Collection 4 - Kolya's Son

by LRH Balzer

  Graham gathered up his daughter. "I think it's time you were in bed, young lady. Pick up your stuff. Illya, you are welcome to remain here. Just press the buzzer by the sliding door when you want to leave. When it turns green, you can open the door. They'll have the green light on for you at the sliding door going into our rec room. Please make sure you close both doors tightly."

  Graham returned twenty minutes later to the control room. "Did he leave?" he asked the guard, staring at the semi-dark empty room on the screen.

  "Nope. He's in there. Under the camera. Can't see him from this angle, but there's nothing he can do from there. He can't get out, no doors or anything."

  Norm studied the screen, trying to imagine what Kuryakin could be thinking. It made him nervous just to think whom he had welcomed, unknowingly, into his home, and yet for nearly two days, Kuryakin had given an impression far more in keeping with Waverly's 'cover image' of a mild-mannered young ex-dancer/agent, than with the experienced and deadly spy of his dossier.

  While Graham couldn't afford to underestimate Kuryakin any longer, it seemed Waverly had wanted them to get to know the young man before they got the facts. A smart move, since Graham would never have taken the agent described in that dossier into his family home. Now, however, it seemed just as difficult to throw him out. On what grounds? Having a dangerous past?

  Graham shook his head. "I'll go check on him." He started to leave, then turned back. "Charlie, if I wave, turn off the camera for a while."

  He went down the stairs and along the hallway, pushing open the door to the exercise room. Most of the lights were out, but he could make out the small figure leaning against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. Graham paused a moment, but the young man neither raised his head nor spoke.

  Without speaking himself, Graham moved to sit beside Kuryakin on the floor.

  "Thank you for helping Tanya," he said after a few minutes.

  Illya kept silent, his head down on his knees.

  "I can't fix bikes -- and Trish will confirm that I can't dance -- so your help today meant a lot to my daughter. And to me."

  The bent blond head nodded.

  Graham looked at him, once again comparing the figure before him to the facts in the dossier he had just become acquainted with. You certainly don't look like the man your file paints, but how do I find out who you really are? How do I get through to you? "What's wrong? Can I help with something?" he tried. "Illya? Do you want to talk about it?"

  "I'm dead." Kuryakin raised his head and looked at him, the cold hard mask firmly in place.

  "To some, perhaps," Graham acknowledged. "Not to us." He draped an arm around the other's shoulders, not surprised to feel the tremor shuddering through the young man. "You don't have to be alone." After a moment, he withdrew his arm and got up, deliberately looking into the camera and signaling for it to be turned off.

  "How long am I to stay here?" Illya asked. His head was still down and Norman wasn't sure if he had seen his actions. Not that it would have mattered, either way.

  "Staying with us is not a prison sentence --" Norm froze as the words left his mouth and Illya's head jerked up to stare at him, then turned away. Oh. That's what you feel, isn't it? "Alexander Waverly asked us if you could stay with us, as a guest, until your paperwork goes through."

  Illya looked straight ahead. "You and your family are very kind and your house is big. I am very ignorant of such things."

  Interesting response. "Can you explain what you mean? Are you uncomfortable with us? Is there anything else we can do for you?"

  The only reply was a slight shake of the blond head.

  Frustrated, Graham got to his feet and offered a hand up. "You've been dancing for an hour and spent the last half-hour sitting on a cold floor. That's not taking very good care of yourself. These early summer evenings are deceptively cool and Trish would have my head if you caught a cold while staying with us. Put on your sweatshirt and I'll make us some hot chocolate. We'll get a head start on October."

  Illya hesitated, then got to his feet unaided, did as he was told, and followed Norm back to the other wing of the building. He sat silently in the kitchen, staring at the table, shoulders still hunched. He looked up as the older man poured the hot chocolate into two mugs. "I am not cold."

  "You can't turn down my hot chocolate. I'm famous for it. The secret is the cinnamon stick."

  Illya looked at the mug, then looked back to Norman, puzzled. "I do not see a cinnamon stick."

  "Well, you're right. We don't have any cinnamon sticks left. We won't stock up until October. You'll have to wait till then and tell me how much better it is."

  The corner smile edged Illya's mouth and was ruthlessly flattened. It reassured Graham a bit to see that smile, and he smiled back. "Why do you do that?"

  "Do what?" Kuryakin asked cautiously.

  "Pretend that you don't have any feelings. It's okay to smile; I saw you smile when you were with Tanya. Capitalists we may be," his grin tried to communicate the teasing nature of his words, "but we won't charge you for them."

  Illya looked away. "I have been an inconvenience."

  "You're not an inconvenience, Illya. Far from it. You were certainly a big help today. And we're very glad to have you." Graham said the words firmly, willing it to be true. He saw that his guest's expression didn't change, and he sighed softly. "I don't expect you to trust me. You don't know me and you don't have any reason to trust me, or Trish, or anyone. Except perhaps Alexander. You did trust him and he hoped you would be comfortable here. I know that is a lot to ask, but maybe you could try to stop being afraid of me."

  Illya ducked his head, but not before Norm saw the tinge of scarlet mottling his cheeks.

  Norm waited, but Illya offered nothing further, and Norm decided to let him think about it. "I've got some work to do in my office and then I'm heading up to bed. You're welcome to watch TV, read, or whatever you want. Sleep well, Illya."

  "Thank you, sir."

  He paused in the doorway. "Norm," he corrected.

  Illya raised his head a little and looked at him through his bangs but he didn't change his wary expression or use the name.

  Graham decided not to push it. He could see that trust was something that would have to be earned by both of them. Heading to his office, he shook his head and muttered, "If you didn't like me, Alexander, you could have just told me. You didn't have to send me a trained assassin who could double for Peter Pan."

  *****

  When Graham walked out of the kitchen, Illya raised his head, staring blankly into nothing. He heard the U.N.C.L.E. agent open the door to his office, but before the door closed, a young voice called out from upstairs.

  "Daddy?"

  "Yes? What do you want, Tanya?"

  "I can't sleep. I'm worried about tomorrow?'

  "Honey, it's just an audition so they'll know what level to place you in their classes. I know you'll do as good a job as you did tonight."

  "I keep telling myself that but..."

  "Come down here quick and let Daddy give you a hug."

  Illya heard footsteps hurry down the stairs, then Graham's voice again. "Now you better hop into bed, before your mother comes down and sees you're still up."

  "Night, Daddy. I love you."

  "Night, sweetheart. I love you, too." Graham's office door closed, and a moment later, an upstairs bedroom door shut.

  Illya's hot chocolate was cold, but he finished it anyway. He caught himself half-wishing he could taste it again in October, with the added cinnamon stick. Then he pushed the futile thought ruthlessly to the back of his mind. When October came, he would long be gone from this place and these people.

  He turned off the lights and went to bed.

  4

  Friday, June 23rd.

  Graham took Kuryakin for a little tour of the D.C. office the next morning. He delivered him first to the armory and firing range and then retreated to watch the testing on closed-circuit television, not wanting
to make Illya nervous with his presence.

  But though still jumpy and uncomfortable even in the relative familiarity of Graham's home, Illya surprised them all by appearing completely relaxed and at ease on the firing range, his nervousness disappearing the moment he took up a weapon in his hands. Without any prompting, he took several practice shots with each weapon. His meticulous examination of the target after each practice shot bespoke someone who was used to evaluating weapons. He then proceeded to shock the entire armory staff by earning perfect scores with either hand and all weapons in the actual trials.

  After complimenting the armory chief on the accuracy and precision of his weapons, Kuryakin thanked him for the opportunity to test them. Graham wondered if he even realized that it was he who was being tested. However pleased he was, Graham also made a mental note to tighten ordinance security at the Safe House. Kuryakin was obviously supremely familiar with weapons, and he wasn't an U.N.C.L.E. agent yet.

  Graham left the adjoining room to take him to the next stop on his tour. As he came up to where O'Connor had him in tow, Kuryakin's eyes showed muted relief at the sight of his familiar face.

  O'Connor, however, wasn't done with the Russian. "Why don't we let Kuryakin try the simulator?"

  Graham hesitated, looking at Illya, but the young man's expression left him no clue as to what he wanted to do. "I don't know."

  "Come on. You know yourself it's great fun. How many times have you and Tony spent a Saturday afternoon shooting it up in there? We can hardly keep the agents out of it. He might as well get familiar with it sooner as later." The armory chief turned down the corridor and entered a door marked COMBAT SIMULATION. Kuryakin slipped in after him, his face a neutral mask. They were in another observation area, looking into a circular room with perfectly blank walls, marred only by a projector set high in the ceiling.

  A Section Three agent, Stubbs Walker, was slipping a pinny over his head and waved to the technician sitting at the controls. The blank walls turned to projected image COMBAT SIMULATION -- GAME STARTING... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1 As the clock ticked down, the agent inside the room tensed, and then the scene opened.

  Graham found himself half-smiling as Walker turned and began to fire. It was true that when they first got the simulator, he and Tony had tried it out. If you didn't think too hard about what you were doing, and thought of it only as a game, the simulator could be great fun -- like an action movie you could participate in.

  Racking up the highest score had become such an obsession for the Washington agents that the room had been on a 'scheduled-use only' basis for months. Of course, the armory chief could commandeer it any time he wished and as the agent was 'killed', and the walls cleared to flash GAME OVER, O'Connor did just that. "Clear out, Walker. You're never going to get any better if I locked you in here for a week. I told you, you have to improve your basic marksmanship first."

  Walker grinned and pulled the pinny over his head. "Yeah, but this is a lot more fun."

  O'Connor held the pinny out to Kuryakin. "Well, kid? This is a little different than shooting at big targets that just sit there. You want to give it a try?"

  Kuryakin glanced at Graham, shrugged, pulled it over his head, and concentrated as the instructions were given.

  "You just tie the tapes at your side," O'Connor said, speaking slowly, deliberately making a point of the young man's deficient command of English. "The sensor goes in the front. Go in the room, raise your hand, and that will start the simulation. You'll see a 360 degree display of an action scene. Your team members are wearing green; the enemy wears yellow. Shoot the enemy and you make points. You shoot your team members, and you lose points. Plus, you have to dodge the shots the enemy is aiming at you. The pinny's sensor lets the simulator 'see' you. If you don't dodge the enemy's shots, they can take you out before you take them out. Any questions?"

  "Yes."

  Graham pivoted, interested at the reply. Kuryakin was intently examining the automatic target pistol in his hand, visibly aching to take it apart and see how it worked.

  "Yeah, it shoots a beam of light," O'Connor said. "The walls sense the light and mark the score.

  "Go ahead, give it a try. Get the feel of the trigger."

  Kuryakin did that, watching the beam of light as it played over the white walls.

  "Well?"

  "I shoot... yellow targets," he clarified.

  "That right."

  "Do I shoot to kill or to maim?" Kuryakin asked, the words at odds with his soft, almost diffident, voice.

  Graham blinked, startled at the question, while the armory chief made a rude face. "Oh, I forgot. We have a marksman here," O'Connor drawled.

  Graham frowned slightly, but he relaxed a little when he saw the armory chiefs sarcasm was going right over Kuryakin's head.

  "Okay, let's make this interesting. Shoot to maim, by all means. Shoot the guy's right hand," O'Connor was punching buttons at the control panel. "No, even more interesting -- shoot the gun out of the gun hand, right or left. That enough of a challenge for you?"

  "I do not know," Kuryakin said, seriously. "I have never done this."

  "Just give it a try, Illya," Graham said easily. "That's a pretty advanced simulation for your first time." He gave the armory chief an exasperated look, before adding, "It honestly doesn't matter what you score."

  "If he scores at all," O'Connor said, sotto voce, as Kuryakin entered the simulator room. "'Do I shoot to kill or maim?' -- I mean the kid is good, but really."

  "He didn't understand you, Paul," Graham growled. "He was asking a perfectly legitimate question."

  "And he's about to score a perfectly legitimate zilch," O'Connor responded. "I give him eight seconds, tops, before the simulator zaps him."

  "Maybe."

  "Five dollars takes it."

  "All right," Graham agreed. "You're on."

  "I can tell a smart aleck when I see one. Don't let that kid snow you."

  Kuryakin turned around once in the room, as if getting his bearings, and then raised his hand. The lights flickered, and the countdown began.

  Graham's first thought was that there was indeed a connection between ballet and field work. Kuryakin's weaves and dodges were smoothly coordinated, his footwork sure. Graham was so busy wondering how to incorporate something similar in his own agents' training program that he'd forgotten about the bet and the fact that Kuryakin wasn't expected to last more than a few seconds. He didn't remember until the simulator flashed, GAME WON -- RESTART, and Kuryakin began the next simulation.

  "Eight seconds, huh?" Graham teased the flabbergasted O'Connor. "Maybe you should have let him just shoot to kill."

  "Shit, we'd be here all night," O'Connor said, fervently.

  The observation room began to crowd with agents as word got around and bets were running high as Kuryakin started the third game. It wasn't until the fourth that Kuryakin's footing slipped and the simulator caught and "killed" him.

  As the lights came up to normal, Kuryakin turned, still breathing hard. A brief frown of concentration marred his face, as if he was already analyzing his fatal move.

  Then he saw the crowd at the doorway of the room and blanched. He took an involuntary step backward as the men rushed inside, then seemed to remember he had a solid wall behind him and froze, letting the light-gun drop from his hand. Graham moved quickly, stepping between O'Connor and Kuryakin just in time to prevent the former from giving the young man a congratulatory slap on the back.

  "Way to go, Kuryakin!"

  Graham nonchalantly edged the Russian toward the door as the slight shoulders stiffened at the booming voice. The Washington Chief knew the subsequent flow of remarks were all too fast and furious for Illya to pick up. And without words, the faces weren't easy to decipher. Some were admiring, true, but they were far outweighed by those displaying disbelieving shock, or disappointment because a Soviet neophyte upscaled them, or scowling because they had bet, lost, and now had to pay up. And then there were those who also saw
a potential rival in him.

  "Save that run and mark it for Waverly," he said quietly to O'Connor as he steered Illya through the crowd. "Tell Evans we're going to be a little late." Ignoring the comments and the questions, he hustled his charge out the door, up a flight of stairs, and into the quiet and privacy of his own office.

  "I -- I apologize," Kuryakin stuttered, shaken. "I did something wrong."

  "Not at all, Illya. You were very good. Your score was high."

  "But I lost the... game. I was shot. The men in room -- the agents -- were angry. I did something wrong," he repeated, frowning.

  "Illya, all you did wrong in their minds was you made them look bad. You won three games before you lost the fourth. No one has been able to do what you did, at that level. And on your first try, too. It was very impressive." Graham saw the uncertainty on the young man's face and thought of something that might reassure him. "Alexander Waverly will be very proud."

  It was evidently the right thing to say, judging by Illya's deep shaky breath, yet doubt still lingered. "But the U.N.C.L.E. agents were angry."

  "Not at you. Angry at themselves, maybe, that they don't have such scores. Or that they bet against you and lost."

  Kuryakin just shook his head, still confused by it all. Anger was obviously anger to him, and the reasons were apparently sometimes immaterial in his experience.

  Graham walked over to the small bar in his office and poured him a glass of water. Kuryakin took it gratefully and tossed half of it back, blinking when he realized it wasn't what he thought it was. Still, some of his shakiness calmed as he drank the rest, his eyes darting around the room. This kid can check out a room quicker than anyone I've ever seen. I'd like to know who trained him; my own agents could use some improvement in that area. No, come to think of it, I'd rather not know.

  "This is your office?" Kuryakin asked, feeling the older man's eyes on him.

  "Yes. Do you like it?"

  Kuryakin gave him a startled look, as if that sort of evaluation had never occurred to him. "It is not like Alexander Waverly's office," he offered.