He pretended to be exasperated. "Try it again," he
prompted.
She nodded, looked up, smiled and said, "Hi, my name is
Janet. f
"Pretty good. But try contracting 'name' and 'is.' Ameri-
cans love contractions. They slur everything together. 'Hi, my
name's Janet.'
She nodded, took a deep breath. "Hi, my name's Janet,"
and punctuated it by invading his bubble again.
" Perfect," he said, and let his eyes deliberately roam her
body once again. She raised her lips, and their little lesson was
abruptly postponed.
She was very well trained. She started slowly, agonizingly
so. Undressing was part of the foreplay. She was controlling
him, moving slowly when she felt him hurry, speeding up when
she felt him grow impatient. She knew when and where to
touch him, what to say or do to build their sexual energy in
perfect synchronization.
Soon it became too much to control and they released their
pent-up energy. She climaxed first, the way she had been
taught, giving him one last volt to heighten his own climax.
She used her muscles to draw every drop from him, then re-
leased him moments later-she had been taught that most
American men would not remain inside a woman after sex,
sometimes refusing even to lie beside them. But this student,
however well trained, was not that American . . . He stayed
inside her for several minutes, then let her lie on top of him so
he could nuzzle her neck and breasts and feel her warmth all
around him. She gently rolled beside him, propped up her head
so she could look into his eyes as he traced his fingers around
her body.
She too had once been a student at the Connecticut Acad-
emy, but her training was in a far different field than his. She
had readily accepted her courtesan training and had been se-
lected for "graduation," but instead opted to stay at the Acad-
emy as an administrator. Seducing the young students was her
chief source of excitement now, her satisfaction coming less
from the erotic than from pleasure in displaying her exceptional
skills.
She especially enjoyed displaying her skills with this young
student-control name "Ken James," born Andrei Ivanschi-
chin Maraklov of Leningrad, the son of a Party bureaucrat and
a hospital administrator, the top student at the top-secret Con-
necticut Academy in the Mountainside city of Novorossijsk on
the Black Sea, where young Soviet men and women were
trained to be KGB deep-cover agents.
The Connecticut Academy was a most unusual high school,
and it attracted the USSR's most unusual men and women.
Most of the students were trained at a very early age for the
intelligence field, learning foreign languages and customs of
dozens of nations. Both male and female students, like "Janet
Larson," were trained as courtesans and used for sexual es-
pionage activities. Others were trained in demolition or assas-
sination or other forms of terrorism. And still others, like
"Kenneth James," born Maraklov, were part of a whole new
area of espionage.
Selected individuals in various countries were targeted by
the KGB because of their socioeconomic status and opportu-
nity for growth and importance. These individuals-sons and
daughters of politicians, businessmen, corporate presidents-
would be carefully studied at an early age, once identified as
being groomed for a particular position or put into the pipeline
for a given career or special responsibility. Their habits, social
10 DALE BROWN
life and personality were examined. Were they responsible,
stable individuals, or did they squander time and money on,
say, drugs and partying? If they were especially promising in-
dividuals, apparently destined for greatness, phase two of the
project was invoked.
A young Russian closely matching the target's general phys-
ical and mental attributes would be trained in the same fields
as the subject individual. Along with being taught the target's
native language, the student would also learn everything os-
p
sible to help blend himself into the social fabric as well as the
personality of the target. After years of study and training, the
student would be a virtual clone of the target.
Next, at an opportune time, the clone would be inserte d to
replace the target. He would assume all of the target's activi-
ties, history, future. Of course it w as not possible precisely to
duplicate the subject's every mood or segment of his person-
ality, so the clones were trained to fit in, to adapt, to take
control of their situations. If they did not perfectly match, they
were to change the environment around themselves. The cl one
would, it was hoped, create the new norm and thereby achieve
a more viable match-up.
After a suitable waiting period to allow the new mole to
acclimate himself with his new surroundings, he would b e di-
rected by Moscow headquarters to begin collecting informa-
tion, to maneuver closer to the seat of power in government or
industry, to influence events in favor of the Soviet Union or it
allies. In an emergency the mole could be used to assist o ther
agents, collect or borrow funds, even carry out search-and-
destroy missions or assassinations. Unlike informers, traitors,
bribery victims or embassy employees, these "native citizens"
were always to be immune to suspicion. They could pass the
most exhaustive background investigation-fingerprints, if nec-
essary, even surgically matched.
Perhaps only a handful of these super-moles could be turned
loose in a year. The training was exhaustive and exhausti
ng;
many Soviet students, even though they learned English well
and knew a good deal of "American," could not sufficiently
adapt themselves to the very strange American culture and be
a reliable espionage agent as well. And even with the appar-
ently perfect student, there was no way of knowing what would
happen to the intended target. Targets were selected for their
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 1 1
accessibility as well as their potential value, but over the years
there was no way to guarantee a useful match. Goals changed,
opportunities came and went, minds changed, paths crossed.
An individual who was perceived as the next President of the
United States could turn out to be a corrupt congressman; a
candidate-target discarded from consideration could turn out to
be a future Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
The target Ken James-the American Ken James-would
never have been considered only a few short years earlier: He
was the son of a psychotic Vietnam veteran; he grew up in a
fragmented childhood punctuated by a devastating family di-
saster; the family was split apart. The boy himself was a loner,
unpopular and remote, anti-social.
But things changed. The loner turned out to be a boy genius.
The father disappeared from sight and was presumed dead. The
mother married a wealthy multinational corporate president,
and both the stepfather and mother were candidates for politi-
cal office by election or appointment. The obscure boy was
suddenly a prime candidate for "cloning." Still a loner, vir-
tually ignored by his jet-setting parents, he was nonetheless
being educated and groomed for a public life in government-
. . A perfect target.
service
And they found a boy in the Soviet Union equal to the chal-
lenge of a match-up . . . and ultimate substitution. Andrei
Ivanschichin Maraklov had a unique combination of writer's
imagination and a savant's intelligence-the stuff to qualify him
as Ken James' intellectual and emotional twin . . .
Janet Larson smiled as she noted the faraway expression in
'his eyes and propped herself up again on one elbow so she
could watch him. "Where are you now, Kenneth?"
He smiled at the question. It was a game they played when
they were together. As an administrative assistant to the head-
master, Janet Larson knew all about Ken James-why he was
there, what was expected of him after "graduation." But some
students, the special ones like Maraklov/James, gave the nuts
and bolts of their alter egos a considerable amount of spice and
feeling. It was forbidden for the students to talk of their "lives"
with any other student, but not so with her, and especially not
so with her and student Kenneth James . . .
"I'm on my way to Hawaii," he said. "One last fling before
college. My mom and stepdad are in Europe on business. They
12 DALE BROWN
gave me a Hawaiian vacation as a graduation present. I grad-
uated last week, remember?"
"How were your grades?"
"Straight A's, but it was an easy semester. I planned it that i
way. I could have graduated and gone on to college after my
junior year-doubled up on a few classes in the summer-but
I was told by my stepdad that a guy shouldn't miss out on his
senior year in high school, that it has too many memories.
That's a crock. Anyway, I cruised through the year."
"And what about your senior-year memories? Were they
worth delaying college?"
"I guess so, " he said as he ran his hand up and down her
back and she saw that smile slowly spread across his face. It
was as if he was actually reliving those experiences . . .
"I was quite an athlete the whole year," he went on. "Soc-
cer in the fall, basketball, baseball in the spring-I already had
all my credits for graduation and I had two gym periods every
day so I could devote full time to all of them. It was fantastic. "
Janet had trouble following--gyrn" and "soccer" were
foreign words to her. Not, of course, baseball. The way he told
his story was eerie, as if he was relating some sort of mysticar
out-of-body experience.
"That was all you did? Sports?"
"No, I had lots of dates. I went out every Friday and Sat
urday night. My mom and Frank-that's my stepdad-were i
home only one week out of five, so I had the run of the place.
Except for the maid, of course."
"Tell me about your dates, Kenneth."
Again, that smile. "I saw Cathy Sawyer the most. We've
been going out almost all year. Nothing special . . . a movie,
dinner once in a while. I helped her with her homework, she
can't seem to pick up calculus no matter how hard I try to
explain it to her."
Listening to him, watching him, it was like hearing someone i
not just talk about but actually live another life in front of you.
They had done a complete job, it seemed, on Andrei Maraklov.
Now he was Kenneth James. "Were you ever passionate with
her, Kenneth?
Suddenly his eyes grew dark. "Ken?"
"She doesn't want me that way." His voice had been deep,
DAY OF THE CHEETAH 13
harsh. She touched his shoulder-his body seemed to have
turned to ice.
She doesn't want me," he repeated in a dead-sounding
voice. "No one does. My dad's an alcoholic schizoid. People
think some genetic germ is going to rub off from me onto them
if I get too close. Everyone thinks I'll whack out on them just
like my dad whacked out on his family."
Whack out? More mumbo-jumbo. "Ken .
"All they want is my brains and my money." His body was
now as hard, as tense as his voice, his eyes were hot. " 'Help
me with my homework, Ken' 'Help us with the fund-
raiser, James' 'Come out for the team, Ken' Ask,
ask, ask. But when I want something, they all run away."
"It's only because you are better than they are, Kenneth--
"Who cares about that?" It was like a cry. She gasped at
the anger in his face. "When am I going to get what I want?
When am I ever going to feel accepted by them . '. . ?" He
took hold of her right hand and squeezed hard. "Huh? When?"
He tossed her hand aside and rolled up out of bed. She gath-
ered a sheet around her and slid out on the -other side.
I was glad when they asked me to be valedictorian
because then I could turn them down. What's the difference?
something too important to cancel even for her only surviving
son's high school graduation-and my dad's dead or in a gutter
somewhere . . . Nobody that I cared about was going to hear
my speech, so I arranged to have my Regents diploma mailed
to me. When I told my mom, instead of being angry, she sent
me first-class plane tickets to Oahu and five thousand bucks. I
got the hell out of that school as fast as I could."
Janet sat on the edge of the bed, carefully watching this Ken
James as he told his story. There was something frightening in
him. It was so weird listening to him tell that story, not his
and yet entirely his, and the way he slid into the first-person
present tense . . . All of the students at the Connecticut Acad-
emy studied their alter egos, but in her memory Andrei was
the only one in the Academy who actually seemed to live his
alter ego, experiencing everything he did, every hurt, every
triumph, every sadness. And Maraklov's eyes, they were scary
but held Janet-bom Katrina Litkovka, the daughter of a Red
Army colonel-so that she didn't want him to stop.
14 DALE BROWN
"What about college?" she asked.
"I've been accepted at a dozen schools," he replied in per-
fect mid-Atlantic American English. "I haven't made up MY
mind. I was even considering skipping a semester, getting away
from it all. I've even thought about enlisting in the Marine
Corps. I told that to my stepdad once. He said it might look
good on a r6sumd if I want to run for a congressional seat
someday. I've never forgotten that."
Janet still had a bit of trouble keeping up with his fluent
English-years earlier she had been schooled in English as
much as he but had lost much of her skill out of disuse. Still,
&nbs
p; she understood enough to be amazed-the clarity, the realism,
the precise detail of his story ... The Academy rarely if ever
managed to teach their students to his degree of authenticity.
He stood, his back toward her. She eyed his tall, youthful,
athletic frame-broad shoulders, thin waist, tight buttocks.
It seemed Andrei Maraklov had so totally immersed himself
in the life of Kenneth Francis James that he had assumed his
emotional identity as well as his documented public one. How
else could Andrei reel off intimate, secretive aspects of hi S-
James'-life so naturally? Of one thing she had no doubt: this
man could easily beat the best interrogators, polygraphs, hyp-
nosis or even drugs.
Andrei Maraklov is Kenneth James . . .
"But now I'm on my way to Hawaii," James/Maraklov con-
tinued. "I'm going to take it easy, maybe raise some hell,
maybe do some painting, I don't know .
He turned toward the bed once again, but she was too caught
up in his eerie transformation to think about having sex with
hirn again. Actually, he frightened her . . . he was a stranger.
Uncharacteristically, she clutched the sheet tight to her breasts.
"Cathy Sawyer gets wet every time she sees me," he said, a
slight smile on his lips. "I know it. But when we're alone she
won't touch me." He moved toward her, and she flinched.
The smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed. "All right, damn
you, you're like everyone else."
She had pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around
herself. He seemed to be frozen in place, his powerful chest
rising and falling. As she tried to step around him, he quickly
reached out and grabbed her arm.
"Kenneth-"
DAY OF THE CHEETAH is
"No, I'm not leaving and neither are you. Not yet." He
grasped her forearms with two powerful hands. The sheet fell
away from her breasts. He pulled her forearms up and toward
him, drawing her toward him so that she was barely touching
the floor. "I'm going to show you what I did to that bitch Cathy
Sawyer the night before I left. She never showed up for grad-
uation, did I tell you that? They thought we ran off together,