Day of the Cheetah Read online

  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

  weanng 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 I

  dressed in a heavy coat and gloves. The interior light went out.

  "Help me, please. Pamaghetye . . . " I

  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 Lit-

  kovka and hurried off.

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 23

  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 spe-

  cial.

  "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 stum-

  bled 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 Ken-

  neth 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

  24 DALE BROWN

  sort of hallucination. God, he'd better lighten up on the booze

  and grass. "Are you for real?" James asked, blinking th

  rough

  the growing haze that seemed to be fogging his senses.

  "Yes, real .

  James' eyes widened, and he reached out to the appa..

  tion. Hallucination? No . . . a dream come true . "Mat-

  thew . . . 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. Marak-

  lov'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 mut-

  tered. "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 can-

  vas 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 Rus-

  sians. 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 Amer-

  ican, whom he had only known for a few minutes, was also

  someone it seemed he had known all his life . . . and the clos-

  est 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 Is

  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

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 25

  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 you9

  The two enforcers were puzzled by this exchange, but Mar-

  aklov 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. Some-

  thing 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 saying.

  "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 . . . Maraklov knew something about that . . .

  "You shot Matthew . . . ?

  M

  26 DALE BROWN

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 27

  "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 "James," Maraklov said as if by rote. "The name is Ken

  James. "

  went off ... "Whatever your damned name is, sir, get undressed and put

  :'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 under-

  stand ... ?"

  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 per-

  sonal impact of it. He rubbed his eyes, his temples.

  "Get undressed, Maraklov .

  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 exor-

  cised, 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 feel 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 broth er 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, some-

  thing 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 report told him. But now . h

  s e had thought he had

  an overwhelming reaso n 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 du-

  plicating 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:

  28 DALE BROWN

  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 con-

  ditioning, 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 warn-

  ing 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<
br />
  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 per-

  fectly-slipped on the Rolex and gold chains, pocketed the

  room key, money and wallet, brushed his hair. He studied him-

  self 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 Connect-

  icut Academy.

  "Good evening, Mr. James."

  Maraklov willed himself not to show what he felt. A wait-

  ress in a tight sarong slit up each side nearly to her waist had

  DAY OF THE CHEETAH 29

  come up behind him and put down a cocktail napkin. "Hi,

  there, Mr. James. Your usual?"

  Maraklov nodded.

  "I need to see your 1. 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 lami-

  nated 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. Appar-

  ently 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. "Champagnecocktails, compliments of those

  ladies over there." He turned and saw the three women that