by LRH Balzer
"No, he ran a marathon this afternoon, then built a treehouse for Michael since the snow has all melted. He'll be up as soon as he finishes moving the pool table."
"Very funny..." Napoleon scowled cheerfully. "Seriously, how is he?"
"Talking, moving around a bit but he's stiff and sore, tires easy. Sam has him on a liquid diet but rumor has it he's on solids tomorrow. He's been eying the popcorn bowl, so that's a good sign." Graham paused outside his den. "Go see for yourself. He's downstairs. Tony and Tanya carried him down earlier so he could watch a movie with them. As to how aware he is... he seems to have full memory of everything up to the time of the dress rehearsal. I've tried to drop suggestions at him, but he's not picking up on them. I mentioned to Tony that the KGB are often called the 'neighbors'--no reaction. Tony asked me about the difference between the GRU and the KGB while Illya and Michael were playing Monopoly a few feet from us, and Illya didn't bat an eye. I mentioned Raskachevskiy's name--nothing. Go see for yourself."
Solo walked down the stairs to the rec room. Wrapped in blankets, Illya was sitting on the couch and appeared to be in the middle of telling a story, unaware Solo had entered the room. "So... finally after being on the raft, alone in the middle of the ocean, in the fog, Napoleon Solo and I were rescued. But, Misha, do you know what ship rescued us? You don't? A pirate ship!" His jaw thrust forward, his eyes as round as Michael Graham's listening to the tale. "And what flag do you suppose was flying from the top of the vessel?"
"The Jolly Roger?" Michael whispered, sitting on a low stool near Illya.
"That very flag. The Jolly Roger."[3]
Napoleon grinned as Trish looked up from her knitting and saw him. "Okay, Misha. It's way past your bedtime. You can hear the rest tomorrow. I let you stay up to watch the rest of the Errol Flynn pirate movie and now it's almost nine o'clock."
"Can't Ilyusha tell the rest of the story first?"
"Tomorrow."
Michael stomped off to bed and Illya turned to see his partner, the smile on his face vanishing. "Oh, Napoleon. Please sit down. How is everything in New York?" he asked, politely.
In one quick movement, Trish Graham had a handful of Illya's hair, twisting it menacingly. "We discussed this already, Ilyushka. Drop the act."
Illya grabbed her hands, trying to loosen her grip. "Okay, okay. Let go."
"Sit down, Napoleon," Trish said. "I'm going to check on Misha. Should Ilyusha drop behind his mask again in this house, you have my full permission to beat it off him." She released Illya's hair, then helped him straighten out the blankets that had fallen off the couch and left the room.
Illya smiled sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. "She has rather a fetish about that."
"I'll be careful." Napoleon looked his partner over. "You appear to be a lot better."
"I am feeling better." Can I ask some questions? "They are treating me like an invalid."
"You are an invalid. You can't even walk up the stairs." He paused. "What would you like to know?"
Illya looked like he didn't know where to start. "Who shot me?"
"We're not sure."
"How many bullets?"
"Two. Through your chest and the side of your head."
Illya digested that information. "What about these other things?" He showed Solo the massive purple/black bruise on his left hip and the numerous cuts on his arm.
"The bruise I guess you got when you fell at the end of the performance. You were in the air when you were shot. Most of the other cuts are from when they brought you here in the U.N.C.L.E. van and it was attacked."
"Why?"
"Someone has been trying to kill you."
"Why?"
"We're not sure."
Illya pointed to the almost healed gash on his left arm. "I did this."
"Yes."
"I remember."
"That's why you did it." Napoleon watched him staring at the wound. "Illya, do you remember seeing some GRU men at the theater?"
There was no response. Illya seemed occupied in examining the scar. It took some time before he looked up and nodded slowly. "In the auditorium. They were watching me dance. Two men from the Information Directorate." He blinked several times, trying to refocus the memory. "Strange that they were there. They were 'at home' men. They work out of 'The Center', the Intelligence Headquarters in Moscow. They should not have left the country."
"What did they do?" Napoleon persisted.
Illya was tired, leaning back against the couch and pulling the blankets up around his chin. When he spoke, his words came slowly, as though he had to translate his thoughts from Russian into English. "They evaluated the data that came in about the United States, mainly communications and radio intelligence."
Communications and radio... "Illya, were they involved with satellite espionage?"
"Probably." Illya yawned, then shrugged. "They would be interested in the passive and active communications satellites. Probably for eavesdropping purposes."
Napoleon leaned forward smiling. "Thank you, partner. That was one of the pieces I was missing. I think we just found our connection."
Chapter Twelve
Alone in the den, Solo and Graham laid out the index cards one more time.
"Okay. Try this scenario," Napoleon said. "It fits. Pile one: Grigory Zadkine. Original mission: to defect to America, and give us information pointing to Thrush's involvement in our spy satellites. Then he was to establish a cover and continue to supply the KGB with information. Instead: Zadkine sees Illya and decides he doesn't want to stay in America. He wants to go back to the Soviet Union and take Illya with him. Problem arises when Illya doesn't want to go back, so Zadkine wipes his hands of him and tries to go back to the original plan. Now there was a possibility that Zadkine could have had Illya shot at, to eliminate the problem of what to do if Illya had stayed in America and fouled up Grigory's plans. Two problems with this: First, Travkov is positive that Zadkine did not know Illya had been shot and second, there were two attempts on Illya's life after Zadkine's death.
"Pile two: Petrov, KGB colonel. Original mission: to make sure Zadkine gives his information to us. Instead: he ends up trying to convince Illya to go back to the Soviet Union. Again there's the possibility that he had Illya shot because he refused to return with him, but when I talked with Yuri in Chicago, he seemed convinced that Petrov was more nervous about losing track of Illya, that he wouldn't show up at the reception. Yuri said that Petrov is a Party man, and would follow the orders given him, despite his personal feelings--if the man has any. Additionally, if he thought Illya might get away from him after the performance, there is still the possibility he would act to at least salvage Grigory Zadkine's covert operations in the country.
"Pile three: Thrush--our bit players, here, but the usual thorn in the side. Original plans: to sabotage our spy satellite missions. They wanted the Soviet Union to help them out, but the KGB decided they didn't want to work with them so they tipped us off, using Zadkine's information. I spoke with one of Thrush's operatives and I think I succeeded in driving another wedge between the KGB and Thrush. They won't be joining forces for a while.
"Pile four: The GRU. I've done some checking since I left here Friday night and it matches what Illya just told me. The GRU has a department devoted to misinformation. That's exactly what we were fed--maybe not misinformation, but misdirection. By telling us to look at spy satellites, it took our focus from communications satellites, which is what they were after. Probably the Early Bird Satellite due to launch in April. Or TelStar. Well, we are watching out for them now. I've already alerted the CIA and passed it on to them. That isn't an U.N.C.L.E. responsibility.
"Pile five: Raskachevskiy, GRU. He disappears and no one reports a Brigadier General missing?! Why not? Hiding something?"
Graham spoke up. "Maybe he was knocked off by his own men--another GRU agent killed him before he said too much."
Napoleon Solo looked down at his cards. "Somebody must know who he is."
Graham cleared his throat and placed a card that read KURYAKIN on top of the one that said RASKACHEVSKIY. "What if Illya killed him?"
"It occurred to me. I asked Sam Lawrence if I could ask Illya that, and he said no. Even so, Raskachevskiy was dead before Illya was shot, so that still leaves open the question of who shot Illya."
There was a knock at the door and Tanya stuck her head in. "Dad? Oh, excuse me," she said breathlessly, seeing Solo in the room. "Dad, could you come downstairs quick? It's a family thing," she added in explanation to Solo as Norm disappeared out the door.
"No problem. I've got things to do," Napoleon said, turning back to his stack of cards as she left. He thought nothing more of it until a few minutes later when Sam Lawrence ran past the open door, an oxygen tank and medical bag in his hands. Solo dropped the cards and followed him to the basement.
Lying on the floor, propped up against Norm, Illya was having difficulty breathing, his gulps of air stressing the bruised ribs and causing additional anguish with each breath. His features were twisted in pain, but he seemed more angry than anything else, one fist continually striking the floor beside him, refusing to be mollified by Trish, pulling out of her grasp when she tried to quieten him.
Sam Lawrence slipped the oxygen mask on his face and Tony held it in position, trying to convince Illya to leave it on while the other doctor listened to his straining lungs.
Then Illya saw Napoleon and he collapsed back against Norm, cringing as though he was unable to handle any more news. The message in his eyes was clear. No. It was supposed to be over. Please, no more.
"What happened?" Napoleon asked softly.
Trish wiped at the tears running down her face. "He asked about Komleva. Then about Grisha."
"And you told him," Napoleon concluded.
"He had to find out sooner or later," Norm said, looking up. "We have now ripped out any last shred of past he has in Russia. Everyone is dead. His parents, his brother, his adopted parents and brother, his beloved Irina Komleva. There is no one left." He drew Illya a little closer, locking his arms around him. "Napoleon, when Sam is through here, why don't you go with him to the other side. We'll finish our business conversation upstairs later. I think we're just going to sit with Ilyusha a bit. Reestablish our family."
Solo waited as Lawrence removed the oxygen mask and gave Tony a few brief instructions. Norm had turned Illya to rest against him as the sedative started to work. Trish tucked a blanket around him and he didn't fight her any longer, reaching out to grab her hand and pull her closer. Tanya was perched on the couch above them, crying quietly; Tony absently put his arm around her while he talked with Sam, setting off a new batch of sobs.
As they walked up the stairs, Napoleon was startled to see Sam Lawrence grinning. "What's so funny?"
"Are they not the wildest family?" the doctor asked, still chuckling to himself. "They're good for him, though. Not afraid of a little honest love and emotion. Just what he needs right now--a bit of security and belonging. I'll bet you in two days, Illya will be on his feet, not looking back."
***
Wednesday, December 30
Ten days after being shot, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin walked stiffly through the main entrance of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia.
The snow had gone, but the overcast sky threatened icy rain and winds as they had walked in from the visitor parking lot. He had coughed as the air hit his lung, sending a jab of pain across his chest that re-echoed as he pushed open the front door.
The building was warmer, at least, and he stood silently by Napoleon Solo's side while his partner presented the necessary documents to allow them further passage into the network of offices and corridors. Solo looked over at him and grinned while they waited and Illya tried to return the smile, knowing it would probably look forced.
Solo frowned; he had caught the fatigue in his eyes. "Why don't we sit down to wait?" he asked, nonchalantly.
Kuryakin sank onto a nearby bench gratefully, one hand up against the pain in his chest, trying to catch his breath. It had been a longer walk from the car than he had calculated. Maybe Sam Lawrence had been right after all--it was too early for him to be walking around outside in the cold air.
Peter Baker came after several minutes and escorted them to the room that would be used to interview him this time around. The location changed depending on who else was present. If he was alone with his interrogators, they would be in a small windowless basement room. If Waverly was there, or someone else who might complain, the location would be better.
He swallowed, steadied himself, and walked into the spacious office. No use looking like they could push him around because his strength wasn't one hundred percent. Already waiting for them were Donald Johnson and Alexander Waverly. Also present was the FBI liaison with the CIA, Louis Kent; he had been there once before, maybe a year ago.
There were the usual introductions and Kuryakin eased into the chair they provided, his breathing still a little ragged. Solo left his side to stand by the window, his arms crossed, watching, reminding Illya of a guard dog ready to attack the enemy at the slightest provocation.
Tea and coffee were brought in, the next few minutes passing in polite banter, quite different from past sessions he had had with them. Something was up. Kuryakin glanced over at Waverly, who gazed back at him without comment, holding the cup awkwardly on his lap. Solo was watching the room from over the rim of his coffee, his eyes darting back and forth as different men spoke.
Peter Baker, the head of the counterintelligence section of the Soviet Division, picked up his notebook finally and flipped to a page near the end. "Mr. Kuryakin, we're going to be asking you a few questions."
I am supposed to be surprised at this?
"We want to know about your activities on Sunday, December 20th."
"So would I. My memory is a little foggy."
"At what time did you arrive at the theater?"
"I can't give you an exact time. Probably around ten o'clock."
"It was 9:45."
Kuryakin sighed loudly, putting his teacup on the table before him. "Why must you continually ask me for information you already have?"
"What happened at 9:45?" Baker prompted.
"Morning class. It was held on the stage. Free standing barres were brought in for us."
"How long did the morning class last?"
"About forty minutes."
"And then?"
And then what? Morning class… what did I do? He frowned, rubbing at his forehead. Oh--the dress rehearsal. We had a dress rehearsal."
"Who was at the dress rehearsal?"
"Rodya--Rodian Yefremovich Voronskiy--and myself. The ballet master, Aleksey Antonovich Malikov. Colonel Petrov. Somebody from the theater, I suppose, who played the tape we rehearsed from that day. Most of the Bolshoi company." He shrugged, looking back up to see if they wanted more information.
Waverly cleared his throat. "I'll take it from here, Peter." Kuryakin stared over at him confused. "You, sir?"
Waverly nodded absently, reaching into his jacket pocket for his pipe. "Do you remember who else was in the audience, Mr. Kuryakin?'
"Sir?" Someone else?
"The others," Waverly said, opening the bag of pipe tobacco and not seeming to notice him.
The others?
"Not the neighbors." Waverly stuffed the tobacco into the pipe.
Not the...? In the front row. They had sat watching him. Ulyanenko and Dratvin. From the Information Directorate. Kuryakin looked across to Solo making the connection as best he could. Did I tell you this already?
Solo nodded. Tell them.
Kuryakin told them about the men, who they were and what job they had done.
Waverly lit a match, holding it to the bowl of the pipe. "Why do you think they were there, Mr. Kuryakin7'
I don't know. "I don't know, sir."
"Were the men alone?"
"Ulyanenko and Dratvin? I think so."
Raskachev... Illya closed his eyes. His chest hurt suddenly. The room was stuffy.
"Do you remember seeing Raskachevskiy, Illya?" Waverly asked again, his voice an hypnotic drone.
He couldn't think. He took a guarded deep breath, trying to clear the feeling of suffocation. He opened his eyes and saw the CIA men watching him. What was the question? he thought, looking back at Waverly.
The Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America puffed on his pipe, letting the smoke trail around his head. "Mr. Kuryakin, who would normally be offstage during a ballet performance?"
He felt a little more comfortable with that question. "The stage manager, stage hands, the ballet master possibly."
"Would visitors be allowed?"
"Not usually. Unless they had special permission."
Donald Johnson brought over a small model of the Washington, D.C., stage. Little colored circles were loose on the floor plan and Kuryakin stared at it with interest as they explained the code. FBI agents that had been there that afternoon were represented by blue dots with their names written in tiny letters. CIA were red dots, U.N.C.L.E. personnel were green, the theater employees were yellow, and the Bolshoi staff and Soviet nationals were orange.
The group spent several minutes arranging the circles on the stage, trying to identify where everyone was standing during the final presentation of the matinee. Illya watched it all carefully, trying to remember what had happened. The men argued about a few of the circles, but at last they all sat back and looked at him.
"Can you recognize this?" Waverly asked.
Kuryakin shrugged, staring at it. He shrugged again, looking back at Waverly. "I don't remember."
"Who's missing, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly asked. "Who did we forget?"
Illya looked back at the stage, then pointed suddenly to a spot near the green dot that said Solo. "Misha was standing there."
Napoleon's mouth fell open and he spoke for the first time. "Misha?... Illya, did Misha have a towel over his arm?"
