Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 by Day of the Cheetah (v1.1) Read Free Book Online Page A

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 brother—my natural father killed him in a
drunken rage. I don’t have a father, a real father—he’s either dead or in a mental institution. I haven’t seen my mom in
months—the only grown-ups around are the housekeeper, the gardener once a week,
and the occasional relatives of my stepfather 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 place—I 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 is—?
                 A
call on the room’s intercom interrupted: “Mr. James, report 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 whistle 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 exchanged 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 decided on a college.”
                 Maraklov
smiled. Washington, D.C. That must mean Georgetown. Ken James has decided on—
                 “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 fortunate—we learned he had cut his scheduled vacation in
Hawaii 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, Kenneth 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 years—”
                 “Eight
years, sir,” Maraklov corrected him, eyes bright with anticipation. “Pilot
candidates must serve eight years after UPT graduation