Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair

by LRH Balzer

  "What is it you want, Zadkine?" he asked, his voice hardening.

  "I want the things which were taken from my coat."

  Petrov frowned. "They are items which are not allowed. We have rules which must be followed."

  "You said I could go see them."

  "Yes, but not that you could continue contact with them."

  "I want my cigarette case back."

  Petrov reached into his drawer and pulled out the cigarette case/transceiver. "This is not standard issue."

  "It is for me," Illya said, extending his hand for it.

  The KGB officer moved the case away. "Enough of this nonsense, Zadkine. You have a job to do. You have agreed to perform a simple dance in one week. Your concentration and focus should only be on this dance. Your job is this dance. If you wish to continue with us, we need your cooperation in this."

  Petrov put the U.N.C.L.E. cigarette case back in his pocket, took out his own case and offered Illya a cigarette, which he refused. "Have you thought of whether you will return with the ballet to Moscow? You would do well to consider this carefully. You have a hero status there now that will open many doors. You will be free to choose any career you wish." Petrov handed him several cables from the Soviet Union. "Two universities have already asked for you to join their staffs. One is in physics research, the other in agriculture. Or if you wish, arrangements could be made to continue in the ballet--the Kirov or the Bolshoi--even the Kiev Ballet has sent a cable saying they would love for you to guest with them. You are still young; you have perhaps another ten years or more to do this and then turn your attention elsewhere.

  "Another option is to continue in your father's footsteps and consider the Kiev Artillery School. A man of your experience would do well as a teacher or administrator. These things can easily be arranged."

  Illya looked back at him calmly. "I will perform the dance because I wish to do it, not because you wish it. America is my home now. I will stay here."

  Petrov tugged on his mustache, anger beginning to show in his cold eyes, his voice remaining polite and gracious. "We have invested much in you, Illya Mikhaylovich. How can you be so thoughtless when we have been so generous? We rescued you from Thrush's hands and brought you here when you were attacked and left blind. We brought in your dear friend, Irina Komleva, to be with you and care for you. We educated you for many years. We trained you, taught you everything that you now know. Have you given no thought to your obligation to this?"

  "This is my place now.

  "It was this selfishness that killed your father, that caused him to take his life! This disregard for your motherland, your heritage!"

  Illya said nothing, downing his glass now, his eyes draining of emotion.

  Petrov went on, "Your brother risked everything for you. Do you know this? When he saw you were alive, he no longer had any desire to leave the Soviet Union. We had given him permission to leave. We could see his frustration as a dancer and as a choreographer. We are not unsympathetic to such things. But when he saw you were alive, he was filled with hope and he approached us and asked to return. He made a deal with us."

  Illya glanced up.

  "We agreed he could present this ballet and go back with us to the Soviet Union. It would be most unfortunate for Grigory Mikhaylovich should you decide not to return as well." Petrov poured more vodka into Illya's glass. "Do not give your answer right away. We will talk again later." He set the bottle on the desk and stared at the young man before him, his voice softening. "Drink that down and go get some sleep. You must rest your eyes. It has only been a day since your sight is back. This week will be very difficult for you physically. It is a great task, but Malikov agrees that it is within your ability, even now."

  Petrov pushed himself up from the desk with a grunt. "I am tired myself and I have not spent half the day leaping around in thin clothes." He returned the U.N.C.L.E. gadgets to the desk drawer, locked it, and left the office.

  Illya stared at his drink, the clear liquid reflecting a distorted version of himself. He drank it, slammed the glass against the wall, and returned to his room.

  ***

  Solo's apartment on East 58th was still lit as midnight approached. They had all tried not to look at the clock as they talked, but as the hands passed the arranged report-in time, their words turned to other topics, steering away from the one thing on their minds.

  Half an hour, then an hour.

  Finally, as Monday became Tuesday, Heather McNabb got to her feet and slipped on her shoes and coat. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. It's been a long day and tomorrow is going to be much the same. I'm sure he's okay," she added lamely, trying to smile.

  They escorted her to the door, then returned to the living room to wait.

  ***

  Kuryakin woke in the early hours of the morning, his system still tuned to the eight hour days he had lived through for most of the week. Sleep four hours, awake four hours, sleep four hours. For him, twelve days had gone by in the space of four.

  He was awake now and someone was in the room, the glow from a small flashlight bouncing off the walls. He kept his eyes closed and breathing regular so they would think he was still asleep. The blanket was adjusted gently, then the soft footsteps returned to the door and Komleva left the room.

  He slipped from the bed and dressed in the darkness. The lack of vision was soothing it was strangely comfortable not being assaulted by the myriad images his eyes had seen the day before.

  Kuryakin moved silently through the blackness, out the door and down the familiar hallway, his fingers lightly touching the wall. He ran quickly down the corridor, knowing instinctively where to turn to find the stairwell, then taking the stairs two at a time to the top floor.

  He grinned at the black hallway there. There were advantages to having been blind in this building for a time. His body remembered everything; any light seeping into the windowless corridor would have diluted the memory.

  He found the door to Petrov's office and picked the lock with a stray paperclip he had pocketed. It was time consuming, but he was rewarded with a slight click as the door latch released. Over to the desk--here he had to work slower as he had no imprinted guide to this office. He pounded his fist against his forehead. Which drawer? Second or third? Second, he decided and the paper clip went into action again.

  Kuryakin pulled his things from the drawer. The cigarette case was not there. He put them back and relocked it, pausing before leaving the room. What was on the desk top? He racked his brain to remember, but he had been sloppy earlier, his attention consumed by Petrov's words. He returned to the desk and sat in the wooden chair, his hands lightly grazing the surface of the desk, searching.

  A matchbook? The air was heavy with the smell of Soviet cigarettes.

  Otetz? Father... A different memory stirred. Russian cigarettes. His father had smoked them, the aroma clinging to his clothes, his hands, his beard. His real father, not the other one.

  Nikolai Kuryakin smoked. Why did this memory come now? He was four years old. He remembered walking in the cold air and pretending to smoke like his father, blowing white wisps into the air, flicking imaginary ashes from the imaginary cigarette. It was the first time he had ever met his father, this tall, dark-haired man who had come to take him away.

  Perhaps his father had been in the Comintern--there seemed to be overwhelming evidence pointing to that--but Nikolai Kuryakin was never Soviet in his mind. The desire and drive for true freedom had been instilled in him by his father. He had only five years of memories of his father from when they had lived in Rotterdam towards the end of the war and afterwards. Five years of clouded memories.

  Nikolai Kuryakin smoked.

  His son smiled, remembering...

  He shook himself suddenly, realizing he had blanked out for an unknown length of time. His hands were cold. He blinked in the blackness. Why was he here?

  Information. He needed information. Illya lit a match knowing it wouldn't make any difference to the smell in
the room.

  The desk revealed nothing. No papers left out to explain what Petrov wanted. No file cabinets, briefcases, or telephone books in the room. The match fizzled out and he added it to the pile already in the ashtray.

  He left the room, locked the door behind him, then moved on to the next office. Since he was already up, he figured he might as well investigate the other rooms; there would certainly be no time during the day.

  There was nothing. He searched carefully but there were no scraps of information left in the wastebaskets, on the desks, or in the cabinets. There was no sign of the U.N.C.L.E. transceiver/cigarette case in any of the offices; they were curiously empty, as though the occupants had packed up their things and had not planned to return.

  When he could think of nowhere else to look, he gave up and headed back down the stairs. He was at the far end of the corridor from his room when he heard movement in the stairwell, fire doors opening and closing, lights turned on. He ducked into an unoccupied dorm room knowing he could not make it to the other end of the hall. He hadn't counted on anyone else roaming the building at this hour.

  Petrov's voice echoed through the stairwell. "Komleva checked him at two o'clock?"

  "She phoned in on schedule." Another voice, the speaker unknown.

  "He is too confident. Stubborn. I want a guard at his door all night. We can not afford to lose him at this point. I think we will shift locations tomorrow after rehearsal." Petrov swore loudly. "I have no more time to invest in this project. I should already be in Washington. Either he dances or dispose of him. I leave you in charge of him, Sergey."

  The footsteps came closer to where Kuryakin hid down in the shadows of the empty dorm room. Petrov's voice came again, louder. "Check if he is there now, then go arrange for someone to take over until morning. I will be in my office. Report to me there."

  Kuryakin held his breath, posed for flight, his mind trying to come up with some reasonable explanation should they catch him. Either he dances or dispose of him. What would possibly convince Petrov that he could still be trusted when they discovered his room empty?

  Sergey's steps became distant as he drew closer to Illya's assigned room. A door was opened without knocking. Silence. The door was quietly closed. The man returned to the stairwell and called up to Petrov who had not yet reached the top floor. "He is there, asleep. I will call for Leontyev to come from the embassy."

  From where he was hidden, Kuryakin frowned, unable to decipher what had happened. No alarm had been given. Why was Sergey protecting him? A double agent? Not likely. When the man had brought in the vodka to Petrov's office earlier in the evening, he did not appear to have any ability to think on his own, acting uncomfortably like the mindless, robot, Soviet KGB agents Kuryakin had heard narrow-minded jokes about in the U.N.C.L.E. commissary when other agents didn't think he could hear. Or didn't care if he heard.

  The corridor emptied again and Kuryakin waited several long minutes before he ventured out and walked down the hall to his room. There was no sound within. He opened the door carefully. The room was dark, but there was enough light coming in through the window to see a form in his bed. He closed the door behind him, a broken wooden ruler clenched in his hand as a weapon.

  As he approached the bed, a hand reached out from the bed and switched the light on. He lowered his arm. "Hello, Irina Yakovlevna.

  She pushed back the quilt and got off the bed. "Where have you been, Illya Mikhaylovich?" She had never called him that before. Her eyes were dark, angry. "I came here to check if you were sleeping and you were gone. You were not in the washroom. Where were you? No... No, do not tell me. I am just an old woman and I do not need to know. I will not cover for you again."

  He had no idea what to say, silently watching her leave the room and close the door behind her, leaving him truly alone this time.

  ***

  Tuesday, December 15

  Napoleon Solo met Travkov outside the building he was rehearsing in with the American Ballet Theater. "Good morning, do you have time for a coffee?" the U.N.C.L.E. agent asked, pointing to a cafe across the street. Alexander Travkov nodded and the two men moved down the sidewalk.

  The sun had broken through the clouds a short time before, but was still unable to diffuse the early morning chill. They walked quickly.

  Travkov smiled broadly as Solo held the door for him. "A woman from your office telephoned to me yesterday to say to me Ilyusha had been found. It is good to hear. You have talked to him?"

  "Yes." Solo directed him to a seat and ordered two coffees. "Sasha, Illya has gone back to the Bolshoi to do one performance with them. We have sent him in as an agent. It is part of his job. Do you understand?"

  Travkov's eyes narrowed. "You sent him back?"

  "Yes. Now I need some information from you. You mentioned Grigory Zadkine had changed after Illya disappeared in London. Can you give me more details?"

  "If I can help...?" Travkov shrugged.

  "Do you think Zadkine was working with the KGB?" Solo asked. While Illya had declined to answer the, question the day before, maybe Travkov would hazard a guess.

  "Certainly."

  Solo blinked. "Certainly? He worked for the KGB?"

  "He worked with KGB. There is difference. But, of course he worked with them; Grisha was co-opted the day after Ilyusha was killed. Oh--the day after he disappeared," Travkov corrected.

  "What did he do for them?"

  Travkov shrugged again. "He was only a little like Ilyusha. He was mamka, babysitter, for foreign tours. We do not dance in summer and he traveled for KGB, he said. Often he would wear clothing I knew was purchased here in America, so I think maybe he came here sometimes, but he would not say. Already our friendship was becoming tense. It is difficult to speak freely when one is not certain who is listening. Then, I began to dance again for the Bolshoi and Grisha stayed with the Kirov. With Ilyusha gone and my sister remarried and living in Moscow near me, I had no further need to speak with him."

  "Illya married your sister, is that correct?"

  Travkov smiled. "Yes and no. Remember, we are talking about Soviet Union. Here, jf I wish to move to another city, I simply do so. I look for apartment and job. In Soviet Union, we must have permits to do this. My family moved from Kiev to mining community in Siberia when I was fourteen. I was accepted into Vaganova School and stayed in Leningrad. My permit covered me, but did not include my younger sister. When she finished school, she came to visit me in Leningrad and wanted... how do you say... desperately to stay there. For you it may sound strange, but there it is not uncommon for man or woman to marry someone who has permit, wait six months or until new permit arrives for the husband or wife, then divorce them. My parents were willing to pay much money for what Ilyusha did for free."

  "He married her so she could live in Leningrad?"

  "As favor to me. But he died while they were married and she received pension." A worried look crossed his face. "Now that he is alive, I wonder what will happen."

  "What did Zadkine do for the KGB?" Solo asked, anxious about the time. There were more questions he would like to ask, but they did not have anything to do with the case, just curiosity on his part.

  "Which Zadkine? Ilyusha or Grisha7'

  It was hard to keep in mind that to Sasha Travkov, Illya was Grigory's brother. He had only known them that way.

  "Grigory Zadkine," Solo said. "What was his association with the KGB?"

  "I know he was being trained for some purpose. He came back at end of first summer, 1961, and his English was perfected. He was on every tour that next year--Bolshoi, Kirov, and even Kiev Ballet--very friendly to foreigners, meeting with them after performances and going to nightclubs. He became more interested in choreography and I know he was given permission to travel outside of Soviet Union to meet with other choreographers. Whatever else he did on those trips..." He shrugged, glancing at his watch. "I must leave now. My rehearsal is soon. Have I been of help? Ilyusha was special to me--because of my sister,
yes--but he was like little brother. We watched out for him." Travkov stood, pausing as he put his coat back on. "You say he has gone back... It is maybe not safe. I asked him ten days ago why he did not know I was in New York for the last four months. My name was in programs, in newspaper. I was surprised he did not contact me. He said he purposefully avoided anything to do with ballet because that life was over for him and he did not have strength to be two people again. He could be only one or the other. You will watch him again? From your cameras?"

  "You have been of great help, Sasha. Thank you--and yes, we will watch him."

  ***

  Back at his desk at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Napoleon Solo rubbed his tired eyes and returned to his paperwork. He was at a standstill. There was no new word on the attempted attack on the United Nations Building. They now knew exactly from where the bazooka launcher had fired the projectile, but it was unclear whether those responsible had been aiming for a direct hit on the General Assembly or whether it had just been a threat. Waverly was inclined to let the FBI and the local police handle the investigation, but had agreed to let an U.N.C.L.E. agent work as a liaison on the case.

  There was something about the missile attack that irked Solo, more so because he couldn't put his finger on what it was. It had nothing to do with the actual event, he knew; it was more--what?

  Zadkine's information had nothing to do with a threat from the Soviet Union. It pointed to Thrush. How had he gotten a hold of it? If the KGB was feeding him information to pass on, why this particular information? Was it merely to rid themselves of a nuisance?

  He shifted a file on his desk and stared at the phone number.

  Illya wouldn't approve.

  But then, Illya was twelve hours late reporting in.

  He dialed the number. It was answered on the fifth ring. "Hi. It's Napoleon," he said charmingly, keeping his voice mellow. "Shall we have lunch at the usual spot?"

  Kuryakin would definitely not approve.

  Solo entered the dimly lit restaurant and saw her at their customary table. She waved; he signaled back and threaded his way through the tables to join her.