditch on the other side. Litkovka was
wearing a seatbelt but no shoulder harness, and her head hit hard against the
steering wheel, then against the closed driver’s side window as the car sank
several inches into the muddy ditch.

 
          
She
was still semiconscious, dazed by the impact, when the passenger-side door
opened. She raised her head and squinted against the sudden glare of the
interior light and saw a man dressed in a heavy coat and gloves. The interior
light went out.

 
          
“Help
me, please.
Pamaghetye
...”

 
          
Her
head was yanked backward by her hair. Before she could take a breath a strong
liquid was poured down her throat. She coughed, tried to spit it out. The
liquid burned her throat, lungs, nose. Then a powerful gloved hand covered her
mouth and nose, trapping the liquid inside her throat. She had no strength to
resist. Only to squirm for only a moment or so, then was still.

 
          
The
shadowy figure checked the body for any sign of life, then dumped out the
contents of Litkovka’s briefcase on the car floor. Using a small penlight, he
checked each paper until he found the one he was searching for. He stuffed it
into his pocket, dropped the bottle of whiskey on the seat beside Litkovka and
hurried off.