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

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 . . .
                 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.
                 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 conditioning, 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 warning 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