Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair

by LRH Balzer

  Tsvetayev glanced over at the wet body lying in the corner of the office. "You are going to use this one? He is an American agent now."

  Petrov tugged on his mustache, twisting one end between his fingers. "If I can make a hero out of garbage, there are rewards, Ivan. Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine is a dead hero already in the Soviet Union. A young dancer kidnapped on the streets of London, pushed into a van that explodes seconds later. The government had a field day with it. Well, now I will bring the wonder child back to life."

  "But why make him a hero? Surely it would be in the best interest to show what happens when a traitor defects."

  "I think we have already made that clear, Ivan Vasilyevich. Khokhlov, Stashinsky, even Penkovskiy--we have made it clear. According to these orders, what we are to do is glorify the exploits of our illustrious spies. To show those still in the field that we support them so they will not become Khokhlovs. They have become intimidated, demoralized. We must invigorate them, to reveal they are the best in the world, easily able to excavate any dirty guilty secrets of the West.

  "Now we must plan carefully, Ivan Vasilyevich. There is a way of accomplishing this and we must find it." Petrov was silent for several minutes, tapping his pencil on the desk. "He must be brought back to where we had him when he disappeared. However peripheral his involvement, however elaborate his education or privileged his position, he was trained as a KGB agent. Within him is the discipline, the unquestioned obedience, and the control that was drilled into him by our system. He has not been here so long that we cannot make him recall his former life or reactivate our hold on him."

  "Surely U.N.C.L.E. has conditioned him against any tampering we could do?"

  "Oh, I am sure he could withstand torture and pain but that is not what I am proposing... No... There are other ways. We have need of a company, Ivan Vasilyevich. The Kirov has left?"

  "They leave on Tuesday morning. In two days."

  "Too soon."

  Tsvetayev glanced down at his calendar. "The Bolshoi is scheduled to arrive next Friday. Why do we provide the Americans with constant performances this year?"

  "It merely shows them our superiority in this field. If our danseurs perform so perfectly, let them imagine what our soldiers and intelligence agents are doing."

  Tsvetayev nodded, smiling. "The Bolshoi will be based in New York until the new year. They will also be performing in several other American cities across the country during that time."

  "Good. Get their schedule. I also want to know when this one," he said, smiling now and gesturing at Kuryakin, "when this one danced with them. I recall he went on at least one tour, possibly two. I need to know who the ballet mistress of the Kirov is and if she knows him. If she does, see to it her visa is extended a week, maybe longer. We need someone to keep him under control until they arrive."

  "What of the brother?"

  "Him we will bring in later. He has a job to do yet. There are a few other possibilities as well, expatriates living in this city. Yes, I think we can make this work well to our advantage. And if it doesn't, I still have my original plan to fall back on."

  For several minutes, Petrov studied the unconscious man lying sprawled across his floor. "Have him taken care of. I don't want him awake until we are ready for him. Arrange for Chizhov to lightly condition him. Let him hear loud noises, American voices yelling, maybe a little pain--but make certain they do not damage him in any way. And get him out of those wet clothes. We don't want our little danseur to get sick now, do we?"

  "What about his vision?"

  "No, not yet." Petrov sighed, contemplating the task ahead of him. "He will be easier to control if he is blind... Ivan Vasilyevich, there is one thing more, and this I know you will enjoy doing. It is time to call our British cousin, Jonathan Heatherly, and tell him the deal is off. Thrush will flounder now on its own. We have better things to do."

  ***

  Monday, December 7

  Solo carefully shifted his left arm in its sling and adjusted the desk lamp for the tenth time in the past hour. Newspaper clippings, government documents, FBI and CIA reports, dossiers--all had been assembled over the past forty-eight hours waiting for his perusal. Papers had overwhelmed the desk, precariously stacked and threatening to slide off the edge and cascade across the floor. A much smaller pile was on a cart next to him, completed folders waiting to be returned to Central Filing.

  He added another report to the stack. The latest Atlas Agena high-resolution reconnaissance satellite had been launched on Friday and came down the next day. The update gave the figures and times, but none of the actual data was in yet. Two more Area Surveillance Satellites were due to be launched from Vandenberg Air Force Base on the 19th and 21st of December. In each case, the satellites used a capsule to return the film to earth, which was then recovered by the U.S. Air Force's JC-130

  Absorbed in reading the excerpts from Soviet Foreign Minister Gromyko's speech that day at the United Nations, he absently held open the document with one hand and reached for his coffee cup with the other, gasping as his. arm protested the movement. Biting back a curse, he rubbed the aching limb, mindful of the stitches running down his upper arm and forearm. He grabbed the cup with his right hand, but the coffee was cold already, as was the dinner sitting untouched on the lower shelf of the filing cart.

  "Good evening, Napoleon."

  Solo jumped at the unexpected intrusion, surprised that whoever it was hadn't knocked.

  Dr. Samuel Lawrence lounged in the open doorway. "You promised you would be back in the infirmary by ten."

  "So what time is it? My watch is gone."

  "After eleven." Lawrence ambled into the room, his tall lanky body stretching over the desk as he peered down at the Chief Enforcement Officer. "Call it a night. I know Waverly's in Washington, but you don't have the physical resources to pull an all-nighter."

  "Maybe not. But this has to get done."

  "Norm Graham will be back in the morning. I've arranged for any emergency calls to be shunted down to the infirmary. I have the duty nurse already notified to wake you for anything higher than a level three call. Napoleon, you are recovering from moderate hypothermia that had you hospitalized until this afternoon, you have a slight infection in that laceration on your arm--"

  "I know, but--"

  "--you spent most of Sunday unconscious from a concussion, and you urgently require rest."

  Solo stared at his desk-top, not looking up at the doctor. "Sam, I have to do this."

  "No, you don't. You want to do it." Lawrence peeled back the bandage covering the wound and Solo glanced at the angry redness around the sutures.

  "I want to wait for the search report," he said finally.

  "They'll bring it to the infirmary." Lawrence covered the laceration. "If you don't get some rest, tomorrow will be impossible for you."

  Solo waited for sleep to come, but lying alone in the small infirmary room, his mind wouldn't stop churning. Too many decisions. Too many details still loose.

  Too many potential places for Thrush to strike. Why was Waverly worried about a stolen cipher machine? What was a ranking member of the British satrapy doing in Washington? American and British Thrush leaders wandering about Washington. Conferences between Thrush and the Soviets.

  At the United Nations General Assembly, Andrei Gromyko's speech had been disturbing. At one point, in reference to the NATO meetings held at the same time in Washington, he had said that the creation of a nuclear fleet "would mean a further spread of nuclear weapons" and therefore would be "an action hostile to peace."

  Stevenson, the United States Representative, had then asserted that "evidently the world objectives of the Soviet Union are unchanged." He had also said he hoped that "this harsh cold war talk is more propaganda than policy."

  The speeches bounced around in Napoleon's head as he tried to sort out the ramifications. The Network's role in all this was somewhat vague at times. At what point did they step in? Maintaining political and leg
al order in the world was U.N.C.L.E.'s mandate, but carrying it out was another thing entirely. Especially with groups who wanted to take over the world, whether they were countries or supra-organizations like Thrush. It sometimes rankled him that it seemed U.N.C.L.E.'s job was merely to keep the status quo, and when they did step beyond the bounds, they had to tread very carefully.

  Meanwhile, the NATO conference was in progress. British Prime Minister Harold Wilson had arrived late Sunday for the talks in Washington, D.C. Nuclear weapons. Multilateral force. Polaris-armed submarines. Missile and bomber forces. "Not as an end in itself, but as a means to achieve an end," the press had said.

  Waverly was at the White House dinner that evening, one of the hundred and fifty guests that held the fate of the world in his hand. The Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America had left for the capital as soon as Lawrence had cleared Solo to assume the taxing duties of supervising the New York office. Graham would assist him for the next few days, moving between Washington and New York as needed, an U.N.C.L.E. plane at his disposal.

  The Soviets were there, agents all over Washington and New York. Curious, cautious, critical. Organized and unorganized. Watching and waiting. Listening.

  Petrov was there. His files showed he had come to the KGB from the army, after a rather distinguished career there. He had first refined the Rapira smoothbore anti-tank gun and then, a year later, in 1956, he also supervised the development of the APNB-70 infra-red night sight for the Rapira. He was moved up to be the Chief Directorate of Strategic Camouflage; and since he knew what worked best, he was considered the best to decide which anti-tank weapons--the least effective, of course--could be exported from the Soviet Union.

  As to what he wanted now...

  And Grigory Zadkine. What did he know about Project Cipher? The CIA was still asking. Waverly was still asking. Solo made a mental note to have the defector brought to U.N.C.L.E. HQ in the morning to make his formal statement. They had waited too long already. If Zadkine hadn't been identified as Illya's—Illya's what? His brother?--then they would have never allowed him to walk around loose, unescorted. An U.N.C.L.E. guard had been assigned to him that morning.

  Sasha Travkov had said Grigory was responsible for Illya's blindness. Napoleon tried to remember where he had put Sasha's phone number, but finally decided it was in his wallet, probably at the bottom of the river.

  He had read Lagto's report of the incident. It said he had been found by the U.N.C.L.E. response team on the river bank at 1:45 a.m. Sunday, lying in shock from loss of blood and hypothermia from his time in the icy river. In the course of his fight, he had also been hit on the head with a blunt object which caused interspersed periods of unconsciousness the rest of the day.

  There was no word from Bulgaria yet. Xavier Garcia and another Enforcement agent had left early Sunday morning, taking over the difficult assignment Solo and Kuryakin had been slotted for. Was there a Soviet/Thrush tie-in with the cipher machine?

  Solo turned on his right side, resting his injured arm on a pillow. The windowless room looked different from this angle. He had spent hours in the same room during the summer, but that was when his partner was a patient and he had kept vigil.

  It was now suddenly a prison. A nightmare returned.

  And no one sat and watched him.

  He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

  ***

  In the peaceful stillness, Illya Kuryakin woke slowly, his body relaxing in the luxury of the soft bed and the warm, downy quilt that was velvety beneath his fingers. For a brief few minutes he neither knew, nor cared, where he was, but only that he was at last comfortable and the world no longer spun out of control. It was a sensation to be savored and his drugged state struggled to escape back into the safety of unconsciousness.

  He heard a door open, soft footsteps, and then a quiet singing beside him. He turned toward it, summoning the strength as curiosity registered on his exhausted brain and he wondered who was humming the old Ukrainian folk song. His eyes struggled open.

  Nothing. He blinked several times before the memory surfaced that he was blind. He gasped in surprise.

  "You are awake now, darling?" came the woman's voice into his darkness. A warm damp cloth touched his face, wiping the crusty bits from his eyes with a gentle motherly touch. "You have been asleep for a long time, Ilyusha. It is time to wake up."

  The rich throaty Russian voice that at one time was so familiar brought its own flood of memories. "Irina Yakovlevna?" he whispered, one hand reaching up to touch her still smooth face. "How is it you are here?"

  "You have not forgotten me? That is good. I certainly have not forgotten you, lyubov moya, my love." He shivered and the elderly Komleva pulled the quilt around him, tucking it about him more for security than warmth. "You are safe now. They called me to take care of you. Are you hungry? I have some tea and bread here for you."

  "Thank you. I think I am hungry. Yes, I am very hungry." He reached for her hand again, heartened to feel the solid strength of her grip. It calmed him. Anchored him in the warm darkness. For a moment, a brief heartbeat, he felt he should feel differently. That he should move quickly. Escape from...

  From what? From Irina Yakovlevna Komleva? If he had no one left to trust in Russia, he would still have her. She had taken care of him before. She had saved his life. She had been there during the difficult years and had brought him through alive. And in the blackness, he urgently required her presence now.

  She helped him sit up, once more arranging the blankets about him, and held the cup of tea to his mouth, supporting it until he was able to do it alone. The small loaf of bread was placed in his hands and she broke off a piece for him, dipped it in the tea, and again helped him coordinate his clumsy movements as he tried to eat. She did not allow him to talk until he had finished it all.

  "Where am I, Irina Yakovlevna? Have I been hurt?" he asked finally, when he had handed her back the empty cup. He felt out of sync with time, with himself and his surroundings.

  Komleva was silent. He heard her pour another cup from the samovar, felt her take his hand and put the cup in it. "You are safe here, Ilyushechka."

  She made him feel safe; she always had. He had not heard that diminutive form of his name in a long time and it only increased his feeling that this must be a fevered dream and he would soon awaken. She could not possibly be here.

  The other memories came, insisting he pay attention. "Where is my friend? Is he all right?" he managed to ask as the warm drink she had him sip pulled him toward sleep.

  "Your friend is safe, too. He is sleeping, as you should be. Tomorrow we will have you up and walking. You have not been injured; you are only feeling weak from lack of food."

  She had him finish the tea, then settled him back into the inviting blankets, pulling the quilt up around him. "Tomorrow we will have more time for questions. Now open those beautiful blue eyes for me. The doctor has some drops for you."

  He felt the cool liquid trickle into his eyes, soothing the ache and dulling the scratchiness. He moved to rub them, but Komleva stopped him, with a firm rap on his knuckles that he remembered so well from his early days in the Vaganova School when the ancient ballet mistress had first taken him under her wing. "Don't touch your eyes, darling. Let them heal."

  She stayed beside him in his darkness, humming the old folk song as sleep slowly crept over him.

  She was there again as he awoke, coaxing him out of the comfortable blankets, silently lending her arm as they walked the quiet hallway to the washroom, helping him shower and shave, and then back to the small room to eat some breakfast. He was not much of a talker when he first awoke and she did nothing to encourage him.

  When he had finished the food, she placed a small bundle on his lap. He fingered the clothes, wondering what they were, not recognizing what she wanted.

  "They said I was foolish to keep them," Komleva said with a tremor in her voice.

  He realized with a shock that they were his own belongings from h
is life before. With trembling hands, he pulled on the underbelt, the socks, and footless woolen tights. He had done this in the dark a hundred times in the pre-dawn winter mornings in Leningrad and his fingers knew exactly what to do without thinking about it. He had no need to search for anything, Komleva handed him each piece as he needed it. He shrugged into the singlet, tucking it in, then adding the outer belt to hold up the tights around his waist. Another layer, legwarmers and a sweatshirt.

  Then she handed him his slippers and he sat clutching them, feeling the worn leather. It was so familiar. How had this possibly happened? The memories were strong. Getting dressed in the dark. Komleva making sure he had some breakfast and then coaching him before the early class, trying to help him catch up with his classmates when he had been absent. It was familiar but... it had been over three years, a voice within him reminded. "What is happening?"

  "You need to exercise, Ilyusha. You have been in bed for a few days. A bit of time at the barre will be good for you." She helped him into the shoes, her precise movements allowing for no disagreement. "There is a rehearsal room for our use two flights above. You will be fine wearing these. I have new slippers for you; these will only last for today."

  "I am blind, Irina Yakovlevna. And I have not been to class in a long time."

  She pulled him to his feet. "Then you are overdue. Come, let's see what you have forgotten."

  More out of curiosity than anything else, he let her lead him up the narrow staircase to the rehearsal room. The building echoed as they walked. There was no one else there. No other voices. No other sounds. Just the two of them.

  In the rehearsal hall, he could feel the openness of the room, he could smell the baby powder, the glue used to hold slippers in place, the musty smell of perspiration from the thousands of bodies that had passed through the room. He shivered, feeling his awareness tilt off-balance.

  Komleva led him across the room and placed his hands on the barre and he reached beyond it to feel the cool surface of the mirror. Gripping the solid bar, he walked several steps in each direction, then stopped short. "Why am I here? I can't dance. I am blind, Irina Yakovlevna." He struggled to keep the fear out of his voice.