Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair

by LRH Balzer

  He had once tried to explain his relationship with Angelique to his partner, but Illya had simply stood and stared blankly at him, his face devoid of emotion. The anger showed in the distance Illya kept and perhaps in his chosen words when she was around, usually biting and harsh. He was not a man given to sarcasm, which made his remarks strike deeply. He attempted to be polite only when it suited his purpose and did not interfere with his job.

  Kuryakin was solid in his belief in the good of U.N.C.L.E. and the evil of Thrush. As long as the aim of Thrush was world domination and the goal of U.N.C.L.E. was to prevent that, the slim Russian would have nothing to do with the beautiful, and deadly, Thrush operative.

  However... Solo kissed the dangerous, blonde woman's hand graciously. "You are looking lovely, as always, Angelique."

  "Oh, really, Napoleon. Can't you come up with a better line than that?"

  "My mind has been busy elsewhere."

  She smiled, shrewdly. "Your dreary little friend has deserted you, I hear. Is that why you have come calling?"

  "And if it is?" he asked, glancing at the bottle of wine already chilled on the table. The waiter came by and poured him a glass.

  "Well?" she said, as soon as the man left. "Since Blondie switched sides, do you want to come with me? I know we can set you up in a high position. The pay isn't bad, and the fringe benefits are negotiable."

  "Business first, then we can order." He leaned towards her. "As you said last month, if we don't do our jobs, they won't let us play. We have recently received information about a planned Thrush takeover on an American satellite. One of our top agents is leading an investigation that has already uncovered the leak at the New Hampshire Air Force Base, and your Thrush mole has been exterminated."

  Angelique gave a bored laugh. "So I understand. These things happen. It was never a big operation and it wasn't even our idea, darling. We were just paying a debt. We have already moved on to other things. And what does this have to do with Blondie?"

  "I thought you might be interested in the name of the man who gave us the information. Colonel Vladimir Konstantinovich Petrov." He waited patiently for the reaction.

  The smile never left her face, but Solo's watchful eye caught the brief flare of her nostrils. "I have suddenly lost my appetite, Napoleon. You've been naughty. It is so unromantic to talk shop at lunch. I am going back to my desk and pout. Next time, we do our pleasure, then our business. Promise?" She gathered her beaded black handbag, her mink jacket and hat, and her leather gloves. "We really must do this again sometime. It's been lovely," she said, blowing him a kiss and exiting.

  ***

  "Telephone call, line three." Heather McNabb stood at the doorway of his office, took a sniff in his direction, and frowned. "You've been with her again."

  "It was business, Miss McNabb," Solo said with a tired smile. "Who's on the phone? Can you take a message? I want to get this report written."

  She leaned across his desk and lifted the receiver. "May I say who's calling?" Her eyes widened and she handed him the phone. "It's Illya."

  He grabbed the receiver, whispering for her to call Waverly. "Illya?"

  The connection crackled. "I cannot talk long, Napoleon. They gave me permission to call you."

  The line was tapped. "Are you feeling okay, Illya?" Solo asked, carefully.

  "A few headaches, Napoleon. My eyesight is getting better, but sometimes focusing is hard."

  He had run into problems. He was on to something, but had nothing reliable yet.

  "How are the rehearsals going, Illya?" Solo asked, looking up as Waverly entered his office. McNabb handed the Section One Chief a set of headphones so he could listen in.

  "Adequate, I think, Napoleon. My brother is trying to shape my performance. He is quite persuasive."

  So, Zadkine was still there and was pressing Illya to do something.

  "Do you think you'll be ready to perform by Sunday, Illya?"

  "I hope so, Napoleon. Will you be there?" The question was asked casually, but Solo could hear the undercurrent of tension in the other man's voice.

  "Yes, Illya. I'm looking forward to it." The Enforcement Officer looked over at Waverly and shrugged. He wasn't sure if there was a message beneath Kuryakin's last question or not.

  Waverly shook his head slightly. If there was another meaning to Illya's words, he had not caught it either.

  Kuryakin was silent for a moment, then said quickly, "I am looking forward to the bigger stage, Napoleon. We have booked several days of rehearsals there and--" The line went dead. He had said too much, but Solo had understood.

  He hung up the receiver. "They'll be moving Illya to Washington soon."

  Waverly placed the headphones on the counter. "Mr. Graham is already on his way back there. We have to set up in the theater immediately then. Miss McNabb, contact Mr. Graham in Washington and pass on this additional information."

  The phone rang again.

  "Hello?" McNabb answered and handed the phone to Solo, switching the phone line to broadcast in the office.

  Kuryakin's voice came over the speaker, stilted and wooden. "I am sorry. I disconnected the line by mistake. I want you to know that I am fine and you are not to worry."

  "Thank you for calling. I appreciate it. I was starting to get worried." Solo was still worried. Kuryakin had not used the word 'Napoleon' in his first sentence as they had previously arranged. He was reciting what he had been told to say.

  "I must go now. I have many things to do. Goodbye."

  Solo hung up the phone again and turned back to Waverly. "Did you contact the CIA about Zadkine?"

  "Yes. Since he withheld the information about working with the KGB, his one-year temporary protected status has been revoked. There is a warrant for his arrest already out. He will be questioned by the CIA and then the State Department will reevaluate his situation."

  "Did they ask about Illya?"

  "Yes. I will call them and tell them that Mr. Kuryakin reported in on schedule with information. And also, where they can pick up Zadkine, should he still be there." Waverly started to leave the room, but paused in the doorway and looked back at the Chief Enforcement Agent. "Meanwhile, Mr. Solo, please remember that you have other cases to work on."

  Chapter Nine

  Saturday, December 19

  "Head up!" Malikov shouted above the music. "Ilyusha, three, four, five, six. Again!" His fingers snapped to the beat.

  From his position in the darkened sound control box, Napoleon Solo watched the blond danseur stop on the stage, swaying slightly and panting, his face and body drenched in sweat. It was obvious he was tired. The rehearsal was almost over, but they were being drilled this afternoon unmercifully.

  "What is wrong?" Malikov asked, waving at the accompanist to stop. "I said to begin again!"

  Exhausted, Illya shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. "I can't." He bent over, his upper body heaving with the effort of trying to breathe, his hands braced on his knees.

  Malikov marched across the stage and tilted the younger man's head up. Whatever he had been planning on saying was halted when he saw Illya's face. His voice over the hidden microphones became gentler. "Go sit down on the edge of the stage. We'll come back to you. Rodya! We will look at your solo again. Warm up. Quickly now! We don't have much time left. We must be out of here in fifteen minutes so the crew can set up for the matinee performance! Somebody bring Ilyusha some water!!" he yelled to the backstage crew.

  Malikov left to speak with the accompanist and Rodian Voronskiy came from offstage and tossed Illya a towel. Solo watched through the powerful binoculars as Graham made a quick call to the U.N.C.L.E. agent working as the theater's assistant stage manager.

  Solo adjusted the microphones to pick up the conversation of the two dancers.

  Voronskiy's voice. "Better move. Aleksey Antonovich is in a foul mood. Petrov is supposed to be here and he hasn't arrived yet."

  "Where is Grisha?"

  Rodian shrugged. "I
don't know."

  "I need him here," Illya murmured.

  "You'll be fine."

  "Aleksey Antonovich is changing the ending! I don't like it! Grisha wants this to stay true to the original. I don't want to learn it one way and then have to change it later when we perform the whole ballet in January."

  "He's coming. Go sit down." Rodian quickly steered him to the edge of the stage and directed him to sit in the front row of the darkened auditorium.

  Graham heard the final few exchanges. "See what I mean, Napoleon? '...when we perform the whole ballet in January.' Does he realize what he's saying?"

  "It's probably just to get them off his back."

  "You've only been here fifteen minutes; we've been watching him for three days. There have been indications he has either decided to go back, or is trying to convince them he has decided. I'd like to believe the latter, but..."

  Napoleon attempted to catch Illya's face in the binoculars, but the young man was sitting in the shadows. "I want to talk to him. Norm, you know the layout--can I get from here to the side entrance near where Illya is sitting? They wouldn't be able to see me from the stage if I stayed this side of the curtain."

  Graham drew him a rough map. "Go ahead; we won't get another chance to speak with him alone like this."

  Solo ran through the side corridor to the fire exit door near the front of the auditorium. He slipped inside and moved towards the platform, stopping as someone on the stage leaned over and handed Illya the glass of water and his warm clothes. Illya took them without a word and returned to the seat, his eyes already fixed on Rodian's performance on the stage.

  "A thank you would be nice."

  Illya almost dropped the glass as he turned. His wary eyes widened and stared at Solo, who had crouched on the floor near him, out of sight from those on the stage. Illya's mouth opened slightly. He shivered, spilling some of the water.

  "Put your sweatshirt on and don't stare at me," Solo ordered quietly, his dark eyes trying to judge his partner's state of mind. He frowned as Illya pulled on the clothes, his face pale and weary. "Illya, are you with me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

  Illya nodded, sitting down and bending his head to sip at the water. "Why are you here?" he breathed. His eyes were averted from Solo's.

  Napoleon smiled supportively. "I need some information."

  Illya stared at the worn carpet in front of him. "What do you want to know?" he asked, carefully.

  "What's happening, Illya?" Solo glanced up at the sound booth and shrugged. Had they waited too long? Had he slipped away from them somehow? "You look surprised to see me. Had you forgotten?"

  Illya looked back up at the stage as the rehearsal continued. He nodded, shivering again. "Get me out of here," he whispered.

  "The performance is tomorrow. Can you hang in until then? If not, come with me right now, and it's over. It's up to you. We'll work with you either way, but you'll have to call the shots."

  Illya sat rigidly on the edge of the seat. Malikov had stopped the music and was speaking with Rodian, demonstrating a move. Rodian repeated it, nodding as he understood. The piano started again and Rodian did the step correctly.

  "Illya?"

  "I don't know." Illya glanced over at him, then looked away. "You can't understand what is happening, Napoleon. They will not leave me alone. They talk to me constantly. In the car while we travel, while I eat, while I brush my teeth. If I am not here dancing, they are talking to me. Questions and questions and questions. They tell me I will have a good job in the Soviet Union. I have many opportunities, not like before. And they tell me Grisha will die if I do not go back. They tell me my friends here will die if I do not go back. My head is full. This moment here is the first time I haven't been with a KGB agent while I am awake and not dancing."

  "Where is Komleva?"

  "She is there, at the hotel. She takes me from them late at night and makes sure I sleep. But they do not leave me alone. She is there all night."

  "Have you heard anything?"

  "Nothing. There has been no opportunity." Illya looked back at Napoleon. "I will stay. Do you have a knife?"

  "Why?"

  "Do you?" Illya asked again. "Quickly, I have to go in a few seconds."

  Solo handed him his penknife, grabbing it back as Illya slashed his forearm. "What are you doing?"

  The gash started bleeding and Illya put his hand over the small wound. "I am trying to remember. This will remind me of you and this conversation." He stood and walked up the stairs to the stage without looking back.

  Napoleon returned to the sound booth, gravely shaking his head as he repeated the conversation. "What do you think, Norm? Should we pull him?"

  Graham looked grim. "If we do, we've proven nothing. But maybe we will have saved his sanity." He sighed, staring down at the stage below them. "By the time we hear back from Waverly, they'll be out of here. Will he make it until tomorrow? He wants to try... the cut on his arm might help. Every time he feels it, or sees it, he'll refocus on who he is. It might work."

  "Might? Is that enough? What if there is no information for him to get, Norm? What if things are as they appear?--Petrov is trying to get him to go back with them because he's a valuable agent and they want him again. Is it worth it, sacrificing him to them?"

  "We have people in the hotel, we are watching them while they transport him, and we will have five agents on the stage while he is performing tomorrow afternoon, ready to pull him off the moment it's over. Napoleon, my hunch is that they'll ease up on him tonight--they'll have to if they expect him to dance tomorrow--and that should give him the time to pull himself together."

  Solo was silent, his eyes on the blond man moving on the stage. There had been a short halt as his arm had been bandaged, but the rehearsal had begun again in earnest. "Where is Zadkine? He started this all."

  Graham shook his head. "I have no idea."

  ***

  Grigory Zadkine gathered his papers, slipped them back in the large envelope, and smiled across at Petrov. "It's working, isn't it? I told you it would work."

  "Only one day and we will know... As for the rest, you know Boris Fedorovich has given you more chances than anyone I have ever encountered. The Major General obviously has faith in your abilities, but if this fails, I would not like to be in your shoes." Petrov cut the end from a fat Cuban cigar and lit it, glancing at the other two men in the office before looking back at Zadkine. "I admit we are impressed by those documents, Grigory."

  "Beautiful young ladies with important fathers in high security operations have never been difficult for me to acquire. It is amazing that they will not suspect a mere danseur of espionage. It is easier still in America where they assume if you are a male who dances in the ballet you are zhopochnik."

  "If they think you are a homosexual, would they want their daughter to bring you home?" Tsvetayev asked, already one drink past his limit.

  "It is more the prestige of having a foreign artist over for dinner. And they are not so worried if they see I am interested in their work and smoke a cigar, just as they do. I ask about the hockey scores and I am careful to know the results of the last few games. So in the course of the evening, I ask to use the phone in the den for a private call and they oblige me, leaving me alone to explore the papers there. The young lady I am to see tonight has a father who is the head of an American radar installation. They are visiting here from New York as he has a conference and his wife and daughter accompanied him. So I asked to see what an American radar installation looks like--and they have obliged me." Zadkine grinned at their reaction. "Unfortunately, the man could not take me there, but he has the layouts with him and has promised to show them to me after dinner."

  "It's a shame you will not remain in America, if that is a sample of your work," the third man said, his voice gravely. Of the group, he alone did not join in the afternoon drinks shared in Petrov's office. Brigadier General Raskachevskiy had come in uninvited and sat with them, but his ran
k and position was higher than Colonel Petrov's and they had no choice but to include him. He was with the GRU, the Soviet Military Intelligence, and had worked with Grigory Zadkine once before during an assignment in Paris. "While you were co-opted, your work was most satisfactory. Your ability to memorize complex diagrams was shown to be superb, as we may judge by these documents you have shown here today."

  "Thank you." Zadkine leaned back in his chair, sipping at his brandy and saying nothing while the conversation continued around him. The embassy was busy. Kosygin had arrived that morning and was staying at the White House overnight. There was to be a formal banquet that evening and Petrov's dry-cleaned tuxedo hung on the back of the office door.

  Turning to Petrov, Zadkine interrupted suddenly, "If I may speak, I think I have made a mistake. I have been uncertain of how to broach this, but I feel now I must. Can you arrange for me to stay?"

  Raskachevskiy's eyes narrowed. "You are changing your mind again, Zadkine?"

  The dancer nodded. "The original plan outlined by the KGB seems to be the most advantageous and I hope it is not too late to return to it. Everything was proceeding as planned until my dead brother made an appearance. I made too hasty a decision then, I realize, but I was shocked to see him."

  "As were we all." Petrov shook his head slowly. "So you are becoming disenchanted with the little brother? Yes, I will inquire. Plans have been set in motion already but..." He looked over to Raskachevskiy, but the GRU First Directorate deputy made no comment, so he continued, "Should it be approved, it is certain the American CIA will want to talk with you if they see you have changed your mind. They have become aware of your past involvement with us. Would you be able to stand their questions?"

  "You trained me yourself. What do you think?"

  Petrov returned the steady, confident stare. "It may take some time before you are free to go where you want."

  "Then I will use that time to establish my choreographer role. They will see me as a self-centered Soviet artist who is apolitical and only wishes to work in his chosen profession unimpeded by Communist regulations."