by LRH Balzer
The two extra T-shirts went into the second drawer.
The three pairs of slacks -- three? Why should I need so many? -- went in the next drawer.
The closet opened easily to reveal a few hangers and he put his rather crumpled jacket on one.
His rucksack, minus the comb that Alexander Waverly had given him, went in the bottom drawer of the bureau, pushed to the back.
That accomplished, he approached the bathroom. The shower door opened with a soft snick, and he examined the numerous bottles on the shelf. Several kinds of soap for hair. Another soap for dandruff. He sounded out the word aloud, uncertain of its meaning. The chemical names listed were for minor scalp conditions. It sounded a bit too potent, so he opted for one of the first ones. He put it aside and stripped down. The controls were familiar; he had stayed in enough Western-style hotels to know the variances. Since he had been told to take a long shower, he assumed there were no water restrictions at this point in the year.
Fifteen minutes later, feeling cleaner than he had in some time, he turned off the water and stepped out onto the bare floor, carefully pushing aside the little rug so as not to get it wet. He tossed his clothes in the bathtub, added some of the hair soap to make some suds, and scrubbed his own clothes clean, draping them over a metal rail that ran along the top.
He took the hand towel and dried his hair, then tried to refold it the way she had had it. His reflection was still blurry in the fogged-up mirror, and he combed his hair without its help.
The briefs fit, a little large but the elastic was good. The T-shirt, some incomprehensible logo across it, went over his head. The Levis were made for him and felt comfortable. He did up the buttons after he tucked in his T-shirt, pulled on his socks, and only then noticed a pair of white sneakers, sitting on the floor just inside the door.
New American sneakers. Levis. Grisha would be jealous when he saw him in these luxuries that were expensive on the black market. His stepbrother always tried to purchase them when he traveled, making ten times their worth back in Leningrad, They were nice, he admitted now. The shoes felt good. Even new, they weren't stiff. The quality of the denim fabric surpassed anything he could buy in Leningrad...
He shivered suddenly, feeling the shaking amplify as he tried to control it. He swallowed and sat down on the bed, one sneaker on and one in his hand as his world tilted.
He felt the rough hands on his arms, forcing him away from his brother and his friend, Sasha. The painful grip wrenching his arms behind his back. His head hitting the rear door of the van as they pushed him in. The hole in the bottom he was dropped through, to land sprawled on the surface below. Other hands reaching for him, pulling him along the underground passage.
The van exploding. The cloth pressed over his nose and mouth.
He had forgotten for a moment.
He was dead.
*****
Dinner was quieter than usual, much quieter. Conversations started, then trailed off. Their guest barely ate, barely looked up from his plate. Instead of being refreshed from his shower, he sat pale and rigid, his eyes hollowed and downcast.
Misha sat across from him, staring with open interest at this fascinating stranger as he shoveled the food in his mouth with his Mickey Mouse fork. Tanya glanced Illya's way every few seconds, trying to look him over without seeming obvious about it.
Finally, Illya gave up and let the fork fall onto the plate, his eyes meeting Norm's. "Is allowed to go to the room?"
"Your room, Illya. Yes, you don't have to stay here."
They watched him escape the dining room, silently moving down the carpeted stairs to the lower level.
"Daddy? What's wrong with him?" Tanya asked.
"He's just a little confused right now, honey."
"And he's scared. In shock," Trish added. "He's very tired. Rest is the best thing for him. He will be better in a day or so. Eat your dinner before it gets cold."
*****
Illya closed the door behind him and stared around the room they had assigned him. He could not stay in it a moment longer without knowing how much of a cell it was. He needed to know exactly where the surveillance cameras were.
He went into the connecting bathroom, washed his hands for show, and left the room, closing the door behind him. Now both doors were closed. He could concentrate on investigating this area. His eyes roved over the furnishings, checking out the most likely places for surveillance devices and for listening bugs. He started at one end of the room and meticulously began his search.
Two hours later, Illya sank down on the floor by the bathroom door and stared in frustration around him. Nothing. He had not found a single device. Ten years of KGB training, a session in U.N.C.L.E.'s Survival School, years of field experience -- and he had found nothing? Could there actually be nothing in the room? But he had seen surveillance devices in other areas. Why would they have them in common areas and nothing in the area where they were housing their prisoner?
He must have missed it, that was all. No doubt he was providing endless amusement for whomever was watching him, but he did not care. They could hardly expect him not to search. If this was a test, he had certainly failed it. Some U.N.C.L.E. agent he would make, unable to complete such a simple task.
Illya rose wearily to his feet, started to walk back to the other end of the room to begin again, and paused by the windows. The room was warm. Oddly enough, the windows were not barred and they actually opened. He looked at the mechanism, saw there were no wires or other devices that would trigger an alarm, opened the window, and raised the flimsy screen.
Crossing his arms over the sill, he leaned his head out, breathing deeply of the cooler evening air. He could smell water, hear the rush of the river. Fireflies sparkled in the darkness like innumerable twinkling lights. Frogs and crickets added their chorus to the night. He rested his chin on his arms and relaxed a trifle. So peaceful. Perhaps there really were no bugs in the room.
The noise caused him to recoil so abruptly he bit his tongue as he ducked his head back through the window. He stood frozen in the room, but the sound came again. And again.
Reflexes took over. He hit the lights and dropped to the floor, out of sight, crouching directly beneath the windows, his breathing harsh, his heart pounding. He stayed there for a long time, long after the sounds stopped. And even when he finally rose, he didn't go back to his check for surveillance devices.
It no longer seemed important.
3
Thursday, June 22
Illya opened his eyes at the knocking sound, trying to find his bearings. "Da?" he called out, groggily.
The bedroom door opened and the woman came in with a tray. "Good morning. It's almost noon. I'm glad you are catching up on your sleep."
Almost twelve o'clock? He sat up quickly, mortified. "I apologize. I had no idea –"
She smiled. "You needed to sleep. It's okay. I've brought you some tea. Wash up and come upstairs when you're ready. We'll be eating lunch soon and you can eat with us. I'll be leaving right after lunch and won't be home until dinner, but be sure to ask Norm if you need anything. He'll be around most of the afternoon, working from his office here."
The door closed behind her and he sank back to the bed. He had waited half the night for someone to come in and pull him from sleep, to drag him down the hallway through the wired door to whatever was on the other side of the building. Through his open window, he had very clearly heard a man's voice coming from the west wing, screaming in pain every few seconds. It went on for several minutes before it stopped just as suddenly as it had begun.
He tried not to think of all the tortures that would cause that pain. U.N.C.L.E. evidently was as ruthless as the KGB; if they wanted information, they had their ways of getting it.
Just like if they wanted somebody, they took them.
He stared up at the ceiling and blinked, then pulled himself out of bed. Maybe today he would find out what they wanted him for.
*****
&n
bsp; After lunch, Norman Graham walked through the disordered mess in his garage, Illya obediently trailing behind him, and stopped before Tanya's bicycle. "I guess I'll go buy her another tire tomorrow. She was right; that one is definitely ruined."
He started looking through the pile of tools on the workbench, searching for something to get the tire off the rim, and turned back to see Illya squatting down and examining the bicycle without actually touching it. The Russian rose to his feet, pensive, and stared at the cement floor, a slight frown creasing his forehead.
"Do you have a question, Ilyusha?"
The wary blue eyes met his, then drifted down again.
"Ask your question. You won't offend me."
The young man cleared his throat uncertainly and, still staring at the ground, asked in his soft voice, "Why must you buy new one? This just needs repaired."
"Because we're decadent, capitalistic, consumeristic Americans, Ilyusha," Norman grinned. "Americans don't fix broken things. We buy new ones and throw the old ones away."
Illya stared at the bicycle, considering Graham's words seriously. Again a frown appeared on his forehead, deeper this time.
"Ilyusha?
"Mozhno zadelat stot prokol?"
"I'm sorry -- Can I what?"
Illya pulled out the small dictionary Trish had given him and began flipping through the pages, stopping and repeating several words to himself. He slipped the book back into his pocket, and knelt beside the bicycle. "It is not broken. Only small hole -- puncture? The tire has much good… tread, and the -- the tube? -- it can be patched."
"Mechanical skills I don't have. If I try to patch it, and it deflates on Tanya's trip on Saturday –" Norm shook his head, a rueful grin on his face. "Well, Hell hath no fury like a teen-age daughter embarrassed in front of her friends. She would kill me. No tire is worth that."
Illya puzzled through that statement, Graham's attitude obviously confusing him far more than his words. He shook his head slightly and went back to the technical issue. "But that will not happen. I only need something to... plug leak." He looked around the well stocked, if not well organized, garage and spotted a tire sealant, still in its pristine packaging, hanging on the wall. "This will work."
Norman scratched his head and sat down on the edge of a workbench. "I don't even know how old that stuff is. I think I bought it years ago for one of my own bikes. It's probably all dried up."
"We could try it and see if tire keeps air tonight. If does not, there is tomorrow to buy new tire."
Illya waited expectantly for some kind of response, a new eagerness in his eyes.
Graham hesitated. The tire was not the issue; he could see that Kuryakin, after days of being at the mercy of others, finally saw something he could put right himself. However minor, he needed to control something. And while, to Graham himself, Tanya's wrath was hardly worth the cost of a bike, much less a tire, he couldn't say no to the hope in the blue eyes facing him. "It's worth a try, Ilyusha. Go ahead."
Illya carefully ripped open the packaging and studied the directions, only too willing to bury his attentions in an easily solved problem. He had said more in the last two minutes than the combined twenty-four hours since his arrival, and Norman wasn't about to stop him now.
The young man had completed the repair job in a few minutes and was busily tidying the garage before Norm shook himself out of his reveries. "Slow down. What are you doing?"
Illya froze and again there was that brief look of fear before the careful mask blanked it out. Without taking his eyes off Graham, the tool in his hand was cautiously returned to the box he had found it on, as though the U.N.C.L.E. agent had a gun trained on him, ready to fire.
Norm mentally cursed himself for destroying the Russian's fragile self-confidence. "You haven't done anything wrong, Ilyusha. I just don't want you cleaning my garage." Illya looked down, waiting silently for some further instruction, and Norm studied him for a moment, trying to think of something that would put him at ease. "Would you like to see the Safe House?"
He watched as the young man weighed the question against what he supposed Graham wanted for an answer. A hesitant nod was followed by a quick glance to confirm if his response was correct.
Norm smiled. "Come on." Rather than traipsing through the house again, they exited the garage and walked around to the front of the building and into the main entrance of the Safe House, the way they had originally entered the house the afternoon before. It's only been a day, Graham reminded himself. He's actually doing very well, considering it's only been a day.
The upper floor of the safe house contained four rather extravagant suites, used for dignitaries and other visitors making use of the embassy status and high security measures U.N.C.L.E. provided. The main floor housed the security personnel, the monitoring rooms, lunch room, and two small apartments used by Nate and Charlie, two of the full-time guards assigned to the property.
He watched as Illya took in the facilities, every detail committed to memory, Norman was convinced. The young man nodded as the Washington Chief described everything, but asked no questions of his own. It wasn't until they walked down the stairs to the lower level, though, that Norm could see the tension rise, the slight shoulders straighten and brace themselves for whatever he was expecting to find.
Graham stopped him on the stairwell. "Ilyusha, nothing is going to hurt you down here. I just want you to know what is here." The face before him seemed to tighten from his explanation rather than relax.
*****
Illya purposefully loosened his clenched fists when he saw Graham's eyes on them. Stay calm, he told himself. The screams from the previous evening had come from the lower level and now Graham was purposefully showing him what he could expect if he didn't cooperate. Yes, he knew the routine.
They walked down a ball and he was careful not to look into the open doorways, lest Graham catch him. Graham had stopped and was describing this area. Recuperation. Convalesce. He didn't know those words. It looked like a medical clinic to him. The KGB often used doctors to get information. They seemed to know how much pain you could take. Graham was explaining something else now, and Illya nodded at what he hoped were the appropriate spots.
A woman in a white uniform smiled at him and Illya wondered what it was she knew that he didn't. He didn't recognize her from anywhere. He followed Graham through swinging doors into a large open room. Windows ran down one side, broken only by a sliding glass door that led out to the swimming pool. His eyes looked beyond it to Graham's part of the building, then moved to where he knew his room to be.
The screams had to have come from this area.
He turned slowly. Exercise equipment. Weights and levers. Various devices for strengthening legs and arms, especially. Several he did not recognize and he shivered as his mind provided various possibilities for use. One wall was mirrored and there was, of course, a ballet barre attached, but about a foot too low. Whoever had attached it had not done a good job, either, and at one junction, the mirror had cracked a little.
So. A hastily done job. The KGB always had a barre for him, too. It was sometimes amusing to see it tacked on the side of army barracks, or in a storage room on a submarine, or once -- in a science lab they had locked him in. They knew he had to keep limber or the valuable cover of dancer was lost. They knew he would do his exercises because they thought it was all that kept him sane. It hadn't.
Well, U.N.C.L.E. was not about to change anything it seemed. They, too, had put up a barre.
Graham had stopped talking and was staring at him. Had there been a question? Illya wondered.
Graham cleared his throat. "You can come here anytime during the day, Ilyusha. If you want to come after sunset, please check with me first. The door alarms will sound if they are opened."
Ilyusha. They used the name as though they thought it would lessen his defense and catch him off guard. So they knew the familiar diminutive -- It meant nothing. Everybody called him that.
He had hea
rd the screams about eight-thirty at night, after the sun had set. That would be when they brought out the prisoners. Five rooms near the northern part of the first level had not been shown to him and he had a pretty good idea of what was there.
They crossed through the sliding doors into the courtyard and went around the pool. One of the guards was in it, doing laps across the deep end. Graham waved to him, then went over to chat while Illya stood apart and watched, lighting a cigarette. They looked over to him once. He couldn't hear what they were saying. Interesting how there was often a guard in the swimming pool. A suitable way of doing surveillance on the area and one guaranteed to keep the civilians at ease. He would have to watch out for that. How many of the other staff were in fact guards? The woman he saw in the Graham's house earlier, vacuuming the carpet? Why not? Old Praskovya Kondratyevna cleaned apartments for the KGB.
Graham talked long enough for him to finish the cigarette, then called Illya over and introduced him. Illya shook the man's wet hand, not failing to notice the way the man's eyes ran over his form, sizing him up as an opponent and then dismissing him. He was used to that. That he did not have a formidable appearance often gave him the advantage of surprise. He had long ago learned it was best to have one's enemies underestimate you. He nodded uncertainly at the man, looking at him through his shaggy bangs, and tried to appear as young as possible.
The guard went back to his laps, and Illya's eyes roved over what he could see of the grounds, pulling back as Graham turned back to him.
"Did Trish get a chance to show you the grounds?"
"No, sir."
"Norm, Illya. Well, I might as well do that now. Not that there's much to see." Graham walked on ahead and Illya followed, taking the opportunity to size the U.N.C.L.E. agent up.
