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  Prologae

  The Connecticut Academy, USSR

  Saturday, 2 May 1985, 0748 EET

  "KEN JAMES" STAMPED his feet on the half-frozen dirt, rubbed

  his hands together quickly, then wrapped them around the shaft

  of a big Spaulding softball bat.

  "Cmon, dammit," he yelled to the tall, lanky kid on the

  pitcher's mound.

  "Wait," yelled the pitcher, "Tony Scorcelli.- James made

  a few test swings, hitching up his jacket around his armpits.

  Scorcelli pounded the softball in his glove, then carefully, as

  if trying to toss a ring over a Coke bottle, threw the ball un-

  derhanded toward home plate.

  The ball sailed clear over Ken's head.

  "What do you call that?" James stepped away from the

  plate, leaned on the bat, shaking his head at Scorcelli.

  The catcher, "Tom Bell," trotted back to retrieve the ball.

  When he picked'it up from under a clump of quack grass along

  the backstop, he glanced over at the bench, noting the displea-

  sure of the school's headmaster, "Mr. Roberts," who was

  making notes on a clipboard. The catcher knew that meant

  trouble.

  All the Academy's students were serious about these once-

  a-week softball games. Here, even before perestroika, they

  learned competition was necessary, even desirable. Winning

  was all, losing was failure. Every opportunity to prove one's

  superior leadership, physical and intellectual skills was moni-

  tored and evaluated.

  "All right," James said as the catcher, Bell, tossed the ball

  2 DALE BROWN

  back to Scorcelli. "This time open your damn eyes when you

  pitch. "

  Scorcelli's second pitch wasn't much better than the first, a

  high Gateway Arch that dropped almost straight down- on top

  of home plate, but James bit on it, swung the bat with all his

  strength and missed.

  "Hey, hot shot, you're supposed to hit the ball .

  James swung even harder at the next pitch, clipped it foul

  up and over the chain-link backstop.

  " One more foul and you are out," the first baseman "Kelly

  Rogers" sang out. "Intramural rules-"

  "Shove your intramural rules up your ass, Rogers,` James

  yelled at him. The first baseman looked confused and said

  nothing. Roberts made another notation on his clipboard as

  Scorcelli got ready for the next pitch.

  It was low. James wound up, gritted his teeth . . . then

  stopped his swing, clutched the other end of his bat with one

  hand. He held the bat horizontally, tracked the ball as it UU1110

  in and tapped it. It hit the hard ground in front of home plate,

  bounced once, then rolled out between home plate and the

  pitcher's mound and died. James took off for first base. Bell

  stood up from his crouch, stared at the ball, then at James,

  back to the ball, then at Scorcelli-who was looking on in

  confusion. James had reached first base and was headed for

  second before someone finally yelled to throw the ball.

  Bell and Scorcelli ran to the ball, nearly collided as they

  reached for it at the same time. Scorcelli picked it up, turned

  and threw toward the second baseman. But it was a lob, not

  overhand, and instead of an easy out at second, the softball hit

  the ragged mud-choked grass several feet in front of the second

  baseman, did not bounce and skipped off into shallow right

  field as Ken James headed for third. The right fielder charged

  the rolling ball, scooped it on the run, hesitated a second over

  whether he could make the throw all the way, then threw to

  "Johnston" at third base. Johnston corralled it with a careful

  two-handed catch. A perfect throw. James wasn't even halfway

  to third.

  Johnston stepped triumphantly on third base, tossed the ball

  -around the horn" to second base, held up two fingers. James,

  though, was still running. Johnston tapped James' shoulder as

  he ran. "Makin' it look good for Mr. Roberts, aren't-?"

  "You idiot," Bell was yelling to Johnston. "You're sup-

  posed to tag him out. "

  The second baseman understood and threw the ball to Bell

  at home plate.

  By now James was getting winded. The throw was right on

  target, and Bell caught the ball with James still fifteen feet from

  home plate. Bell extended his glove, crouched down, antici-

  pating a slide into home. James liked to do that even if it wasn't

  necessary-he once did it after hitting a home run.

  But James wasn't sliding. As Bell made the tag, James

  plowed into him running at full bore, arms held up in front of

  him, elbows extended. The ball, Bell's mitt, his hat and most

  of his consciousness went flying.

  Scorcelli threw his glove down on the mound, ran over to

  James, grabbed him by the neck, and pinned him up against

  the chain-link backsto . "Are you crazy?" The others, includ-

  ing a dazed Tom Bell, began to cluster around them. Scorcelli

  spun James around, wrestled him to the dirt. "Vi balshoy svey-

  nenah."

  The others who had surrounded Scorcelli and James tensed-

  even Scorcelli seemed to forget that he had his hands around

  James' neck.

  "Enough." Mr. Roberts walked through the quickly parting

  crowd and stood over the two on the ground. Scorcelli got to

  his feet and stood straight, almost at attention, hands at his

  sides, chin up. James, his chest heaving, also stood up quickly.

  Roberts was a short, squat man with dark brows obscuring

  darker, cavernous eyes. His rumbling voice 'commanded in-

  stant attention.

  "James deliberately ran into Bell to make him drop the

  ball," Scorcelli began.

  "It's in the rules, pea-brain-"

  "He ran right into him," Scorcelli went on. "He did not

  even try to slow down or get out of the way! James is a cheat-

  er-"

  "No one calls me a cheater-"

  "Enough, " Roberts ordered.

  But James ignored the order. "I fight my own battles. If you

  knew the rules, Scorcelli, you'd know I have the right to home

  plate as much as the catcher. If he stands in front of it, I can

  4 DALE BROWN

  run him down. And if he drops the ball, even after making the

  tag , the runner is safe and the run scores."

  "What about when you tapped the ball like that?" Scorcelli

  fired back. "Were you trying to get hit by the ball? You are

  supposed to swing the bat, not-"

  "It's called a bunt, you fool." That revelation brought a

  number of blank stares.

  Eyes turned toward Mr. Roberts, who stared at Ken James,

  then announced the period was over and ordered them to report

  to their next class.

  The students Ken James and Anthony Scorcelli were standing

  before their headmaster's desk. Jeffrey Baines Roberts was be-

  hind his desk. His secretary had put two file folders on his

>   desk. She ignored Scorcelli; favored James with the hint of a

  smile before leaving.

  "Mr. Scorcelli," said the headmaster, "tell me about your

  brother Roger."

  Scorcelli stared at a point somewhere above Roberts' head.

  "I have four siblings, sir, two brothers and one sister. Their

  names-"

  "I did not ask about your other siblings, Mr. Scorcelli. I

  asked about your brother Roger."

  "Yes, sir . . . Kevin and Roger." He seemed to be

  talking to himself, then said aloud, "Roger is two years older

  than me, a freshman at Cornell University. He--

  "Where was your mother born?"

  My . . . mother . . . yes, sir, she was born in Syracuse,

  New York. She has two sisters and--

  "I did not ask you about her sisters." Roberts ran an exas-

  perated hand down his forehead. "Are you not familiar with

  the rules of baseball, Mr. Scorcelli?

  "I was not aware that Mr. James was allowed to assault his

  friends and fellow players-"

  "The proper term is a battery, Mr. Scorcelli. Assault is the

  threat of physical harm. Is it a battery if Mr. James' actions

  are a legal part of the game?"

  "It may not be a battery, sir, but I believe Mr. James took

  great pleasure in the opportunity to knock over Mr. Bell--

  "Bullshit," James said.

  "I also think, sir, that If Mr. James could legally find a way

  to hit me over the head with one of those bats from that stupid

  game, he would do it with the same enthusiasm and--

  "Right, asshole . . . "

  "That's enough," Roberts said, his voice calm. Actually he

  had to strain to keep from smiling. Scorcelli would be right at

  home in a large corporation's boardroom or in a court of law;

  James would be at home in an active situation. A dangerous

  one with courage and physical stamina. And an ability to ad-

  just. James was not a team player. He either led or he would

  choose to operate on his own. He could also be ruthless . . .

  "I will not have athletics in this institution become a private

  battleground between students," Roberts said. "Mr. Scor-

  celli?

  Scorcelli hesitated, turned to face James and stuck out a

  hand.

  "Apology accepted, Mr. Scorcelli," James said with his

  winning smile-a smile that infuriated Scorcelli.

  "I assume you have no intention of changing your playing

  habits," Roberts said. "You will continue to take advantage

  of each opportunity to denigrate your compatriots, even in a

  baseball game?"

  Ken James looked puzzled. Scorcelli may have believed he

  was wrestling with a moral dilemma. Roberts knew better, but

  was surprised when James replied: "Sir, I will take advantage

  of every rule and every legal opportunity to win."

  "No matter the consequences?"

  "No matter, sir."

  Roberts expected and desired nothing less. "You are dis-

  missed, Mr. Scorcelli. Mr. James will remain . . . so, Mr.

  Scorcelli?

  "Yes, sir?

  "Vi balshoy sveynenah.

  Scorcelli did not look blank, as required. Only flustered.

  "Get out," Roberts said, and Scorcelli hustled away, clos-

  ing the door behind him so gently he might have been closing

  a door made of fine china.

  Ken James waited impassively. Roberts motioned him to a

  seat. Roberts watched him unbutton the top button of his sports

  coat and seat himself. "You even swear like one of them, Mr.

  James.

  No reply.

  6 DALE BROWN

  "Do you think you are ready for graduation?"

  "I do."

  'Mr. James, whose side are you on? Sometimes it appears

  only your own."

  "Isn't that the American way? Knowledge is power, in base-

  ball or business. I want all the knowledge I can accumulate.

  I've worked hard to accumulate it, even the things others think

  inconsequential. It would be a waste not to use it-

  "Do not pretend you know everything about America or

  how to live in it. You have lived a sheltered life here in the

  Academy. The world is just waiting to swallow overconfident

  young people like you." James made no reply but sat easily in

  the hard-backed upright wood chair. Roberts paused for a mo-

  ment, then asked, "Tell me about your father, Kenneth."

  "Not again, sir. All right, my father was a drunk, sir, a

  drunk and a scum who murdered my younger brother but was

  found incompetent to stand trial and was committed to a men-

  tal institution. They said he was suffering from delayed shock

  syndrome from his three tours as a Green Beret company com-

  mander in Vietnam. When he was released several years later

  he abandoned his family and went off to who knows where.

  Prison or another mental institution. His name was Kenneth

  also, but I refuse to use 'Junior' in my surname and I've even

  thought of changing my whole name."

  Roberts looked surprised, which amused James. "Don't

  worry, sir. I won't. It's not as glamorous a story as Scorcelli's

  rich jet-setting parents, or Bell's midwestern aunties. But it s

  my story. I've learned, sir, to downplay it, push it out of my

  consciousness. I allow it to surface as a reminder of what I

  could become if I don't work and study very hard."

  "I am not particularly interested in your opinion of your

  father," Roberts said, "and you would be well advised to keep

  such opinions to yourself."

  James' response was to smile back at him with that madden-

  ing half-grin. James, it seemed, had no intention of taking such

  advice.

  A problem. The Connecticut Academy, in operation for only

  thirty years, had acquired a reputation for excellence in its

  graduates. Only the best left the Academy, and they left only

  for the best colleges and universities. The rest were sent back

  to wherever they came from, without any ties or records of

  their time at the Academy. The Academy had a reputation to

  uphold. How would this Kenneth Francis James fit in?

  His grades were never in question-he had scored in the

  upper one percent of his Scholastic Aptitude Tests and had

  passed advanced placement exams in mathematics and biology,

  allowing him to take nine credits of college-level courses even

  before stepping onto a college campus. He had even taken

  several Law School Admissions Tests for practice and had

  scored high on all of them. He had requested only the best-

  Columbia, Harvard, Georgetown, Oxford. It was his intention

  to study under such as Kissinger, Kirkpatrick, Brezezinski-

  and pursue a career in the Foreign Service or in politics.

  Mostly autonomy was what James craved, autonomy and

  control, but his extremism could destroy him and hurt the

  Academy. In the Foreign Service, in government, one had to

  be a team player. Which left out Kenneth James.

  But the Academy tried not to discard its students who did

  not fit. Especially the highly intelligent ones. The problem now

  was to find James a niche for his particular talents and person-

  ality and at
the same time channel usefully his considerable

  energy and intelligence.

  Roberts began to stack the folders on his desk and buzzed

  his secretary. "You are dismissed, Mr. James."

  The sudden announcement took James by surprise, but he

  tried not to show it. He stood and headed for the door.

  "Das svedanya, tovarishchniy Maraklov, " Roberts called

  out, glancing up at the retreating figure, waiting to catch his

  reaction.

  There was none. James turned, hand casually on the door-

  knob. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  Roberts remained stone-faced but inwardly was pleased.

  Good, Mr. James, he said to himself. No sign of recognition-

  and more importantly, no sign of trying to hide any recogni-

  tion. You have learned your lessons well. I think you may be

  ready for graduation .

  "Dismissed, Mr. James."

  "My name is Janet."

  Ken James moved closer to the woman and stared into her

  bright green eyes. Janet Larson was thirty years old, five feet

  tall, with long, bouncy brown hair. She was wearing stone-

  8 DALE BROWN

  washed jeans and a red flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up and

  the top three buttons unbuttoned against the warming late spring

  weather. Sitting in her apartment, Ken let his eyes travel from

  her shining eyes to her white throat and down her open neck-

  line to the deepening crest between her breasts. When his eyes

  moved back to her face he found her looking directly at him.

  "Eye contact," he said, moving closer. "When strangers

  meet, eye contact is frequently broken. We've been taught here

  to look everyone in the eye, that eye contact is important. Ac-

  tually a woman's direct look makes many men uneasy."

  She nodded, then slowly stepped even closer until her breasts

  pushed against his cotton Rugby shirt. He let the Academy's

  administrative secretary linger there for a moment, then reached

  out, grasped her shoulders and pushed her away a few inches.

  "Remember the social bubble, too," he said with a smile.

  "Americans need their space. Encroachment on a person's

  bubble, even by a beautiful woman, turns even the most desir-

  able woman into an intruder."

  "Do you find me desirable, Kenneth?"