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.
Honolulu, Hawaii
Monday, 6 July 1985, 2017 PDT
Ken James was adjusting the collar on his Hawaiian flowered shirt when he heard the knock on the door.
“Housekeeping,” a young woman’s voice announced. “May I turn your bed down, sir?”
The hotel had some delicious-looking maids working there, Ken had recalled, young Polynesians working their way through college. This one sounded more promising than the matrons that had been coming by lately. He was on his way out but thought he might at least have a look. Who knew, once she was off duty she might make his last night in Oahu very special.
“Come in,” he said over his shoulder as he admired himself in the mirror. He heard the door swing open—
A hand clamped tight over his mouth and nose. When he reached up and tried to pry the hands away from his face he felt a sharp sting on his left shoulder. He swung hard as he could, heard a muffled grunt, and then his head was snapped down and sideways. A hand was around his throat and face. The more he struggled to free himself, the weaker he became—his muscles now refusing to work. The hands left his face, but he had no more resistance. Feeling incredibly weak, he stumbled forward against the bureau, tried to balance himself and fought the urge to collapse. Slowly he turned around . . .
... Or did he turn? When he was able to focus his eyes, he found himself looking at . . . himself?
And at the same time, Andrei Maraklov stared at the object, the target of all his training for so many months—the real Kenneth Francis James.
Close as the resemblance was, as Maraklov studied James he noted that James’ hair was thinner than his—James would be bald in five years or less while he would have his full head of hair. He was an inch taller than James and somewhat more muscular. No doubt James’ dissipation, his drinking and drug taking accounted for the subtle differences that even the KGB could fail to keep up with. Still, the overall impression was of near look-alikes.
Meanwhile, Ken James studied the face that was peering at him. It could have been a twin but that was impossible. Some sort of hallucination. God, he’d better lighten up on the booze and grass. “Are you for real?” James asked, blinking through the growing haze that seemed to be fogging his senses.
“Yes, real . . .”
James’ eyes widened, and he reached out to the apparition. Hallucination? No ... a dream come true . . . “Matthew . . . Matthew?” James was reaching to touch the face. “Matthew—”
“No,” Maraklov said. “Our brother is dead, remember? Our father killed him.”
James blinked in surprise. So did the two KGB enforcers that had come with Maraklov into James’ hotel room. Maraklov’s voice had a pleasant, intimate tone. And the reference to “our” father momentarily startled them, though they had been briefed on this unusual young agent.
James stared at Maraklov. “Then . . . who are you?”
“I am you, Kenneth. I am Kenneth James. I’ve come to help you.”
Through his rapidly dulling senses James clutched tighter to Maraklov to keep from falling. Maraklov held him steady.
“Give him here, tovarisch,” one of the strong-arms muttered. “We don’t have all night—”
“Shut up,” Maraklov said. “And no Russian. These hotel walls are paper thin.”
“Sorry,” the other said. He had wheeled a large white canvas laundry cart into the room. “Drop him in here and—”
“I said be quiet. I’ll turn him over when I’m ready.”
James had been taking in the exchange among the three Russians. When Maraklov turned back toward him he asked what was going on, what were they going to do with him . . .
Maraklov opened his mouth to invent an easy lie for the half-dead alter ego standing before him but could not. This American, whom he had only known for a few minutes, was also someone it seemed he had known all his life . . . and the closest any human being had been to him since he left his home for the Connecticut Academy eight years earlier. He forced his voice to sound firm, reassuring. “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be okay. You don’t have to worry about dad, or mom, or Matthew, or about Cathy or about school . . . I’m going to take care of everything, Ken. Everything will be fine. I’m strong and smart, I’ll take care of our problems. Don’t worry. You just go with these guys and forget about everything.”
James seemed to nod, even smile a bit. Andrei eased him over and handed him to the first man.
“Hey . . . hey . . . Who are you?”
Andrei smiled benevolently, brotherly. “I am you, Ken. I told you that. I’m you and I can take care of everything. You just go on now ...”
James was slipping away fast but still had residual instinct to resist. He turned to Maraklov. “Ken ...”
Maraklov was nearly mesmerized by the sound of that name, hearing for the first time an American—the American—call him by the name the KGB had assigned him three years ago.
“Yes . . . what?”
“You love father, don’t you?”
The two enforcers were puzzled by this exchange, but Maraklov ignored them. They no longer existed. It was just the two . . . brothers. They wouldn’t understand.
What could he say to ease things for this man . . . ? Kenneth James, Sr., was, he had learned, a stressed-out war veteran who had taken out his frustrations and failures in civilian life on his family. He had killed Matthew, the younger son, on one of his drunken sprees. How could a son forgive the man? But apparently Ken James, Jr., could. Or wanted to.
“Sure, Ken,” Maraklov said quietly. “Sure I do. He was our father, a war hero, he wasn’t . . . responsible.”
But Maraklov’s words seemed to make things worse. Something in James’ face, misery and terror in his eyes . . . “He wasn’t responsible—” Maraklov repeated, and James’ body actually began to tremble and he shook his head. “No ... I did it . . . I—”
Maraklov stared at James, finally understanding what the American was sayin
g.
“I didn’t mean to do it.” James was crying now. Maraklov motioned to one of the men with him to lay the boy down on the bed. “I didn’t hate him, I didn’t really hate him. But damn it, Matthew was making father spend all his time with him. Not like it used to be when we were together so much. I felt all alone and it was Matthew’s fault ...”
Left alone ... Malakov knew something about that... “You shot Matthew . . . ?”
“An accident, I was just going to scare him. I got father’s gun and went and told Matthew to stop it and... the gun went off. . .”
“Go on, Ken.”
“Father saw me and he saw Matthew and he told me not to worry, just like you now” ... his eyelids were beginning to close ... “he called the police and an ambulance and they took him away. I saw him just once when he got out of the hospital. He made me promise never to tell, it would be our secret ... I hated mother for marrying Frank, I hate her, and Frank, hate myself too. But don’t hate father. You understand . . . ?”
Maraklov tried to put it together, to readjust. Ken had killed his brother. To protect his son, his father had taken the blame for the shooting. There was no drunken rampage like Ken’s mother had said. His father had endured years in a mental institution to save his son. No wonder he went crazy.
And now another thought forced itself on him. He bent down to James. “Kenneth?”
The American opened his eyes.
“Cathy. Cathy Sawyer. Where is she?”
“Gone.”
Footsteps could be heard outside the hotel door. One of the KGB agents grabbed Maraklov’s shoulder. “Stop this, let’s get out of here.”
Maraklov shrugged off the hand and bent closer to James.
“Answer me. Where? Where is she?”
“She never loved me, said she never wanted to see me again. Even laughed at me when I said I loved her . . .” He stopped, reached up as though to touch Maraklov’s face, the face so like his own, just a fraction of an inch from the freshly healed plastic-surgery scars. “Thank you . . .” The hand dropped, the haunted eyes closed for the last time.
“Took longer than it should have,” mumbled one of the agents, then nudged Maraklov out of the way and began to strip off James’ jewelry and clothes.
“He killed his brother . . . and his girlfriend,” Maraklov said half-aloud, trying to absorb it, and understood the personal impact of it. He rubbed his eyes, his temples.
“Get undressed, Maraklov . . .”
“James,” Maraklov said as if by rote. “The name is Ken James.”
“Whatever your damned name is, sir, get undressed and put these clothes on.” In less than a minute they had tossed James’ clothes to him and were busy putting his clothes on the corpse.
Maraklov looked at James’ clothes, shook his head. “I can’t wear these—” Maraklov gasped.
“We don’t have time for—”
“I said, I can’t.” Not yet, anyway. Not until he had exorcised, or taken as his own the images that assaulted him . . .
Matthew, from the only photograph acquired by the KGB weeks before his death—happy and laughing . . . Kenneth hefting the big Colt .45 caliber pistol—he could almost/^/ the weight of it, with a grip almost too big for his fingers to wrap around, a hammer almost but not quite too tight to cock, could feel the recoil, feel the weapon hot and alive, hear the blast drowning out his younger brother Matthew’s cry of pain . . . then his father’s face, the sorrow, the compassion in it—and he could see himself begging for forgiveness, for understanding. And his father had given it all to him. He had sacrificed his life for him.
Maraklov struggled for control. Only a few weeks ago it had been, he thought, a game he played with Janet Larson, something that always seemed to excite her. Make up stories about Kenneth James. The juicier, the better. She wanted to know if James had a lot of women, if he masturbated, if he liked older women. Maraklov always had a new story for her. Including the one about his target Ken James killing his girlfriend Cathy Sawyer. He thought he had just made it up, embroidered what the KGB reports told him. But now ... he had thought he had an overwhelming reason to kill Janet Larson, and he had been right. Only it was not just the logical one—to do away with a threat to his mission in America. Somehow he had been duplicating what Ken James had done to Cathy Sawyer. Andrei Maraklov had become more complete with his target than he could have imagined. Cathy Sawyer had died twice—once in America, and once at the Academy in the Soviet Union . . .
He tried to clear his head, looked for the two agents who had come with him.
They were gone. So was the body of Kenneth James. He went to the door, opened it, looked outside. Nothing.
And then he heard: “What a great hotel.” A female voice. “Free peep shows.” He turned and saw three college-age women clustered around the elevator. Only then did he realize he was standing in the hallway wearing only a pair of briefs.
“Prastiti. . . uh, sorry ...”
“Don’t be, sugar,” one of them said, straining for a better look as Maraklov ducked back into his room. “It looks to me like you got nothin’ to be sorry for.”
He must get hold of himself. After all the training, the conditioning, the first word he uttered as Kenneth Francis James to the first Americans he saw was a Russian word. He could only hope they hadn’t noticed. Probably not, but it was a warning to him . . .
He collapsed onto the bed. On the bedspread were some pieces of gold jewelry, a large, heavy Rolex watch, a wallet, some bills in a silver money clip, the hotel key and assorted papers and receipts. The two agents had taken James’ clothing, but an open suitcase sitting on a clothes valet in a corner had plenty more.
A drink. He needed one. The room’s tiny refrigerator was empty except for an icetray with half a dozen cubes. He thought about calling for room service but didn’t want anyone inside the room until he had triple-checked it for any evidence of a struggle. The drink wouldn’t wait.
He selected a pair of slacks and a red polyester pullover shirt from the suitcase, slipped on a pair of Nikes—they fit perfectly—slipped on the Rolex and gold chains, pocketed the room key, money and wallet, brushed his hair. He studied himself in the mirror. The shirt was a bit tight across his chest, and his thighs strained some against the pants legs. He could detect the faintest evidence of plastic surgery scars. Never mind. He had to get out of this room where Ken James had died . . . and been reborn?
He made his way downstairs to the hotel’s Polynesian bar and seated himself in an area where he could watch all the exits and windows, just as he had been taught at the Connecticut Academy.
“Good evening, Mr. James.”
Maraklov willed himself not to show what he felt. A waitress in a tight sarong slit up each side nearly to her waist had come up behind him and put down a cocktail napkin. “Hi, there, Mr. James. Your usual?”
Maraklov nodded.
“I need to see your I.D. again. Sorry.”
Identification! Slowly he withdrew the wallet, opened it and held it up for the waitress.
“Not that one, silly.” She reached in behind the driver’s license in the front and pulled out an identical-looking laminated card. “Thank you, Mr. James. Back in a flash.”
After she left Maraklov took a close look at the hidden card. The birthdate had been cleverly changed. A fake I.D. Apparently the hotel staff knew the routine—even better than the “new” Ken James. A few moments later the waitress returned, placing a huge frosted champagne glass on the napkin.
Maraklov looked at her. “This is my usual?” Immediately he regretted the words. A giveaway . . .
“Not tonight, lover,” the waitress said. She nodded over toward the bar. “Champagne cocktails, compliments of those ladies over there.” He turned and saw the three women that had seen him in the hallway at the elevator. They raised their glasses toward him, smiling.
“Well, Romeo,” the waitress said. “What are you waiting for?”
Slowly, carefully, Maraklov r
ose to his feet. To his surprise, he found his legs and knees quite strong. Without thinking, he reached into his wallet, extracted the first bill he touched and handed it to the waitress as he picked up his cocktail. It was a twenty dollar bill.
“Thank you, Mr. James,” she said. “A real gentleman, as always.” She lowered her voice, moved toward him. “If those waihilis don’t do it all for you, Mr. James, why, you just leave a message for me at the front desk. Mariana knows what you want.”
Still feeling shaky inside, he made his way toward the bar, smiling. Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov was about to experience his first night as an American named Kenneth James. Now he was the real Ken James. The only one.
McConnell Air Force Base, Kansas
August 1994
“Required SATCOM reports are as follows,” Air Force Captain Ken James said. He motioned to a hand-lettered, expertly rendered chart beside him but kept his eyes on his “audience” and did not refer to it. “As soon as possible after launch we transmit a sortie airborne report. If we launched on an execution message we transmit a strike-message confirmation report.” He pointed to a large map on another easel. That depicted the strike routing of his B-iB Excalibur bomber as it proceeded on its nuclear-attack mission.
“After each air refueling we transmit an offload report, advising SAC of our aircraft status and capability to fulfill the mission. On receipt of a valid execution message, if we weren’t launched with one, we would acknowledge that message as well as any messages that terminated our sortie. After each weapons release, if possible, we transmit a strike report that gives SAC our best estimate of our success in destroying each assigned target. The message also updates SAC on our progress and advises them of any difficulties in proceeding with the mission. Of course, staying on time, on course and alert has priority over all SATCOM or HF message traffic. All strike messages can wait until we climb out of the low-level portion of the route and are on the way to our post-strike base. These messages can also be delivered to other SAC personnel heading stateside, to U.S. foreign offices, or to overseas military bases capable of secure transmissions to SAC headquarters.”
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