Day of the Cheetah.

Dale Brown.

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.

"Cmon, 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 2 DALE BROWN.

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 rules-"

"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 UU1110 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 Scorcelli-who 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't-?"

"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 Bell 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 necessary-he 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 backsto . "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 balshoy svey- nenah."

The others who had surrounded Scorcelli and James tensed- 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-brain-"

"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- er-"

"No one calls me a cheater-"

"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 4 .

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?" Scorcelli fired back. "Were you trying to get hit by the ball? You are supposed to swing the bat, not-"

"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 names-"

"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. He-- "Where was your mother born?"

My . . . mother . . . yes, sir, she was born in Syracuse, New York. She has two sisters and-- "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. Scorcelli?

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

"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. Bell-- "Bullshit," 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 and-- "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 smile-a 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 balshoy 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.

6 .

"Do you think you are ready for graduation?"

"I do."

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

"Isn't that the American way? Knowledge is power, in base- 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 it- "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 mo- 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 com- 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 their time at the Academy. The Academy had a reputation to uphold. How would this Kenneth Francis James fit in?

His grades were never in question-he 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 scored high on all of them. He had requested only the best- Columbia, Harvard, Georgetown, Oxford. It was his intention to study under such as Kissinger, Kirkpatrick, Brezezinski- 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 recognition- 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- 8 .

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.