He cursed the situation and the power he possessed which had put him in this position. He wished he had never been born. He wished he had kept his secret telekinetic abilities to himself and not allowed them to be discovered as they had been so long ago.
Sixteen years ago, he had been a schoolboy, and like so many other
young boys was playing with his blocks in the corner of the schoolroom in Moscow. Only he wasn't like other boys. He used his mind instead of his hands to move the blocks. The teacher, who was the wife of a KGB official, saw him and immediately recognized a way to use this discovery to her own benefit. She reported his amazing feat to her husband and within hours, the Rodina, as Clancy would put it, had another slave: a very important slave, one that would be the ultimate weapon against capitalism if the boy's powers could be trained and harnessed.
The KGB plan for Kamarov then was similar to the one conceived by Huxley for O'Shaunnesey a few years later: train him to focus his thought energy on reprogramming enemy missiles. By so doing, the enemy could be blackmailed into surrender. Failing that, if the enemy did strike first, that strike could be nullified before reaching the Motherland.
Kamarov was treated well by the KGB during the sixteen years of special training he had undergone since that fateful day in the schoolroom. He was special and was awarded special privileges befitting his value to the Rodina. Special western clothing such as blue jeans and Nike’s filled his wardrobe making him the envy of his peers. He wasn't forced to participate in the grueling calisthenics other boys his age had to endure in preparation for State service. He felt patriotic working for his homeland and enjoyed the advantages given him for his work. His parents benefited from his work as well and they all enjoyed the State-provided home just outside of Moscow as payment for his loyalty. But in spite of the meager incentives given him and his family, lately he had begun questioning their worth when freedom was not included as part of the reward for loyal service to the State. He was still a prisoner even as his parents were, and a prisoner he would stay unless he could find some way of escaping. But he knew that was unlikely. His escape would mean his parents' death just as surely as his compliance would mean disaster to both the Rodina and the United States. Using his powers to launch a missile was senseless to him and he knew it would open Pandora's box. But to those who controlled him it was essential to destroying capitalism. The launch would demonstrate to the U.S. military their entire nuclear arsenal was worthless and that's all they cared about. They calculated the risk and were willing to take it. Even now as Kamarov readied himself to carry out his mission, massive civil defense exercises (as they were announced in advance to the U.S) were being implemented to make the risk even more acceptable. He knew this and it sickened him.
As, he neared the car, he put these thoughts aside and unconsciously put his hand inside his overcoat and grasped the clean slick glass vile of liquid given him to counteract the effects of linking. The feel of the cold vile against his hand comforted him and he turned his head up toward the horizon wondering what the new day would bring. The radiant glow from the thousands of casino marquees lit up the crisp desert night and competed for and won his attention as they did most people who looked up to the heavens to see the stars. The lights fascinated him. In Moscow they had no such sights. The closest thing to the glow he saw now was the glow of the Northern Lights in Polyarny, a small coastal town on the Barents Sea some fifteen kilometers from where his grandparents lived and whom he visited in the short summer months when he was a child of twelve. In Polyarny, the Aurora Borealis put on displays which would last for hours as the sheet lightning blinked on and off as it rippled through the dark cold nights. The glow of the casino lights as they streaked the heavens with their multi-colored tendrils was nearly as bright and made him think of home and his parents and long for more peaceful times. In those earlier days as a child in Russia, he knew very little about how missiles worked and cared even less. During those times after six hours of constant concentration under the watchful eyes of his teacher at the institute just outside Moscow, he could go outside and run and play with the other "special children" as they were called: children, like himself who had similar mental abilities and who were being trained as he was to serve the State.
Those were happier days, and the six hour penalty he had to pay by demonstrating he could move things simply by concentrating, was a small price to pay for the thirty minute exercise period he got when he was through. During those exercise periods, he could be a child and play like one. He could do anything he wanted to between work periods. If he wanted to run, he could run. If he wanted to climb trees, he could climb trees. If he wanted to kick a soccer ball, he could do that too--all for the price of a little telekinetic demonstration. It was a pittance to pay for the freedom he felt during those times.
But as he grew, those feelings of pleasure of being free within the confines of the institute changed. As he reached puberty and read more and more about the outside world, he began to feel trapped and his definition of freedom began to change as well.
The definition crystallized during his last trip to the West when he visited Montreal and beat the Cray computer at the International Chess Federation meeting. The purpose of the trip had been to secretly link with the Cray. By so doing, he would test his abilities to manipulate data within the heart of the Western worlds' most powerful computer--a computer shaped like a toroid to minimize the electrical impulse travel distance between components resulting in higher processing speed. This test was deemed necessary to ensure that when Kamarov had to link with Western guidance computers which operated at near comparable speeds, that he could. Because the Soviet Union didn't have comparable equipment on which to train, Kamarov had been allowed to exit the country to see if he could out-think the pinnacle of Western technology. He did, and it was that success which convinced his superiors their goals were within their grasp. That same trip had other impacts as well. Aside from alerting the West, it also gave Kamarov a taste of what real freedom was and the taste was sweet, and he wanted more.
During the competition, Kamarov had met a Canadian girl, Katherine, and the brief hour they had spent together while his KGB bodyguard slept in the next room gave more tangible meaning to what to him had been just a concept before. Although Katherine was just doing what the older KGB agent had paid her to do with the "young one" as he had referred to Kamarov, to him she embodied the word "freedom."
Maybe it was because it was his first time with a woman that he felt so strongly about leaving Russia. Maybe it was because it was his first time out of the country. It didn't matter. Either way, the trip and Katherine taught him there was more to life than finding pleasure in serving the State. The word freedom took on new meaning to him after that, and as a result of being introduced to the concept from a prostitute in Montreal, he wanted more.
But Kamarov was foolish then. He announced his desires to the agent watching him, thinking because it was he that paid for the girl, he could trust him. That mistake cost him dearly. The agent immediately reported Kamarov's change in heart regarding his country and because of the seriousness of the charge and the value of Kamarov to the Rodina, steps had to be taken to enforce his loyalty. It was then that the State took his parents. Since that time, Kamarov was put under constant guard and freedom was something neither he nor his parents would ever experience again. This thought caused him to feel like a bird in a gilded cage and frustrated him. It caused the happy thoughts held just moments before while he stared at the night sky and thought of the summers spent in Polynary to turn into bitter anger against his country and the KGB official who drove him to the MGM Grand. If he could find a way out, he would.
CHAPTER 2
Six hours to the minute after Burt landed in California, Pat Huxley was on his way to Dulles International Airport. Through cooperation of the Agency and with Radcliff's help, Pat had learned that a Mr. B. Grayson had departed on United Airlines Flight 212 earlier that evening headed toward Los Angeles. Th
e departure time of that flight was approximately one hour after Burt had nearly beaten him to death and it would have been possible for Burt to have made that flight.
Because this was his only lead, and because time was short, Pat had no other choice but to book a flight for himself to Los Angeles, hoping that by the time he drove to Dulles and checked in that the true identity of the Mr. B. Grayson who had flown earlier would be determined and it would, indeed, be his assailant.
As he stepped into the airport from the curb he heard his name called out over the intercom directing him to the nearest white courtesy phone.
Pat scanned the wall and went to the nearest phone and picked it up. The voice on the other end of the line was unfamiliar.
"Mr. Huxley? Mr. Pat Huxley?" The voice asked.
Pat spoke into the receiver. "Yes, I'm Mr. Patrick Huxley. How can I help you?"
"Agent Johnson here, sir. I have the information you requested.
Pat put his finger in his opposite ear to drown out the noise from the intercom overhead which was announcing arrivals and departures. He didn't want to miss anything Johnson had to say.
"Go ahead, Johnson!" Pat encouraged.
"The Mr. B. Grayson on United Flight 212 is a Mr. Burt Grayson."
Pat smiled and looked at the departure monitor hanging overhead and noted he had fifteen minutes before boarding. Plenty of time, he thought. It looked like his gamble in booking his flight on a hunch had worked. But he had to be sure.
"How do you know his name is Burt? The airline indicated they only had a person with the initial 'B'?"
Johnson was standing in his office and rolled his eyes into the back of his head. What did this idiot care how he knew? He did his job, didn't he? He felt like hanging up, but his supervisor, Agent Walker, had called all the way from Las Vegas and had asked him for his full cooperation and had said he was counting on him not to let him down. Apparently this Mr. Huxley was a wheel.
Johnson cast his glance down to the half-empty cup of coffee on his desk, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Hell, he'd already missed his dinner date. He might as well answer Huxley and make him and Walker happy.
Johnson exhaled. "We checked the airline too, Mr. Huxley. But we went one step farther than your boys did." He was referring to Huxley's earlier attempts to locate Burt by having his own security people check the airline reservations.
"How so?" Pat asked.
"We found out how he paid for the ticket!"
"How?"
"By tapping into the airline reservation computer's ourselves. We found out he paid for his ticket with a Visa." His voice was sing-songy, like a kid saying told you so' to his little brother.
That annoyed Pat. He decided to pry deeper. He wasn't about to fly to Los Angeles without knowing all the facts. He was in no mood for a wild goose chase.
"Is that all the information you have, that his name is Burt?"
Johnson paused. He was biting his tongue when he answered. "No!" he said curtly. God he hated having to do favors for his boss, especially for such an arrogant asshole.
Pat waited for him to continue but all he heard was silence. Apparently he was going to have to ask again. "Well, what else do you know?" he demanded.
"His billing address came back as San Louis Obispo. But that's all we know okay?"
Pat beamed. The man on the flight had to be the one who had pummeled him earlier. It had to be Burt. It was too much of a coincidence that another Burt Grayson who lived in San Louis Obispo would be traveling from Washington to the West coast that night.
Pat forgot his previous anger and got Johnson to give him the flight arrival time. After that, he asked him to run a check on the rental cars in the local LA airport area and to cross check any reservations against Burt's credit card. The whole process took less than three minutes, but turned up nothing.
Pat had hoped he could get details on Burt's ultimate destination by getting his rental car contract. With that he could find out where Burt was, which would give him a place to start the manhunt, and if he planned to drop it off elsewhere, where that place was which would make tracking him that much easier.
But his luck wasn't that good and the computer search turned up nothing. He would have to trust his instincts now. And his instincts told him that Burt would be going to Cal Poly, back in San Louis Obispo. But his instincts couldn't tell him how long he'd take to get there or if he would stay once he arrived.
Johnson, who had been holding on the line while Pat was thinking, got impatient.
"Is that all Mr. Huxley?"
"No!" Pat answered a little gruffly at first, but then thinking that he might need Johnson's help, he apologized. "Hold on a minute will you? I've got think this thing through. You can hold can't you?"
"Uh huh," he replied.
Pat looked up at the monitor and then down at his watch. He had to be in Las Vegas in less than twelve hours. Mentally, he calculated how long it would take him to travel across the country to Los Angeles, get a car and drive to Cal Poly and then fly from San Louis Obispo to Vegas with Burt in tow assuming he could convince him to go with him, which he doubted, but hoped for just the same.
The trip to LA would take a good five and a half hours; to San Louis, another four; from San Louis to Vegas at least two to three depending on airline connections; renting cars in LA and San Louis, another hour and a half. He'd never make it; not if he went to San Louis to get Burt. The only way he might have a chance would be to get the FBI field office in Los Angeles to take Grayson and have them transport him back to Vegas where he could meet them. It was a long shot, but it was his only hope. He hated to take Grayson by force, but he had to do what he had to do.
He spoke into the receiver. "Johnson?"
"Yes."
"Sorry about the delay."
"No problem."
Pat then asked him to contact the local FBI office in Los Angeles and for him to get them to take Grayson back to Vegas for questioning. When he was through he asked if Johnson understood.
"Yeah, I got it! The FBI is to get this guy Grayson back to Vegas for you." His voice was ringing with excitement indicating a renewed interest in this assignment. He hoped Mr. Huxley would put in a good word for him with Walker. Johnson went over the plan in his mind, but something didn't ring true.
"How is the FBI gonna know what this Grayson looks like?" he asked.
Pat thought for a moment. He'd forgotten about that. What if Grayson wasn't in his room? What then? How would they recognize him if he were just in the local area?
Then it hit him: the video he had made of Burt back at the lab. That would do it!
Pat looked at his watch. Three minutes remained until he boarded. He spoke fast.
"Contact the NSF at 703-161-5555. Ask for Ms. Yates. Tell her who you are and that you're helping me. Have her get the video camera from the lab and have a hard copy made of the young man in the experiment."
Johnson didn't understand. "What experiment?"
"Never mind. She'll know what experiment. She'll fax you a picture of Grayson. You can fax it to the FBI. Do you think you can handle it?"
Pat stared at his watch and listened as they announced the final boarding call.
Johnson knew better than to say no. Walker would have his ass if he didn't help this guy. "Got it, Mr. Huxley," he spoke into the phone.
"Then get to it!" Pat said and hung up. He got to the gate just as they were about to close the door.
CHAPTER 3
Burt sleepily opened his eyes and looked up at Debbie's face. He let his gaze pause there briefly before shifting his eyes down along a line from her neck all the down her naked torso. He then reached out and cupped her left breast in his hand and slowly ran his tongue across her nipple. It hardened to his touch. He smiled.
Debbie returned his smile, arched her back slightly and turned to offer him her other breast. She then caressed the back of his neck and moved his head toward her.
"How long did I sleep?" Burt asked before
returning to her opposite breast.
"About an hour."
Burt looked up. "I must have been tired."
"Uh, uh," she said dreamily while looking out the window of her bedroom. The late afternoon light was soft as it filtered in through the Levelors. Soon it would be gone and night would fall on sleepy Morrow Bay. What the new day would bring was anyone's guess. But that didn't matter to her at that particular moment. Holding Burt and being held made any thought about the new day fade.
They had driven straight from the airport and had talked nearly the entire way. When they took the turn off to Morrow Bay headed toward her parents' house who were down in San Diego visiting relatives she noticed Burt looked tired. She suggested he take a nap before going back to the dorm. She wanted to be with him just a little longer. He complied. Five minutes after they both got in her bed they were locked in a steamy embrace. He made love to her timidly at first and she responded in kind. As they rushed head long toward climax, though, all that changed. Their passions overtook them and they clung to each other savagely, each for their own reasons; he, out of fear; she, out of loneliness. After they were finished with each other, they both slept. Now she just wanted to enjoy him; and he, her.
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