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
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
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