PROLOGUE

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.

"C'mon, 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 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 rulesÄ"

"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 came 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 ScorcelliÄwho 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'tÄ?"

"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 sell 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 necessaryÄhe 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 backstop. "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 baishoy svey- nenah. . ."

The others who had surrounded Scorcelli and James tensedÄ 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-brainÄ"

"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-

"No one calls me a cheaterÄ"

"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 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?" Scorcell1 fired back. "Were you trying to get hit by the ball? You are supposed to swing the bat, notÄ"

"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 namesÄ"

"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. HeÄ"

"Where was your mother born?"

"My . . . mother . . . yes, sir, she was born in Syracuse, New York. She has two sisters andÄ"

"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. Scorcellj?"

"I was not aware that Mr. James was allowed to assault his friends and fellow playersÄ"

"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. BellÄ"

"Bulishit," 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 andÄ"

"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 smileÄa 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 baishoy 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.

"Do you think you are ready for graduation?"

"I do."

"Mr. James, whose side are you on? Sometimes it only your own."

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

"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 me. 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 corn 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 ie at the Academy. The Academy had a reputation to How would this Kenneth Francis James fit in?

His grades were never in questionÄhe 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 ;cored high on all of them. He had requested only the bestÄ Columbia, Harvard, Georgetown, Oxford. It was his intention to study under such as Kissinger, Kirkpatrick, BrezezinskiÄ 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 recognitionÄ 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- 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 ~n intruder."

"Do you find me `desirable, Kenneth?"

He pretended to Ef~ exasperated. "Try it again," he prompted.

She nodded, looked up, smiled and said, "Hi, my name is Janet."

"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 laterÄshe 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 studentÄcontrol 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 socio-economic status and opportu- nity for growth and importance. These individualsÄsons and daughters of politicians, businessmen, corporate presidentsÄ 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 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 pos- 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 inserted to replace the target. He would assume all of the target's activi- ties, history, future. Of course it was 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 clone 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 be 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 its allies. In an emergency the mole could be used to assist other 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 investigationÄfingerprints, 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 exhausting; 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 accessibility as well as their potential value, but over the years there was no way to guarantee a useful match. Goals change& 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 JamesÄthe American Ken JamesÄwould 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- service. A perfect target.

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 intelligenceÄthe 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 JamesÄwhy 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 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 way. I could have graduated and gone on to college after my junior yearÄdoubled up on a few classes in the summerÄbut 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 springÄI 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 followingÄ"gym" 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 mystical' 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 FrankÄthat's my stepdadÄwere 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 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, harsh. She touched his shoulderÄhis 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, KennethÄ"

"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? My mom was going to be in New Zealand or some other place, something too important to cancel even for her only surviving son's high school graduationÄand my dad's dead or in a gutter somewhere . . - Nobody that I cared about was going to hear my speech, so I arranged tohave 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 aM 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 JanetÄborn Katrina Litkovka, the daughter of a Red Army colonelÄso that she didn't want him to stop.

"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 r‚sum‚ 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 EnglishÄyears earlier she had been schooled in English as much as he but had lost much of her skill out of disuse. Still, she understood enough to be amazedÄthe 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 frameÄbroad 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 hisÄ James'Älife 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 him 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.

"KennethÄ"

"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, but we didn't. Poor Cathy . . . I wonder what happened to her..

He is going to kill me, Janet thought. He's crazy, he's going to.

Abruptly the terrifying grin was replaced by a broad, pleas- ant smile. His body relaxed and he let her drop back onto her feet, then planted a playful kiss on her nose.

"Gotcha."

"What?" Her voice high, edged with fear. "What do you think you are doing?" She said it in Russian.

"Uh oh, remember, lover, English only is spoken at this academy . .

"I thought. . . I thought you.

were crazy," he said. His smile was making her even angrier. "I know what you're thinking. Every time we're to- gether you want to hear my little stories about the American. So I tell you what I think he's like, what he's going through, what kind of life he lives."

"You scared me to death. Why?"

"Because you wanted it. I was only doing what youÄ"

"You are crazy," she said, grabbed up her clothes and put on her blouse and pants. "Get out of here."

"Janet, wait . . ."

"I don't want to see you again." She yanked open the front door to her bedroom. "Now get dressed and get out."

The smile stayed, but he obediently put on his jeans and sweatshirt, gathering his underwear and shoes in his arms. But just before he left her apartment he turned to her.

"You'll miss me," he said. "The sex you can get from any of the others. But you need the excitement of living with a real American. It's your high. It's the worst transgression for a fe- male KGB operative. You love it."

"Andrei Ivanschichin MaraklovÄ"

"My name is Kenneth James."

"You will not be allowed to leave the Academy. You will never see America except in your own mind. That I prom- iseÄ"

His smile disappeared, but she couldn't stop.

"I will make recommendations to Mr. Roberts that you never be allowed to graduate. You could compromise the whole op- eration."

It pleased her to see the panic in his face that had now re- placed his smug expression. "What are you going to tell them, Janet? That while we've been screwing each other I somehow scared you and you think I'm crazy? You've no credibility. A thirty-year-old ex-whore having sex with a seventeen-year-old high school student. You'll make a very reliable witness." He stepped toward her, his expression softening. "You'll drag yourself down as well as me. Don't do it. I promise I won't scare you again. Janet . . ."

She pushed him away. "I don't need credibility. I can de- stroy you without anyone ever knowing it was me. A notation here and there, a rumor, a changed grade or a negative entry on your progress charts. You will be on your way to a border post before you know it. Now once more, get out."

"Don't do it," he was still saying as the door slammed in his face. "You'll be sorry if you do . . ."

His morning regimen had been the same for the past five years. Wakeup at five A.M., calisthenics and a morning three-mile jog, breakfast by six-thirty. The Academy even taught students to enjoy the typical American breakfast dishes while at the same time giving them healthier, more substantial foods.

Classes began at eight. Usually there was a bit of time before the morning classÄtoday's was on the stock market and Amer- ican economicsÄso James spent his time reviewing the latest intelligence on his "target"Äthe real Ken James.

How could anyone with so much going for him act the way James had? Maraklov asked himself. The report said James was going to ace every course he was enrolled in in his final semester of high school, including several advance-placement college-level courses. At the same time a police blotter report noted that James had been caught with a bag of marijuana. He was not charged with a crime, onLy reprimandedÄhis stepfa- ther carried a good deal of influence in the small town where he lived. But James had risked his whole career on a one-ounce bag of dried grass. Stupid.

No pictures were included in the latest intelligence, but pre- vious photographs showed a tall, handsome youth shopping in fancy stores, driving expensive cars, going to parties, every weekend. He had seemed like a normal well-adjusted teenager. Maraklov knew, of course, about James' unfortunate past, but that was ancient history. Surely that ugly episode was long forgotten? Maraklov sat back now and thought about what it was like to be Ken James .

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 brotherÄmy natural father killed him in a drunken rage. I don't have a father, a real fatherÄhe's either dead or in a mental institution. I haven't seen my mom .in monthsÄthe only grown-ups around are the housekeeper, the gardener once a week, and the occasional relatives of my step- father 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 placeÄI 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 isÄ?

A call on the room's intercom interrupted: "Mr. James, re- port 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 whis- tle 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 ex- changed 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 de- cided on a college."

Maraklov smiled. Washington, D.C. That must mean Georgetown. Ken James has decided onÄ "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 fortunateÄwe learned he had cut his scheduled vacation in Ha- waii 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, Ken- neth 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 yearsÄ"

"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 neighborsÄ"

"And Kenneth James will pass with flying colors," Maraklov said excitedly.

"But the applicant for a security clearance initiates the pro- cess with a detailed report on his background, relatives, ad- dresses," Roberts said nervously. "You would have to supply every detail of James' life from memoryÄyou 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 stu- `dent 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 I 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 al- lowed visitors until Thanksgiving. By then his appearance will have changed enough to explain any minor differencesÄ" his voice dropped, sounding depressedÄ' `if my parents notice at all."

Roberts scarcely noticed James' changing moods, his jux- taposing of himself and the real Kenneth James, the angry dis- tant look. But he was too busy marveling at Maraklov's extensive knowledge of even the most esoteric bits of infor- mation.

"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 centuryÄ"

"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 . .