by LRH Balzer
At the end of the hall he could hear music playing. The shadow had not yet emerged from the rest room and Solo peeked into the unlit room, then slipped quickly inside the small rehearsal studio.
A reel-to-reel tape recorder played on a table. Illya was alone in the room, carefully walking the width, then stopping close to the middle. The music began again and he took a few hesitant dance steps, his mouth silently moving as he counted and listened. The sequence began again and Solo watched him move into the steps, his face as mask of total concentration.
"What are you doing here? the shadow said from the open doorway and Illya froze, his eyes wide at the interruption.
Disguising his voice, Solo apologized and said the music had intrigued him, as had this blind dancer. Would he be dancing with the company full-time if he regained his sight? he asked. It was a voice Solo had used before, when he had posed as a temporary secretary for Walter Brach during the Green Opal Affair and he was counting on Illya to remember it.
Illya said nothing, looking at the floor, listening. Whether he would have responded had the Soviet guard not been there was difficult to tell. Sightless, he had stared out after them as the KGB agent took Solo from the room insisting he return to the tour.
Illya stood alone, unmoving, until the tape flickered at the end of the reel, jolting him from the wary trance he had fallen into. He followed the sound, stopping the reel. He rethreaded it and then rewound the tape.
When it reached the beginning, he stopped it again, his finger posed lightly on the play button.
I am Illya Kuryakin. Kuryakin. I am in New York, he recited silently. U.N.C.L.E. is here somewhere. Waverly is here somewhere. Napoleon... is perhaps not in a coma.
He pressed the button.
That evening, he sat with a few of the other male dancers after dinner listening to the music again as the teacher, Aleksey Malikov, explained the newly choreographed dance, Da Ootra, "Until the Morning". It had never been performed before, so they were all hearing this for the first time.
It was the story of a young man wrongly imprisoned for many years. In his dreams, he is free, but when he awakes he is still a prisoner. Then one day he is released from prison but he no longer knows what it is to be free and he hides from the world as the harlots and deceitful men try to entice him to join them.
He gradually makes his way to his home. There his father welcomes him, sheltering him from the savage world, bringing back the early memories of his life before the prison. It reawakens the young man's spirit although for a time he fears he will awaken again and find out it is another dream and the pain of that happening consumes him.
Near the end, there is release for him as he is free again to be a good citizen, mixing with the townsfolk as they come to welcome him back.
Illya's heart beat wildly against his chest as he listened to the music and the story. It was familiar. It was what Komleva had taught him. The tune she played on the piano as he rehearsed was this music. The steps she had coached him for many lessons had been to this music.
The plot was familiar. He knew the plot. Grisha had wanted to do this story four years ago. Grisha had done it, had shown him the choreographic notes in the hotel room in Washington.
"Who choreographed this?" he asked, tentatively.
"He is new. He was unknown when you were in the Soviet Union," the teacher answered. "Come here, Ilyusha. Show them again the steps to the dream that we saw you dance yesterday, where the young man believes he has been freed, then awakes to find he is only dreaming his freedom."
Illya walked alone into the center of the floor, feeling the room and empty space around him. He stretched, calling back his body's awareness and attention and when they started the music, he knew instinctively that not only could he dance this but that the dance had been written specifically for him to do. It incorporated his style, his strengths as a dancer, his personality.
How had they done this? How had this happened? Why would they be learning a new dance while on tour?
But he did not ask the questions.
He slept poorly, tossing in the bed, shivering although the temperature of the room was tolerable. Komleva came in and sat beside him, humming and stroking his forehead, but even her presence failed to calm him. His mind was franticly buzzing but he could find no words for his unrest.
The night was unbearably long.
She brought him to the doorway of the large rehearsal room for the morning class, returning afterwards to make sure he at least had some food before the rehearsal following in the smaller studio. For some reason, Rodya and he were learning the middle scene of the ballet, dancing the father and son roles, a pas de deux that could stand alone in a program.
Why he fell, he wasn't sure. Later he wondered if something he ate had made him dizzy suddenly, but at the time he felt it was his nerves. But he fell, banging his head on the floor. Rodya was beside him immediately, as was the teacher, both telling him not to move while the accompanist ran to get the doctor. He felt the wooden floor beneath him tilting slightly as another wave of dizziness swept him. His head pounded in beat with his heart.
The doctor came, firm hands placing a cool cloth over his eyes. He felt the scrape of a needle on his arm and the wooziness vanished. The doctor carefully touched his head, feeling where he had landed, but declared he would be fine. No more dancing that day; he should rest, get some sleep, and in the morning he could resume his activities. The doctor said he had been given a mild tranquilizer to keep him quiet.
He could feel more footsteps lightly running across the floor and Komleva's voice came from above him. She readjusted the cloth higher on his forehead, complaining to the others that they had pushed him too quickly, that he should not have danced so close to eating, that he was probably just overtired, that he had not slept well that night.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, then beyond her to Grisha.
His brother smiled down at him, the worried look on Grisha's face vanishing as he bent over and picked him up and carried him to his room.
***
Monday, December 14
Illya woke early, the room still in partial darkness, and surveyed the place that had been his home. The closet, dresser, the window, the old heater, the desk and lamp and chair.
He was alone. They had left him alone finally.
For part of the afternoon, Grisha had sat by his bed, not speaking, aware of the throbbing ache in Illya's head. His brother had changed the cool compresses on his forehead as he had dozed in the drugged twilight hours. The lancing pain behind his eyes had slowly dulled, then disappeared as he fell asleep. Once, when he woke briefly, Komleva had been there checking on him, then she had turned off the lamp and softly told him to go back to sleep.
The building was quiet now. He got up carefully and felt the back of his head. There was no longer any pain although it was still tender to touch. He glanced out the window and saw the early morning traffic below, building into rush hour. He was four or five stories up. There was a river and trees beyond the wide street.
He took his clothes from the chair and pulled them on, slipped out into the silent hallway and walked barefoot to the bathroom at the far end. He realized he was still touching the wall as he moved, his fingers and body knowing the layout of the building better than his eyes, for whom this was all new.
He saw a clock in the hallway. It was only six in the morning--too early for the others to be awake. He had time to sleep yet, but he was not tired. He was hungry--he had not had dinner the night before, he remembered--but the dining room would not be open.
He passed the stairwell and saw the payphone, stopping and staring at it blankly. He glanced down the hallway, but he was alone. He approached it slowly, as though it would vanish when he touched it, lifted the receiver gingerly and listened to the dial tone, then replaced it in its cradle and returned to his room.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his thoughts sluggish. There was a payphone in the stairwell. He had no money. Some
thing within him screamed instructions but he couldn't make out what they were. He thought about the telephone and the dance and his brother and Napoleon and... and... He knew he had to talk to someone.
He got up and returned to the payphone, lifted the receiver again, and dialed the operator.
She answered in English and he blinked, his mind racing to find the correct words buried in another part of his brain. "Collect call."
"To what city?"
"Washington, D.C."
"Telephone number?"
He told her, then gave his name. He heard the ringing at the other end, the forgotten voice answer sleepily, the operator say his name, the gasp and acceptance of the call.
"Go ahead, sir," the operator said.
"It is Ilyusha. I need to talk," he whispered to her.
The day had started quickly for Napoleon Solo, still at Waverly's desk. Three Soviet military attaches had been expelled from Washington and the radio had asserted that they had been caught spying. According to the State Department documents delivered to U.N.C.L.E. HQ there was ample evidence of improper activities, but the expulsions were a reaction to an incident in Khabarovsk, Siberia, a few months earlier when one British and three American officers were charged with committing espionage. U.N.C.L.E. had been involved, as one of the American attaches was also an undercover U.N.C.L.E. agent on assignment.
Waverly entered the office and, startled, Napoleon Solo stood up. "I wasn't expecting you until later, sir. Welcome back."
"Yes, yes. There will be a conference in Interrogation Room Four in fifteen minutes, Mr. Solo. At eleven o'clock sharp." Waverly dropped his briefcase and overcoat on the table behind the large circular desk. The door to the office opened again and three men walked in. "These gentlemen are with the CIA and will be conducting the interview." Waverly made no attempt to introduce them to his Chief Enforcement Officer. He removed several files from his briefcase and handed them to the men, glancing at his watch. "Mr. Solo, if you would report to Room 4A, you are welcome to watch the proceedings."
With no further explanations offered, Solo left the office and moved quickly down the stairs to the second floor interrogation rooms. He entered Room 4A, saw Norm Graham already at the observation window, and joined him looking through the one-way glass.
Illya Kuryakin sat alone in the empty room, motionless at the table, a newly-lit cigarette in one hand.
Without turning his head, Graham said, "Early this morning, Illya made telephone contact with Alexander in D.C. Alexander immediately called in the CIA so they could clear him before things escalate any further. His sight is back," he added.
"How did Illya know where Waverly was? Why didn't he phone here first?"
"He phoned my home. Alexander was staying in the attached Safe House, so my wife put him on the telephone."
Before any further words could be exchanged, the three CIA men and Waverly entered the interrogation room. Introductions were made and the CIA agents took their seats across the table from Waverly and Kuryakin.
They were anxious to begin the interview--as they called it--and the Russian-speaking operative from the CIA's Soviet-Russia Division, Donald Johnson, began the questioning. "Kak vas zovoot?"
Kuryakin looked up for the first time, briefly meeting the man's eyes. "I will speak only English here."
He shrugged. "Fine. For the record, please state your birth name."
"Illya Nikolayovetch Kuryakin."
"Place of birth?"
"Kiev. Soviet Union."
"Date of birth?" There was a pause and the interviewer repeated the question. "Date of birth, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"1939."
"Exact month and day?"
"I don't know," Kuryakin said softly. "You have this all already," he added.
"Please answer the question. And speak up, Mr. Kuryakin. This is being recorded."
"I don't know the exact day I was born."
"And why is that?"
"The records were destroyed."
"What date is on your passport?"
"January 1st."
"Who chose that date?"
"My father."
"Who is your father? For the record."
"Nikolai Andreiovetch Kuryakin."
"Is he alive?"
"No. He was not alive the last time you asked me and he is still not alive."
"When did he die?"
Kuryakin closed his eyes, his brow furrowed as though he had a headache, his head slightly bowed. He took a slow drag on his cigarette before responding to each question. "1947."
"Where did he die?"
Pause. "Here in New York."
"Do you like New York, Mr. Kuryakin?" Pause. "Mr. Kuryakin, please answer the question. Do you like living in New York?"
"It is my home now."
"What is your mother's full name?"
"My mother?"
"Yes. It is not a difficult question."
"Yekaterina Dmitriyevna Kuryakina."
"Is she alive?"
"No."
"When did she die?"
"1941."
"Where?"
"Kiev."
"Any siblings?"
"One older brother, Dmitriy Nikolayovetch Kuryakin. Died in 1941, in Kiev."
"Don't anticipate our questions, please, Mr. Kuryakin." The CIA interviewer paused again to glance through his notes, glancing up to examine the young man silently smoking across the table from him. "What name did you use while in the Soviet Union?"
"Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine."
"How long did you work for the KGB?"
"I began in 1953."
"Until the present?"
The first hint of emotion could be heard in Kuryakin's voice. "I am not working for the KGB."
The counterintelligence agent stopped to jot down some notes. "Have you ever worked in East Germany?"
"In East Germany? This is a new question. No, I have never worked in East or West Germany."
"Have you been in East Germany?"
"No. Yes, yes, I have," he corrected.
"Why did you change your answer?"
"I took a summer course at the University of Berlin."
"In what?"
"Quantum physics."
"What year?"
There was a longer pause as Kuryakin put the cigarette to his lips, frowning as he sorted dates in his head, then speaking as he exhaled, the smoke escaping the corners of his mouth. "1954."
"After you had started working for the KGB?"
"I won the scholarship."
"When did you defect to the United States?"
"1961."
"The date?"
"June 19th."
"Why did you defect?"
"I wanted to work with Alexander Waverly at the United Network Command."
"Are you currently working for the Network?"
"Yes."
"How were you treated over the last ten days?"
The sudden change of topic again startled Kuryakin and he took another drag on his cigarette, frowning at the questioner. "I was treated well."
"Mr. Kuryakin, where do you plan to sleep tonight?" Johnson didn't look up from his notes, his pen posed over the paper waiting to take down the answer.
Illya butted the cigarette. "What do you mean?"
"Perhaps I should ask the question in Russian. You seem to be having problems with English." Johnson dropped his pen and looked over to the CIA officer on his left.
Peter Baker was in charge of Counterintelligence for the Soviet Division, and he took up the questions. "Mr. Kuryakin, what was your official occupation while you were living in the Soviet Union?"
Illya stared at the table, looking tired. He shrugged. "I'm not sure what you are asking."
"What department did you work for while you were employed by the KGB?"
"Various. None in particular."
"At the time you defected, what was the occupation listed on your passport? Your cover?"
"A member of the Kirov Thea
ter Company."
"Was the KGB involved with the Kirov Theater?"
"There were operatives within the Kirov and the administration."
"Is the KGB still involved with the Kirov Ballet or the Bolshoi Ballet?"
Illya reached for his cigarette case, withdrew one, and slowly lit it, his eyes glancing for the first time at Waverly, then back to Baker. He seemed reluctant to answer.
Baker went on, not waiting for him. "Could you please repeat your birth name?"
"Illya Kuryakin."
"The patronymic?"
"Nikolayovetch."
"What name is currently on your passport?"
Illya sighed. "This is all in the records."
"Please answer the question."
"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."
"Why did you change your patronymic name?"
"For the same reason I told you last time you asked me. And the time before. And the time before." There was a long silence as they waited for him. "When I came to America, I was told I could choose a name. I chose my own name, along with my father's code name during the war. It was what he was called. It was what I knew him as. I was called Nico's son. I had difficulty spelling it in English letters."
"Mr. Kuryakin, your father worked for the Comintern, did he not?"
"I do not know for sure."
"You think highly of your father."
"He was a good man. He helped a lot of people."
"The Comintern was one of the forerunners of the KGB. According to your own testimony, the KGB, who you once worked for, is involved with the Soviet touring ballets. One of their top operatives has been seen daily around the building the Bolshoi--and you--have been staying in. In light of your history with the KGB, we are asking you what your future plans are."
Waverly spoke up quickly. "I have granted Mr. Kuryakin a short leave of absence, should he request it."
Peter Baker cleared his throat. "Mr. Kuryakin, as a Soviet defector, we cannot allow you to mix with Soviet citizens in this manner, regardless of your record with the U.N.C.L.E. The security risk is too great."
