“. . . I was glad when they asked me to be valedictorian because then I could turn them down. What’s the difference? My mom was going to be in New Zealand or some other place, something too important to cancel even for her only surviving son’s high school graduation—and my dad’s dead or in a gutter somewhere . . . Nobody that I cared about was going to hear my speech, so I arranged to have my Regents diploma mailed to me. When I told my mom, instead of being angry, she sent me first-class plane tickets to Oahu and five thousand bucks. I got the hell out of that school as fast as I could.”
Janet sat on the edge of the bed, carefully watching this Ken James as he told his story. There was something frightening in him. It was so weird listening to him tell that story, not his and yet entirely his, and the way he slid into the first-person present tense ... All of the students at the Connecticut Academy studied their alter egos, but in her memory Andrei was the only one in the Academy who actually seemed to live his alter ego, experiencing everything he did, every hurt, every triumph, every sadness. And Maraklov’s eyes, they were scary but held Janet—born Katrina Litkovka, the daughter of a Red Army colonel—so that she didn’t want him to stop.
“What about college?” she asked.
“I’ve been accepted at a dozen schools,” he replied in perfect mid-Atlantic American English. “I haven’t made up my mind. I was even considering skipping a semester, getting away from it all. I’ve even thought about enlisting in the Marine Corps. I told that to my stepdad once. He said it might look good on a resume if I want to run for a congressional seat someday. I’ve never forgotten that.”
Janet still had a bit of trouble keeping up with his fluent English—years earlier she had been schooled in English as much as he but had lost much of her skill out of disuse. Still, she understood enough to be amazed—the clarity, the realism, the precise detail of his story . . . The Academy rarely if ever managed to teach their students to his degree of authenticity.
He stood, his back toward her. She eyed his tall, youthful, athletic frame—broad shoulders, thin waist, tight buttocks.
It seemed Andrei Maraklov had so totally immersed himself in the life of Kenneth Francis James that he had assumed his emotional identity as well as his documented public one. How else could Andrei reel off intimate, secretive aspects of his— James’—life so naturally? Of one thing she had no doubt: this man could easily beat the best interrogators, polygraphs, hypnosis or even drugs.
Andrei Maraklov is Kenneth James . . .
“But now I’m on my way to Hawaii,” James/Maraklov continued. “I’m going to take it easy, maybe raise some hell, maybe do some painting, I don’t know . . .”
He turned toward the bed once again, but she was too caught up in his eerie transformation to think about having sex with him again. Actually, he frightened her ... he was a stranger. Uncharacteristically, she clutched the sheet tight to her breasts.
“Cathy Sawyer gets wet every time she sees me,” he said, a slight smile on his lips. “I know it. But when we’re alone she won’t touch me.” He moved toward her, and she flinched.
The smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed. “All right, damn you, you’re like everyone else.”
She had pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around herself. He seemed to be frozen in place, his powerful chest rising and falling. As she tried to step around him, he quickly reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Kenneth—”
“No, I’m not leaving and neither are you. Not yet.” He grasped her forearms with two powerful hands. The sheet fell away from her breasts. He pulled her forearms up and toward him, drawing her toward him so that she was barely touching the floor. “I’m going to show you what I did to that bitch Cathy Sawyer the night before I left. She never showed up for graduation, did I tell you that? They thought we ran off together, but we didn’t. Poor Cathy ... I wonder what happened to her . . .”
He is going to kill me, Janet thought. He’s crazy, he’s going to . . .
Abruptly the terrifying grin was replaced by a broad, pleasant smile. His body relaxed and he let her drop back onto her feet, then planted a playful kiss on her nose.
“Gotcha.”
“What?” Her voice high, edged with fear. “What do you think you are doing?” She said it in Russian.
“Uh oh, remember, lover, English only is spoken at this academy ...”
“I thought ... I thought you ...”
“. . . were crazy,” he said. His smile was making her even angrier. “I know what you’re thinking. Every time we’re together you want to hear my little stories about the American. So I tell you what I think he’s like, what he’s going through, what kind of life he lives.”
“You scared me to death. Why?”
“Because you wanted it. I was only doing what you—”
“You are crazy,” she said, grabbed up her clothes and put on her blouse and pants. “Get out of here.”
“Janet, wait . . .”
“I don’t want to see you again.” She yanked open the front door to her bedroom. “Now get dressed and get out.”
The smile stayed, but he obediently put on his jeans and sweatshirt, gathering his underwear and shoes in his arms. But just before he left her apartment he turned to her.
“You’ll miss me,” he said. “The sex you can get from any of the others. But you need the excitement of living with a real American. It’s your high. It’s the worst transgression for a female KGB operative. You love it.”
“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, driv
ing 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.
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