Collection 4 - Kolya's Son

by LRH Balzer

  He was big. Over six feet, and still in hard condition, the training evident in his movements. Illya had detected that he usually wore a gun, though he was unarmed today. Perhaps Graham only wore the gun when he was going off the grounds, relying on the guards to protect himself and his family when at home.

  Illya decided he would have to watch to make sure of that. It could be useful if he had to leave suddenly. As they walked, he didn't pay much attention to the man's words. None of it mattered much anyway, since he doubted that he would be staying here long and would no doubt soon be locked up. He nodded his head at times, but he paid more attention to the boundaries of the property. The river curved along much of it, an effective barrier perhaps. Certainly the distance could not be crossed as swiftly swimming as on foot, and a swimmer was defenseless, easily picked out of the water with a gun. There was a dock but no boat. Had it been taken away since his arrival?

  The fences were artistically concealed by a barrier of shrubbery, but not trees. None of the bushes would support the weight of a man, even of his size, so the fence itself would have to be climbed. It was not high, perhaps ten feet, so it must be electrified. That could be a problem. Wiring was easily cut, of course, but that usually meant an alarm would be sounded. Timing would be crucial.

  Illya felt his heart contract a little and forced it back to calm. All cages had an exit. Certainly he did not expect them to simply let him walk out of here. They would not have fences, gates, and armed guards and overlook an easy exit. He was clearly not the first prisoner here.

  He heard the rise of inflection that meant a question, and looked back at Graham uncertainly. The man's face showed a touch of impatience, quickly concealed, and then Graham spoke again.

  "Come on, Ilyusha. I think Trish is home. I don't know about you, but it seems a long time since lunch."

  Illya followed him back to the house and up the veranda stairs to the kitchen entrance. The Russian woman was home and they were told to "wash up for dinner." The meal went a bit better than the previous evening, but then he had a better idea of what was expected. He answered in monosyllables and then only when addressed directly. He ate his food -- no use worrying about them drugging it; if they wanted to do that, he was lost. He drank the wine rather quickly, noticing that Tanya and the child weren't given any, and he declined dessert. Something with a lot of whipped cream on top. He added a dollop of the cream to his coffee, which elicited a surprised burst of laughter from the girl. Apparently she hadn't seen anyone do that before. Another slip.

  The little boy had been at a special day camp and spent most of the meal telling about each and every activity the children did. Illya was at a loss to know what the boy was saying, the lisp and the childish phrasing and colloquialisms rendering most of the excited descriptions unintelligible.

  The adults seemed to encourage the child's attempts, asking questions about what he liked and didn't like. The practice seemed like a normal one for them, the child speaking freely. An older boy had teased him about his curls and this seemed to upset the child. Graham said he would definitely be getting his hair cut soon and that sparked a subsequent argument between the parents and the older sister.

  Other than that, Tanya was silent throughout the meal, picking at her food, and staring toward the kitchen. Illya wanted to turn and see what she was looking at, but be kept still.

  "Waiting for a phone call?" Graham asked her, reaching for another helping of the dessert.

  She nodded. "Karen was supposed to come over and help me prepare for the dance auditions tomorrow night. She promised she'd come."

  "Have you called her?"

  "Her dad said that she went with her mom to visit her grandmother and he didn't know when she'd be back. They got delayed."

  "I'm sorry, honey. I can't help you with that one. But you can thank Ilyusha for fixing your bicycle. It's all ready for Saturday."

  "You fixed my bike?" She stared across the table at him as though surprised he could do anything.

  He nodded, flustered, and reached for the empty wine goblet, his hand quickly transferring to a water glass.

  "Thanks," she said, with a small smile.

  "You are welcome," he answered, watching her leave the table.

  He escaped downstairs after the meal, retreating back to the isolation of his room. He looked it over again, surprised by still more clothes on the bed. A shirt, enclosed in a plastic package. A pair of swimming trunks, also new. Sweat pants and sweat shirts, barely worn, that probably were taken from the still-absent Tony.

  The sun was beginning to go down. If he wanted to get to the other side and back before the alarms were activated, he had to hurry.

  *****

  Graham sat back over his coffee. "So, how are things on 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.?"

  "The White House is more beautiful than ever." Trish sipped at her tea. "Jackie is doing a tremendous job -- it is amazing how she has transformed it from shabbiness to its present state."

  "Hmm," Norm said disinterestedly.

  "And I don't know why I tell you, anyway," Trish said, amused. "Men never notice such things."

  "Oh, I might notice a painting or a piece of furniture. If it had a safe, I was looking for behind it."

  "What is that saying?" Trish asked wickedly, "You can take a spy out of Section Two, but --"

  "No, I don't think that's how it goes," Norm grinned, then turned as there was a knock at the door. "Come on in."

  "Sir?"

  Graham got up as the guard poked his head around the corner.

  "This just came for you by courier, sir. From New York."

  "Well, our long awaited dossier." Graham took the packet and dismissed the guard. "Heavy. Must be some other stuff, as well. Well, with the plague of Russians visiting the city these days," he grinned again at Trish's sharp look, "present company always excepted, of course, I'm not surprised it's heavy."

  "I'll leave you to open it then," Trish said tartly, getting up to clear the table. "You wouldn't want any security breaches."

  "Oh, I don't know." Ignoring the packet, Norm came up behind her, slipping an arm around her waist. "Sometimes, these security... infiltrations... can get interesting." He bent his head down to hers.

  "Yuch!"

  Norm jumped and mock scowled at his youngest son. "Haven't you learned how to knock yet, Misha?"

  "Nope," Misha said seriously.

  "You can never surprise your Daddy, Misha," Trish said, smiling sweetly at the youngster. "He's a top spy, you know."

  "There's your reason why we haven't had another baby," Norm said disgustedly. "Our own resident Russian spy."

  "He's only half Russian, darling."

  "A baby?" Misha looked around as if he expected one to appear in the kitchen. "We getting a baby? Like Danny at pre-school did? Why can't we have one now?" Misha called out as Norm left the room, taking his packet with him. "Where are you going, Daddy?"

  "I'm going crazy," Norm called back.

  Trish grabbed the little boy before he could follow him. "Come and help me with the dishes. You can stand on a chair and dry the silverware."

  "I want to go crazy with Daddy," the child said mournfully.

  "Some day you will, Misha. When you have children of your own."

  *****

  "Trish, we have a problem on our hands," Norm said, his voice level, as she entered his office a short time later.

  "You mean Ilyusha? He's been here barely thirty hours, darling. Give him some more time."

  Graham closed the file he had been examining and passed it to her. "Read this first. You have a right to know who we have staying with us. And just so you know, I've had the monitors on the lower two levels turned on. I won't tell Illya, but if he leaves his room for any reason, I'll be called instantly. He'll still have his privacy, and so will we, but anything outside of our bedrooms will be monitored for the next few days."

  "Is that really necessary? He's a young man who's scared and confused -- you said it yourself."
>
  "You'd better read this."

  Trish glanced at the twenty or thirty sheets of paper in the file folder and handed it back to him. "Just tell me the bare essentials." She sat uneasily beside him at the desk, feeling the uncharacteristic anger emanating from her husband.

  "Damn him." Norm Graham rifled through the pages before him. "He should have told us. Alexander should have told us. Instead, he has me believe the man is nothing more than a ballet dancer who does a few odd jobs for the KGB." He closed the file abruptly and took his wife's hands in his. "His name is Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine and he is a trained assassin -- has even worked as an eliminator for the GRU. He is an expert in ammunitions and demolitions. If you add up all the university courses he's taken, he has the equivalent of six or seven degrees -- in multiple fields. He has had gymnastic and ballet training --just enough for him to serve the KGB's purposes. He is fluent in French, German, Dutch, and in most of the Slavic languages, and has a working knowledge of English, Italian, and Japanese. It looks like he holds an undisclosed rank in Soviet Navy Intelligence or else he has worked with them in some capacity. He has worked for the KGB since he was twelve years old -- since he was Tanya's age! -- and for the GRU almost as long. He is an expert in impersonation and subterfuge and deception."

  "Zadkine? -- I thought he was Kolya's son!" Trish whispered, glancing at the closed door as though the man, a floor away, could hear them.

  "Oh, he was born Illya Nikolayovich Kuryakin. He's the son of Nikolai, no doubt. He has Nikolai written all over him. But when his father died, he became the son of someone else -- a Soviet SOB called Mikhail Zadkine -- the head of the Kiev Military Artillery School and a KGB toad. He's had that name ever since."

  "When did he start using the last name 'Kuryakin' again?"

  "Two days ago. When Waverly asked him what he wanted his new name to be, the kid said, 'Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.' Ever the noble agent's son. He gave the exact answer that Alexander wanted to hear. He might as well have said, 'Yes, sir, Mr. Waverly. I'm not that other person anymore. I want to be just like my real daddy.' Not even Nikolayovich -- He's Nico's son. The agent."

  "Maybe that's all he knows how to be."

  "Did you hear what I've been saying? He's a master at impersonation! We cannot believe anything we see. We have our own family to consider."

  "He seems so young -- too young to have all that history. He's the same age as Tony --"

  "Don't make the mistake of comparing him to Tony. He has nothing in common with our son." Norman Graham stared across the room for a few minutes, then looked back to his wife. "I want to send him right back to Alexander. That would be the safest thing, Trish."

  "Since when do we always do the safest thing? Either of us, darling? We promised this boy a chance. He is still Kolya's son. And Alexander trusts him. How can we turn him out without cause?"

  "This is more than cause, Trish," Graham said, indicating the folder. "But, you're right. I can't be quite that heartless, either. At least, not right away... I'm glad we took him on a trial basis only. If he puts a foot wrong, he's out of here. And don't you be taken in by him. Keep his record in mind and be careful. Alexander may consider himself a prime judge of character, but you may notice that he never took this kid into his home." The intercom buzzed softly and Graham leaned over and hit the switch.

  "Sir, you asked to be notified of Kuryakin 's whereabouts. He just came over to the other side, sir. Looks like he's heading for the gym."

  "I'll come over to the monitoring room in a moment." Graham snapped the switch closed and gave Trish a disgusted look. "I thought he was tired?"

  *****

  Illya stripped off the jeans he was wearing and pulled on a pair of sweat pants. The sneakers would be fine. He tossed a sweatshirt over his shoulder and ventured out of his room.

  No one was in the rec room watching the television. That's a change, he thought with a shake of his head. He peered through the thin curtains of the patio door at the swimming pool, but for once it, too, was empty. So far, so good.

  Walking slowly, knowing he was probably being monitored, he walked around the pool and casually opened the sliding door to the exercise room. No one was there. He dropped the sweatshirt at one end of the room and crossed to the far door that exited to the hallway leading to the clinic. The quick glimpse he allowed himself in the exercise room showed no surveillance equipment, but he could easily have missed it. When Graham had showed him the monitoring room earlier, he had witnessed only outdoor shots on the screens, but that didn't mean they didn't observe the interior of the building. He tried to keep his movements casual enough to appear innocent to anyone watching him.

  The swinging door was silent and he moved down the hallway, glancing quickly into each open room as he passed.

  An oriental man on crutches suddenly appeared in the hallway. "Looking for something?" He didn't seem surprised.

  "Yes." The lie was prepared. "A toilet?"

  "Behind you, last door on the left."

  "Thank you." He walked carefully down the hallway. The door mentioned was one of the five he didn't know. He glanced over his shoulder before he opened the door, but the man with the crutches was still staring at him. If it was a trick, he wasn't sure how he was going to get out of it.

  It was a toilet.

  The man was gone when he poked his head back out a few minutes later. The other four rooms hid a storage room for cleaning supplies, the nurse's office, someone else's office -- a doctor maybe -- and a room of medical supplies. So where were the prisoners the guards were watching? Was there yet another floor below this one? The stairwell was hidden expertly, if so.

  Baffled, he returned to the exercise area.

  It was no longer empty. The girl, Tanya, in tights and a leotard, was leaning against the mirror, tears rolling down her face.

  Crying? Illya glanced around but no one else was there. "Tanya?" he whispered, warily.

  She whirled around, startled, rubbing her eyes dry. "I didn't know you were here. I'm sorry."

  "Are you... in pain?" he asked, moving toward her cautiously.

  She gave a tired sort of laugh that he couldn't interpret. "No. I'm just clumsy, I have enormous feet, and I'm going to ruin everything at the audition tomorrow night!" A sob escaped and she drew in a deep breath to stop it, as if determined not to cry in front of him.

  He tried hard not to smile, relaxing for the first time since his arrival. How often had he entered a rehearsal room at the Vaganova School and encountered the same scene? It seemed there were some similarities between twelve-year-old ballerina hopefuls in Leningrad and in America.

  "Do you need some help?" he asked.

  "You?" She gave that funny laugh again. "Daddy said you were in a real ballet company. He saw you. What do you know about this stupid piece?"

  "Enough maybe to help you." He walked over to the barre, noting with amusement it was perfect for this child's height. "You just came here. Have you done your warm ups? I will do them with you." He followed her simple movements, copying them precisely, the familiarity of the age-old routines soothing something deep within him. He let the exercise relax him, and then turned his attention to the American girl. She was working at a much lower level than the girls her age at the school in Leningrad, he thought smugly. The arm position --

  He stopped her and adjusted her arm to the correct placement. "Again."

  She looked at him incredulously, but did the position. He had her do it until it came smoothly.

  "I've never been able to do this right. You're good," she said finally.

  "At this," he admitted. "It is basic. I know only basics. But sometimes when you put basics together, each little step becomes the next step, and it is the right thing." He demonstrated three positions, then strung them together for her smoothly. He looked at her expectantly, and she nodded.

  "You should teach. My stupid teacher could never explain it to me properly." She studied him seriously as though deciding whether she could make use
of him or not. "I have the music for the audition tomorrow night." She made it sound like a challenge.

  He surprised himself by smiling. Yes, she could easily be Katya, or Tatiana, or -- what was the one with the freckles? -- Tasha. The little firecracker.

  "I am at your service," he said, stepping up to the barre.

  *****

  Graham stood in the security room for almost an hour and watched as the young Russian had first explored the hallway on the lower level. He had been all set to move in when Kuryakin had returned to the exercise room to find Tanya there, concerned for his daughter's safety, but as the scene unfolded, he relaxed and watched a layer finally peel from their guest.

  So there is a person inside there. Illya moved freely, taking charge of the impromptu lesson, quietly smiling and encouraging Tanya through her little routine. He was confidently gentle with her, in physical touch and in his softly-voiced corrections, modifying the positions, and even laughing with her for a moment when he absently slipped from English to Russian in the middle of a sentence.

  But at nine-thirty, Graham reluctantly shifted from agent to father and timed his entrance for the end of the piece. "Hey, you two. I was wondering where you disappeared to. What have you been so busy doing?"

  Illya froze, as expected, and backed away from his daughter.

  "Watch this, Daddy. Come on, Lyusha. Daddy, put the record on from the beginning!" Tanya was ecstatic, grabbing Illya's hand and dragging him into position. "I wish Lyusha would do the audition with me tomorrow instead of Bobby."

  Graham dutifully watched the two, mindful of the young man's no longer relaxed muscles, clearly visible through the T-shirt. Illya's sharp blue eyes darted around the room, finally focusing on where he realized the hidden surveillance camera must be. His nostrils flared for a moment, but the anger was contained and he didn't miss a step.

  "Wonderful," Graham clapped when they finished the little routine. "I think you owe Ilyusha a big thank-you for all his help."

  Suddenly shy, she held out her hand to him. "Thank you. I'm glad you're staying with us, even if you can't dance any more."

  He nodded politely, but faltered at her last few words.