by LRH Balzer
Trish turned as she heard the front door open and close, and waited expectantly as Norm came to the kitchen. He quirked an eyebrow at her and the phone, and she nodded and he grinned. "Just a moment, Alexander." She put her hand over the phone. "He wants us to take in Kolya's son for a while. Now, quick, have you met this young man?"
Norman Michael Graham was, at fifty, what men half his age should be: fit and slim, insufferably healthy, and blessed with a sun-bleached blond head of hair that only betrayed the occasional gray streak if the light went against him, which it rarely did. The sunlight and outdoor exercise, grabbed at any excuse, also managed to keep him bronzed and sociable, which was requisite for the long hours he actually spent indoors juggling politics behind a desk in artificial light and air-conditioning, at U.N.C.L.E. Washington, D.C.
"Yes, I've met him. Twice. Very briefly, though, both times," Norm said sotto voce, his hand slapped back as he reached for a cookie in the open container.
"And?" she hissed.
Graham shrugged. "Your decision, Trish."
"Norman!" Trish put as much force into her whisper as she could, well aware of the keen hearing of the old man on the other end of the phone.
Graham slid into a chair across from her and took an apple from a bowl on the table; "I'm willing. But it's going to be more work for you, honey, than for me. I'll do what I can, but the Berlin situation is going to grab a lot of my time. Initially, it'll be like having another kid in the house, one you'll have to watch all the time -- he was a bit of an emotional wreck when I saw him last. Do you want that? Ours are quite a handful on their own."
"Daddy!" Misha came flying up the stairs and into the kitchen, sailed into his father's lap, and wrapped both arms around his neck. "Daddy, come see the plane I built."
Norm tousled his hair. "Sure, big boy. Five minutes, okay? You go turn off the TV and I'll be right down."
Trish watched them together -- father and son -- her eyes misting a little, and put the phone back to her ear. "Alexander?"
"I take it your husband is home, Trish. Certainly you'll wish to discuss this with him."
"No need. We'll take him. At least for a trial."
It wasn't in character for the Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, but Trish Graham could have sworn she heard a relieved sigh. "Excellent. I'm sure this young man will work out. If not, I will find another place for him. In any event, you have my thanks."
"No problem, Alexander. It's the least I can do for you. And for Kolya. He was a good man and he helped a lot of people I know. I imagine you want to get his son settled as soon as possible?"
"Is tomorrow afternoon too early? I'll send along a copy of his dossier."
"We'll be expecting him." Trish hung up the phone and smiled ruefully at her husband. "Did I just agree to what I think I agreed to?"
Norman chuckled. "You did. One more notch for the master manipulator."
"Well, I won't have been the first. Anyway, it is Kolya's son. How could I say no?"
Norm caught her as she passed by, pulled her down to his lap, and kissed her. "I'm sure that's exactly what Alexander thought. You're a soft touch." He grinned as she escaped him and returned to her dinner preparations. "It's just for a little while, right? Now, are you sure, Trish? It's not too late to call him back."
"The more the merrier around here."
Norm shook his head, the smile fading. "Illya Kuryakin is not merry."
"It is a hard decision, leaving everything behind. Even if you know it's the right move, the emotional whiplash still hits you afterwards," Trish said reflectively, then shrugged herself out of her reverie, ignoring the knowing look in her husband's eyes. "Tell me about him. Alexander has given me his I've-got-him-pegged-in-three-sentences version, but there must be more --?"
"I'm sure there is, but there's not much for me to tell. I first saw him on that trip to Europe I took a few weeks ago with Alexander. Just by chance, we were given tickets to see the Kirov Ballet perform 'Sleeping Beauty' while we were in Paris. Illya was dancing in the corps and apparently was the understudy for Puss-in-Boots."
Trish shook her head. "I can't imagine Kolya's son as a ballet dancer."
"It was just a minor role; he'd had some training previously in his early teens. The KGB found it a useful cover operation. They used Kuryakin as a mamka, a guard/babysitter, when the company went on tour. Well, Alexander recognized him almost immediately, even though his last name was listed on the program as Zadkine. I had no idea why he was suddenly interested in the performance of this one dancer. I didn't know then, but Illya was a sort of self-appointed double agent for U.N.C.L.E.. He'd been voluntarily passing information from different sources to Alexander for some time, although I can't imagine any useful information such a low level KGB guard could provide. I suppose Alexander kept tabs on him because he was Kolya's son. Sometime in the past they must have become acquainted, but I don't think Alexander had seen Kuryakin for a while. He apparently wanted to meet with the young man again, or confirm that this was his agent. To that end, Alexander expressed a... 'personal interest' in the boy... in front of the appropriate Soviet officials."
Trish gasped in surprised shock. "Alex did what?"
Norm laughed. "Well, he did manage to get us invited to a reception with the cast. The KGB brought Illya over to Alexander, obviously hoping to use the boy to gain some potential blackmail material on Waverly. Illya only spoke to Alexander for a moment, but he managed to let Alexander know he needed help. I gather things had become pretty bad for him. We found out the KGB was keeping a close eye on him because he was considered a suicide risk.... We had to leave before anything could be arranged, though, and I suppose Illya thought Alexander had chosen not to help, him.
"However, we were working on a few ideas. We knew the tour would be coming to London, and a plan was under way to contact Illya after he arrived and arrange for him to defect, if that's what he wanted. Then Nureyev defected last week and the timing became critical, so Alexander upped the schedule and Illya was snatched off the streets of London two days ago. Alexander arranged the whole thing: the abduction, the van exploding to make it appear Illya had been killed, even the transportation out of the country. It was all accomplished with only a handful of agents.
"I met the U.N.C.L.E. jet that brought him in yesterday morning. He was... well, let's just say Illya had no idea what was happening or who had taken him. At that point, he didn't know it was an U.N.C.L.E. operation. He was terrified; he probably thought his information-passing had been detected and he'd been kidnapped to be interrogated, tortured, and killed."
Trish watched as Norm seemed to work through some inner anger, biting back what would likely have been harsh comments. He caught her eye and nodded at her insight.
"Sometimes Alexander and I don't agree about his methods of accomplishing his goals." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before continuing. "The young man had been tranquilized, knocked out, all according to Alexander's orders, and woke a bit earlier than they expected. He barricaded himself in one of the lavatories during the flight. When they reached New York and I boarded the plane, I slipped my I.D. under the door and he recognized me from the Paris reception. I managed to calm him down enough to get him to go with a couple of agents to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, promising him that Alexander would be there." He shrugged. "I can't imagine what he plans to do with Kuryakin now that he has him. It's not as if we need guards for our ballet companies. And he doesn't look like he'll make much of an agent, but that's Alexander's problem... So does any of this help? It's all I know."
"It isn't much," Trish said, disappointed. "At least, Alexander promised me his dossier, but we won't get it until the boy comes."
Norm shrugged, philosophically. "I'm sure all Illya needs is a place to catch his breath and collect himself. And between the guns, the steel walls, and the alarms going off every few minutes, New York Headquarters is no place for a nervous young defector."
2
Wednesday, June 21,
1961
Illya received the news of his relocation with no comment and no reflection. The former was in character, the latter definitely not. He'd been making choices for himself, good and bad, as long as he could remember. Sometimes he had outright refused the choices presented to him, such as when he was ten years old and he decided he did not want to be sent to live with a distant cousin. He had instead gone to the home of his father's former associate, the high-level KGB officer who'd then taken him in and raised him.
In the twelve years since that pivotal decision, he'd often made the best of what choices, usually bad ones, had been available. There were times when he'd allowed himself to be manipulated into a particular decision, knowing such was the case, but knowing the only other options were disastrous. But, good or bad, freely taken or reluctantly manipulated, his choices had never been made unknowingly.
In the last few years, however, the choices presented to him had gone from bad to unbearable. His own survival had become questionable. His integrity had so long ago been compromised, it was not even an issue. He was tired, worn out by the endless circles he traveled in and the tightening twist of violence and deception that was his existence.
His last decision had been a spontaneous plea to Alexander Waverly, a murmured entreaty for the man who had been his icon to find some way to stop the inevitable path he was on and take him away from it all, and he had made the decision without thinking, whispering it like a little child begging to come in from the icy cold.
Yet, bad as his former life had been, leaving it all behind -- his few friends, his adopted father and brother, what little future he had dreamed for himself -- had been unimaginable. He hadn't really thought about what his options were apart from the Soviet Union. Leaving his employment had not, in his mind, meant leaving his country. Or his family. He knew U.N.C.L.E. was a multinational organization that sometimes worked within the Soviet Union and there had been a fleeting hope that perhaps he could be...
He was dead now, they said, so, technically, he was free. Because they had rescued him. They had cut the ties, permanently and absolutely. He would never have to go back.
He could never go back.
He wasn't sure what that meant.
The intense emotions ripped from him during those first hours had given way to bleak numbness. The night had been long and he hadn't slept, huddled on a cot in the corner of Waverly's office. Since then, despair and growing exhaustion had taken over and he'd simply surrendered to whatever the fates had chosen for him. Or rather, whatever Alexander Waverly had chosen for him.
He'd traded himself to Alexander Waverly and U.N.C.L.E. in exchange for an escape from his former life. It was too late to set conditions or question that choice. Like a man who had sold his soul to the devil, he knew he was past any point of return. Perhaps U.N.C.L.E. and Alexander Waverly were that devil, perhaps even worse than those he had just escaped. He did not think so, and had gambled himself on that instinctive evaluation, but he had been wrong before. Everything he had discovered had led him to believe U.N.C.L.E. was an honorable organization and Alexander Waverly a man of integrity.
But now his past failures in such gambles were haunting him. Trapped, irrevocably committed, alone among strangers and with nowhere else to turn, he was not in any particular hurry to discover the truth.
Kuryakin stepped from the plane, only too aware of the "escorts" on either side of him, urging him forward. Over one shoulder was the rucksack that he had happened to have with him when he'd been abducted in London. In it were his Soviet papers, his new American identification papers, and a few other possessions. He had never owned much in the Soviet Union, now he had even less. The freedom he had traded his life and his identity for had never seemed more abstract than in these last two days of being passed like a pawn from person to person.
He had nodded, head down, when Alexander Waverly had explained where he was going, but truthfully he had scarcely bothered to translate the English words. He had been tired, and he had not cared. Circumstances had once again forced him to go to Alexander Waverly for refuge, as they had twice before. And, yes, Alexander Waverly had responded, but just as quickly was disposing of him, sending him away. Well, why should this time be any different from the other times? The U.N.C.L.E. chief was a busy and important man; he had no time for — what were the man's words? -- 'insignificant personal problems'. That statement had haunted Kuryakin since he had heard it the evening before, tying his tongue when the U.N.C.LE. chief briefed him on his ultimate fate. What was the point in troubling Waverly with his minor concerns? Alexander Waverly had others to deal with such as him.
Since then, his mood had spiraled downward, and the relief and hope he had felt upon signing the government papers had evaporated. He had wanted the past nightmares of his life to end; he had not wanted to walk into yet another horror. Nevertheless, it seemed that was exactly what he had done. There was apparently no hope for him.
He stumbled down the last stair as they disembarked, earning a sharp rebuke from the agent just behind him. Several passengers around them glanced nervously at him, probably wondering what sort of vile offender he was and why he wasn't handcuffed. The two guards frowned at the unwanted attention; the thrust of a hand on his back demanded he walk more quickly as they entered the terminal.
He tried to find some dignity and walk straight and proud, but there was nothing left.
*****
Norm Graham waited impatiently at the arrival gate at Dulles airport. Two of New York's Section Two agents were going to deliver Kuryakin to him and then catch a connecting flight for an assignment in Atlanta. As the long line of passengers going by him began to dwindle, Graham spotted the blond head between two dark ones and put a welcoming smile on his face.
The young man didn't return the smile, his eyes dull and haunted. Graham saw how uneasily he moved, obviously tense at being flanked by the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, trying to keep an equal distance between them. Great job of prepping him, Alexander. He looks like he's on his way to an execution, not a temporary home. I'm surprised you forgot the cuffs.
The agents recognized him and steered their charge in his direction. Kuryakin's head went up as they approached, his imperceptible nod acknowledging Graham's seniority and nothing more. The two agents traded words with the Washington Chief and then walked off, waving a careless goodbye, obviously glad to be rid of their encumbrance. Kuryakin appeared equally relieved, uncomfortably aware of their disdain.
"Hello again, Illya." Graham offered his hand. Kuryakin stared at him blankly for a moment, and then shaking himself slightly, offered his. Graham clasped it, noting the chill of the fingers and taking in the shallow rapid breathing and unnatural pallor of his skin. This kid is running on adrenaline and sheer will. And he's not got much of either left. Better get him home fast. When he finally crashes, he's going to be out.
"Where's your luggage check, Illya?"
Kuryakin stared at him, a flush rising in his cheeks, and Graham tried again. "A ticket – a slip of paper? – that you need to claim your bags."
Kuryakin took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly with his comprehension. "I have only this." He slid the rucksack off his shoulder, clutching it in front of him.
Graham eyed it, wondering if his guest had even one change of clothes to his name, but forbore comment. "Let's go, then." He caught the young man's elbow slightly in guidance, then instantly let go when his guest recoiled at his touch. He pointed instead, and moved on ahead, hoping Kuryakin would follow him. And if he runs scared, I'll have to set half the local agents looking for him and incur Alexander's infinite wrath. Come on, boy. Easy does it. One step at a time. I feel like the Pied Piper without a pipe. Alexander, you woe me big on this one.
Kuryakin hesitated, looking around, and then followed him, taking in the bustle of the airport, carefully avoiding groups of people. He took a deep breath when they stepped out into the warm June sunshine.
Graham smiled. "Nice, isn't it? I'm alway
s happy to get back after a few days in New York. Even if you do manage to get out of that windowless rabbit warren they call headquarters, I never feel like I've been outside in New York. To me, that city is one giant –"
He stopped abruptly, seeing the lack of comprehension in Kuryakin's eyes, realizing his attempt at reassuring chatter was not only going right over the Russian's head, but was making him nervous. "The car is just over here."
Kuryakin reached into his jacket pocket and carefully withdrew a sealed letter. "This is for you. It is from Alexander Waverly."
"Thank you." Graham paused and tore it open, quickly scanning the few lines and frowning at the content. The letter said very little, actually, other than Kuryakin's promised dossier would be delayed another day. "Let's get going."
After his initial failure with reassuring verbiage, Graham decided to let Kuryakin alone during the ride home. The young man didn't seem up to dealing with much more than studying their surroundings with narrowed weary eyes, probably trying to memorize the route. He sat hunched on his side of the station wagon, as close to the window as he could get, his arms wrapped around his rucksack, his fingers nervously clenching and unclenching the worn straps, as if he needed something to hold on to, but he wouldn't quite give himself the luxury.
Graham wondered a little at Waverly's championing of Kuryakin; he couldn't imagine a less impressive, prospective agent than this slight nervous young man.
*****
Kuryakin huddled in the corner of the seat and watched as Graham passed something to the attendant in a guard kiosk. The attendant then raised a gate and they were allowed to leave the area. Graham drove for a short distance while Kuryakin tried to puzzle out the myriad of signs. The man turned at one of them that said DULLES TOLL ROAD. Then they stopped at another kiosk, taking a small ticket before another gate was raised and the car proceeded on.
Kuryakin frowned at all these checkpoints. He had thought travel in America relatively unmonitored. It seemed they drove for only a short while before Graham turned off again, and Kuryakin tensed at the sight of yet another kiosk and gate. Guards and gates everywhere. This did not seem like the America he had been told about. Graham passed the ticket he had taken before to the guard, again with an undisclosed amount of money. A bribe? What was going on?
