by LRH Balzer
"Again, please, Irina Yakovlevna," he asked immediately, rising to his feet.
The room echoed in clapping and he froze, his arms moving tight against his chest. Overlapping voices called greetings to him and he stared at the floor in wide-eyed confusion, feeling his body cringe. His world had been violated; he had grown accustomed to the solitude and the quiet, empty building, and Komleva's voice.
She was behind him instantly, her arms around his waist. "It's all right," she whispered. "They are old friends. They saw you dance just now."
The room grew still in puzzlement and she spoke louder. "As you have seen, this is Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine and he is very much alive."
Kuryakin, his mind corrected. I am Illya Mikhaylovich… I am Illya Kuryakin. My father is Nikolai Kuryakin. I am an agent with the... with the...
"Illya, these are the danseurs of the Bolshoi Ballet."
Bolshoi? "Is Rodya here?" he asked, quickly.
"Yes." He could hear footsteps coming toward him, and beyond that, the low murmur of voices as more of the company entered the room. "Ilyusha, we read that you were alive. It is incredible and--" Rodya's voice caught, stopped short. "What is wrong?"
Komleva turned Illya to face the Bolshoi danseur. "He's blind, Rodian. It is not permanent, the doctors say, and we are waiting until it can be treated in the hospital."
"I had heard this... But you were dancing, Ilyusha... I thought you could see now
Illya shook his head. "There is nothing. Irina Yakovlevna has been my eyes," he said, one hand grasping her arm in reassurance.
A few of the other male dancers approached then, hesitantly making physical contact as though they were afraid he would break beneath their fingers. Once they had established he was alive, they were more fascinated with his blindness; a few of the more adventurous even wanted to do the opening barre exercises blindfolded as the ballet master began the daily class for the male dancers. They had had a long flight, and needed to focus themselves and their bodies.
The strict teacher would not allow Illya to remain, seeing the weariness in the young man's stance and ordering him off the floor. Komleva helped him into warmer layers of clothes and triumphantly led him out of the room, whispering to him that they all were smiling proudly at him.
Komleva had him rest, then brought him to have dinner with the others. It was difficult eating with the noise level so high, the exuberance of old friends jostling his arm, the ballerinas coming up behind him, draping arms over his chest and whispering their names in his ear.
"Do you know you were made a Hero of the Soviet Union?" Rodya asked beside him, an amused note in his voice.
"I do not want to be a hero." Illya sat quietly, unable to eat, a growing sense of confusion making his thoughts difficult to follow. The echo ran through his head, I am Illya Kuryakin. Kuryakin. I work for. .. the United Network Command... Waverly. I am… I am...
Rodya insisted that he finish his food, sitting beside him and talking as though four years had not gone by since they had last sat and ate together. After the light dinner, they brought him back to the rehearsal ball, one of them playing the piano as they coached him through several routines, still curious at his blindness. They danced for him then, calling out the moves they had learned so he could follow what they were doing in his head.
Familiar. Disorienting. Exhausting physically.
Komleva came to collect him from them later. He sat dozing, leaning against the wall in the studio, absently listening to them play the upright piano as they tried to work off both their travel weariness and excitement. Joking, laughing, friendly banter.
Familiar. Disorienting. Exhausting.
I am... I am...
***
He woke at the sound. Someone was at his door; he could hear the knob turning, a catch releasing. He pushed up on one elbow, straining to see something in the prevailing darkness.
"Ilyusha? It is Rodya, Yuri, and Misha. Are you awake? Can we come in?" The men crowded into the small room, and Illya could hear a light switched on.
"I am awake. What is happening?" He struggled to sit up.
"We are going to the banya. Do you wish to come?"
"The steam baths? Now? Where are they? What time is it?" He stretched, noting from his stiff muscles that he had been in bed for longer than usual. Where was Komleva?
Rodya sat on the bed beside him. "It is six-thirty in the morning. We called and they opened thirty minutes ago. It isn't far; we can walk." They were rummaging through his few clothes in the wooden bureau, tossing him a shirt and pants.
"I would like to come. Will it be okay?" He heard the closet door open, then close. "I'm not sure if my coat is here. I don't know... Will it be okay?"
"Don't worry. We'll be back for breakfast and class. We'll leave a note in case they notice you're gone." They found suitable outerwear for him, telling him to dress quickly, quietly joking and teasing each other and him. Yuri returned to the room with a lambskin hat that was two sizes too big for Illya, warm gloves, and a long scarf that they wrapped around him. The heavy coat was also a large size, but they rolled up the sleeves and decided it would be fine.
They tiptoed through the hallways, pulling him while he protested their speed. Down a winding staircase and past a guard that, rather than protest their appearance, instead handed them a small paper-wrapped package that they deposited in Illya's pocket, not allowing him to open.
They emerged into the cold winter air, laughing uproariously as he slid on the sidewalk, then linking arms with him and walking rapidly down the street. After a block, he relaxed and enjoyed the sensation of being outside after so long and of being with old friends, walking to the steam baths between Rodya and Misha, following Yuri's voice as he walked backwards in front of them, as he had many times before.
***
The call came through to Solo on Saturday morning at 6:45. Illya Kuryakin had emerged from outside the building, walking with several other men. He did not seem to be a prisoner, and no one was following them other than the U.N.C.L.E. men.
"They're going to the banya," Graham immediately said when he had been phoned. "There is a very popular Russian steam house about eight blocks from the Academy Building." He gave Solo the address, adding, "I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes. We might even beat them."
By 7:05, Graham's guess turned out to be correct and they were followed into the baths by the four Russian men.
***
The danseurs paid the fee for Illya and led him into the changing rooms, then on into the baths. The heat was intense on his bare skin, engulfing him as he stood at the entrance, but they brought him into the room and had him sit at the lower level, handing him a towel to wipe his face.
The heat felt glorious, pulling the toxins from his system, chasing away the last trace of the outdoor chill. He felt Yuri's hands work his neck and shoulder muscles; the heat and the massage lulled him into a dazed stupor. His body was tight from the lengthy sleep and from the intense hours of exercise. How long had it been now? One week? Two?
"Illya, what is this?" Sitting on his right, Misha touched the bullet scar on his upper ann.
"I was in a helicopter accident a few months ago," Illya answered sleepily, wondering how long ago it had actually been. What day was it? Time had escaped him again.
Rodya, on his left, leaned across him to look at the wound. "It looks more recent than that. It must not have healed very quickly."
Illya shrugged, not answering.
"You seem to have acquired quite a collection of scars since we saw you last. What did they do to you in America?" Rodya inspected the small burn marks across Illya's chest and turned his palms up to examine the pink scars around his wrists, getting him to turn his arms and hands, checking the extension and flexibility. "They seem to be superficial. There is no pain from them?"
He shook his head, no.
"You are too quiet, Ilyusha. What did they do to you?"
He turned toward Rodya, his mouth opening, th
en closing slowly. No words came.
Yuri's voice floated down from somewhere above them. "Why can't you see, then, Ilyusha? Is it because of the helicopter accident?" Yuri stopped his massage, leaning closer to him and asking apprehensively, "Did they hurt you in America?"
Illya shook his head again, disoriented by the questions and the anger in the men's voices.
He felt Rodya's arm around his shoulder. "You do not have to answer. We are only curious. No matter, Ilyusha. It is behind you now. You are with friends. We will talk of other things." Rodya started on a long string of tales that finally drew a smile to his face.
***
Graham led Solo through the changing rooms and into the sauna-like baths. "I come here with my son sometimes," he said, as several of the 'regulars' greeted him. "Tony's in med-school in Boston and if we both happen to be in New York, we come down here and then have breakfast together later. I have been here once with Illya, too."
They were already settled before the danseurs entered the room, Kuryakin clinging to the arm of one of them. With his eyes half open, Solo carefully scrutinized his partner who on first glance appeared tired and drawn. Once settled, Kuryakin seemed comfortable with the other men and from the conversation over the next hour, it was evident they were old friends of his. They clucked over his scars, the worried glances passing between them, unseen by Illya, showing their obvious concern. They put a great deal of effort into bring a smile to his face, grinning at each other when they succeeded.
At one point, they left Illya sitting on the edge of a pool and Solo got up to sit next to him, but Graham caught his arm, shaking his head, and Napoleon reluctantly resumed his seat on one of the lounge chairs.
Graham leaned over. "Are you familiar with Trotsky?" he asked, his voice low.
"I know who he is. Russian revolutionary. Died in Mexico before the Second World War."
"Trotsky once said: "Where force is necessary, one should make use of it boldly, resolutely, and right to the end. But it is as well to know the limitations of force, to know where to blend force with maneuver, assault with conciliation." Graham nodded in Illya's direction, "This KGB officer, Petrov, is one to fear. He knows what he's doing."
***
Illya carefully followed his friends out of the room and sat at the edge of the pool while they splashed each other and acted like children. Old men hollered at them from the side, their voices echoing strangely in the underground room.
They brought him back into the heat, this time opening the small package containing a sun-dried, salted fish called vobla, a popular snack eaten in the baths to restore salt to sweating bodies. Illya ate the piece they placed in his hand, licking the salt from his fingers and enjoying the almost-forgotten taste. Usually there would be vodka as well, but they knew they had to dance soon and there would be time enough for vodka later.
They pushed him into the shower, handing him soap and a cloth, and he washed the sweat from his pores, feeling both refreshed and exhausted, comfortable and drained, at the same time. They helped him dry off and get dressed, careful to let him do as much as he could unassisted. They were quieter as they began to prepare themselves for the day, the classes and rehearsals, and the foreign city outside the familiar baths.
Then, not relishing the long walk back in the cold, they had the attendant call a cab for them, which came within ten minutes. Crowded into the back of the vehicle with the others, leaning sleepily against Rodya's shoulder, Illya felt thoroughly relaxed and at peace, his mind blank, secure in their company.
Misha gave their address to the cab driver and the feeling vanished. Illya lifted his head, blank eyes blinking. "Where are we, Rodya?" he whispered.
"In a cab, going back to the Academy Building." Rodya's voice was worried, concerned. "Ilyusha? Are you okay?"
"In New York?"
There was a long silence while he waited, then Rodya's arm moved across his shoulders, pressing consolingly, drawing him closer. "We are in New York. But you are with friends. It is okay," he said softly, mistaking Illya's alarm.
Within minutes they had arrived. A familiar sound wrenched his neck toward the front seat, a twittering beep, but it was silenced and the cold air touched his face as they pulled him from the cab. Laughing enthusiastically, they took him between them to slide on the icy sidewalk. He couldn't tell them to stop; the words stalled on his lips.
He was in New York City.
Five stairs up to a landing and they called a cheery greeting to the guard as they entered the building with him. They pushed him up the wide staircase ahead of them, still laughing. Two floors up, he stopped, his feet leaden, and the other men became silent and half-carried him the rest of the way.
He felt confused, lost and unable to talk. He dimly heard Komleva's voice as his clothes were stripped off him and he was settled into the bed and ordered to go back to sleep for another hour. She sounded angry, but not at him. The door closed and he could hear her in the hallway yelling at the others.
Strangely exhausted, he fell asleep quickly, clinging to the pillow. A puzzled frown creased his face, uncertain of what had happened.
***
"You were right, Vladimir Konstantinovich. He made no attempt to escape."
"Why should he?" Petrov leaned back in the black leather chair, satisfied at the morning's events. "He is instinctively remembering his old life. Do what you are told, when you are told. He is surrounded by friends and those who love him and are overjoyed to see him again. Why should he leave? He will sleep a little, then he will be ready to dance again."
"What of his sight?" Tsvetayev smiled, intrigued by the other's strategy.
"Tomorrow. We have reporters coming to photograph the Bolshoi in rehearsal later this morning, and they would love to get some pictures of the poor blind dancer. The American public loves such stories." Petrov studied the calendar. "Tonight he has his first rehearsal of Do Ootra. Tomorrow, after morning class, we give him his sight back, during the late morning rehearsal. There will be no time for him to think. He will sleep and by Monday morning, he will be free to walk out any time. But you will see, Ivan, that he will return."
"It is an interesting fish that you are reeling in."
Chapter Seven
Saturday, December 11
Napoleon Solo, disguised as a reporter for the dance section of an upstate New York newspaper, attended the press conference/open house at the Academy Building. As previously arranged, the reporters were allowed to view first the female ballerinas, and then the male danseurs, at their morning class, limbering their muscles, stretching their arms and legs well beyond the ability of the average citizen.
In a mezzanine room overlooking the dance rehearsal studio, they watched them from behind a tinted window so the dancers below were unaware of, and undisturbed by, the questions and voices.
He had not expected Illya to be so prominently displayed and as the other reporters realized one of the danseurs was the blind mystery dancer mentioned in the Times, the focus quickly changed to him. The English-speaking tour promoter smoothly directed their attention to the other dancers, his avoidance of their questions only adding to their curiosity.
A few photographers were set up in the studio and as Solo tried to locate the photographer he had brought, he spotted Grigory Zadkine sitting on the sideline of the room below. He was pointing at some of the danseurs, gesturing with his hands as he talked with several other men, all dressed in suits. Their faces were unfamiliar to Solo but he nodded to himself as the U.N.C.L.E. photographer snapped a shot of the group as he toured the studio taking pictures.
Illya, dressed in black woolen tights and a black loose-fitting sweater, was occupied across the room, another danseur minutely adjusting his arm position as he posed at the barre. He was entirely focused on what he was doing, appearing unaware of the photographers and equally unaware of Zadkine in the room.
The dance master took him by the wrist and led him a few steps into the room, then released him. The other dan
seurs left the barre and took their places on the floor facing the teacher. Music filtered in through the glass and the entire group of twenty went through the standard paces of the second part of their daily class, watched silently by the men and women in the mezzanine room.
It was not only Solo that found his gaze dragged back to the serious young man in the center of the group, moving precisely, his eyes closed. From time to time, the danseur beside him would explain something that the ballet master had demonstrated; the pale face would listen, nod, and as the music began again, confidently perform the steps required.
It was his fierce determination that was so compelling to watch. The reporters nudged each other and pointed, already putting together their columns and editorials. For Solo, it was difficult to see this man as his partner. This was no disguise, no undercover masquerade. This was real. This buried talent that had surfaced again was something that would have to be dealt with carefully and he began to understand the scope of Waverly's dilemma, and his concern.
Following the class, the reporters were allowed into the room to ask pre-arranged questions of the principal dancers, but when they arrived from the mezzanine, both Zadkine and Illya were missing. The U.N.C.L.E. photographer whispered to Solo that they had been taken out, separately, moments before.
At the pretense of looking for a restroom, Solo moved away from the group, aware he was being shadowed by what probably was a KGB agent. He walked casually down the hallway, glancing with innocent curiosity into the rooms around him, then walked into the men's room and washed his hands, waiting until the shadow entered one of the cubicles before ducking out, leaving the water running.
