“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 eastbound to her apartment complex a few kilometers from the Academy. The road was curvy in place 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
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 his 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.