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 1 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 …
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—”