Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (7 page)

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 special.

 
          
“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
the 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
stumbled 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
Kenneth
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 sort of
hallucination. God, he’d better lighten up on the booze and grass. “Are you for
real?” James asked, blinking through the growing haze that seemed to be fogging
his senses.

 
          
“Yes,
real . . .”

 
          
James’
eyes widened, and he reached out to the apparition. Hallucination? No ... a
dream come true . . . “Matthew . . . 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. Maraklov’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 muttered. “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 canvas 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 Russians. 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 American, whom he had only known for a few
minutes, was also someone it seemed he had known all his life . . . and the
closest 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’s 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 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 you?”

 
          
The
two enforcers were puzzled by this exchange, but Maraklov 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. Something 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 ... Malakov knew something about that... “You shot Matthew . . . ?”

 
          
“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 went off. . .”

 
          
“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 understand . . . ?”

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

 
          
“Get
undressed, Maraklov . . .”

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

 
          
“Whatever
your damned name is, sir, get undressed and put 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 exorcised, 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/^/ 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 brother
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, something 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 reports told him. But now ... he had thought he had an
overwhelming reason 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 duplicating 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
. . .