by LRH Balzer
Norm started to answer, then realized he didn't understand the question. "What do you mean?"
Kuryakin reached into his jeans' pocket and pulled out a carefully folded page he had torn from a newspaper. "This was in New York Times yesterday. I read your newspaper; the girl said it was permissible to remove it if newspaper was downstairs."
"That's correct. And it's good for you to read the newspapers; I encourage you to do so. What is this article about?"
Kuryakin spread out the page of newsprint, his fingers flattening it on Norm's desk. "Two articles. Here, they say this man was spy for Soviet Union and now he is in 'Federal Court' and they are questioning him. And here," he pointed to a second article, "this man has been forced out of country because it is suspected he was Communist spy. He says it is not true, but they have accused him and now he must go." Kuryakin frowned at the page, then looked up at Graham. "What will your government do to me? Alexander Waverly has told them who I was before and they said they would 'make a decision soon'." The words were spoken precisely; this was obviously something he had been mulling over for some time.
Graham stared into the serious wide eyes and knew he had no easy answer to give. "I don't know exactly what your future holds, but all I can do is repeat that you are safe now, Illya. Alexander Waverly will not let them take you away. He is a very powerful man. These circumstances," he indicated the newspaper articles, "are very different and I know much more about both of them than the newspaper says. For one thing, these two men were spying against the United States. You have not done that."
A flush rose in Kuryakin's cheeks before he dropped his head.
Graham sighed and pulled Kuryakin's dossier from his locked drawer. "Well, you can't have done much spying against the U.S." He flipped through the pages, looking for the incident that was bothering the young man. "Are you thinking about when you came over with Petrov to look at military equipment?"
Kuryakin raised his eyes and nodded wordlessly.
"Illya, you were fifteen years old. You were a child. Americans would not shoot or deport you for what you did as a child."
"I am not fifteen now."
"No. But what you did then was under duress."
Kuryakin gave Trish an uncertain look and she translated the sentence for him, then she added in English, "Duress means under pressure, Ilyusha."
The young Russian only looked more doubtful.
Graham said, "You haven't spied against the U.S. since then, have you?"
Kuryakin thought for several moments. "In this country, no. But elsewhere?" He shrugged. "I am not certain."
"Well, starting with what you are certain of, I'd say what you've done for Alexander in the last few years more than balances out the Petrov incident. And, frankly, if our military was gullible enough to show you and Petrov classified equipment, it's hardly your fault." Graham smiled a little, but Kuryakin was not amused.
"The article says they deport spies. I am KGB. To defect from my country is treason. If I am deported, KGB will shoot me as traitor -- after interrogation." It was clear that the shooting was the least of Kuryakin's worries.
"You were KGB, Illya. You defected, whether you wanted to or not. And you are not going to be deported. Waverly would never allow that to happen. There is some concern about whether you will be able to serve in U.N.C.L.E. as an enforcement agent right away, but you will not be deported. These cases in the paper are not the same as your situation. It's good for you to read the paper, but you must understand that these cases involve people who spied against the U.S. after they came to America, after they defected or emigrated -- after they became citizens or started the naturalization process in this country. What you did before you defected is another matter. Do you understand?"
Kuryakin hesitated, then nodded slowly.
"Good. If you want to know more about something you read or if you would like me to explain something, please ask me. Let me say again, you are free. You are not a prisoner here. You may leave this house at any time."
"Just a moment." Trish said the words quietly, but her words had an authority that froze Kuryakin in his chair and caused Graham to cock a quizzical eyebrow at her. "Of course, Ilyusha can leave the grounds, and he can go anywhere he wants after that. But we need to make sure he can find his way back, too. Ilyusha, have you ever used a pay phone?"
Kuryakin stared at her uncertainly, again appearing to weigh their words carefully for hidden meanings before answering. "In America? I -- think so. Once --"
Trish shook her head impatiently and took a card from her husband's desk. "The number for Norm's office is on here. I am writing the phone number of our home on the back. And Alexander Waverly's phone number. The first time you go out, make sure you go with someone and have them show you how to use a pay phone, which coins you can use, how to dial information and the operator should you lose the number. Also, how to dial long distance, so you can call Alexander in New York should you need to. And how to make a collect call -- that means to use a phone when you have no money. Do you understand, Ilyusha? Do you want me to repeat that in Russian?" Illya nodded and then shook his head.
Trish smiled sadly. "And speaking of money, you probably don't even have taxi fare. I can see you stranded in Dupont Circle with a few rubles in your pocket."
Illya's jaw hardened. "I don't need --"
"Nonsense. You will be living in America, Ilyusha, and you need to learn the denominations of American money, and how to use it. I know you have been working for Alexander for several years. While he cannot pay you a salary, so to speak, until he works out your paperwork, he is covering your expenses, and I'm sure that means an allowance, of sorts. A stipend, for a better word."
Graham let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I never thought of that, Trish, but you're right. You may not think so, Illya, but you need some spending money. Especially if you are running around with my kids." He exchanged a wry look with Trish, and went on. "For snacks, for journals and books, for clothes --"
"I have more clothes now than I have ever had in my life," Illya said, flatly.
"Well, you won't want to wear Tony's castoffs much longer," Trish said.
Illya stared at her, and then looked down at his T-shirt and jeans. "Is something wrong with them? They are clean. They have no holes --"
Norm chortled and covered it up with a cough as Trish first glared at him, then turned to Illya. "Your clothes are fine, darling, for here at home, and for casual wear. But you will need some nice new clothes for more formal occasions."
Norm nodded. "Trish is right again, Illya. You'll need some suits for work. Alexander likes his agents to dress professionally, as odd as it may seem to climb walls and break into buildings dressed for the boardroom." He scratched his head, thinking. "I suppose you should learn how to use a bank account and a check book too. I'll have an account set up for you, but you'll have to come down to the bank and sign some papers. And speaking of papers, you'll need a local driver's license to write checks. Can you drive a car, son?"
After a moment, Illya nodded.
"Good. We'll pick up an MVA handbook and get you a learner's permit, get you used to driving on American roads." Graham grinned. "You'll have to take a written test and a driving test. But the written test will be a snap for someone like you, and if you have driven a car, the driver's test shouldn't be a problem."
"One more thing," Trish said. Illya turned toward her, his face suddenly weary. Her voice gentled in response, and she spoke in Russian. "Washington, D.C., is like many American cities, Ilyusha. There are places where it will be safe for you to go, and places that are dangerous. New York is much the same. You will want to be careful where you wander, until you know the city. We will not control your movements, but we don't want to see you hurt either --"
Or have you hurt someone else by mistake, Norm thought. Aloud, he said, "Later, I'll show you a map of the city, where we are, and where you can go that is relatively safe."
Illya n
odded, his face taut. "You should not concern yourself with me."
Trish leaned forward, her hand resting on his rigid forearm. "Nonsense, darling. I think we have worn you out with all this. Norm, you are done, aren't you?" She glanced meaningfully at her husband, and he nodded quietly.
Illya looked to Norm for permission to go, then rose to his feet and left the room, closing the door behind him soundlessly.
Norm sighed and shook his head. "Remember when I told you it would be like having another kid around? I didn't even think this far, Trish."
Trish was still staring at the closed door. "He's been no trouble, Norman, not with our own children, and not of himself." She hesitated a moment, then asked, "What happened when he was fifteen? Can you tell me?"
"Yeah. From what I've gathered, it was a GRU assignment shortly before he met up with Waverly for the second time, in 1955. Illya was nothing more than a pawn, sent to New York to accompany an agent named Petrov, who was impersonating a French-Canadian journalist at a review of World War II military equipment. Petrov was Soviet Army, actually, the expert on tanks and weapons, and Illya had been sent along only to pretend to be Petrov's fourteen-year-old son since he spoke French fluently. The boy wore his cover so well, and expressed such enthusiasm for the equipment, that he managed to wangle them both an invitation to see some of the latest armament. Some time after that, Illya gave Petrov the slip and, according to Alexander's notes, he began to search for information about what had happened to Kolya and why his father had been assassinated. He turned to Waverly for help finally when he came up against Thrush. Alexander kept him at U.N.C.L.E. for a month, then not knowing what else to do with him, ended up sending him to U.N.C.L.E.'s Survival School --"
"A fifteen-year-old child?" Trish asked indignantly.
"I think he turned sixteen sometime around then. His actual birth date is unknown so we're just guessing." Graham smiled weakly at the resultant glare aimed at him by his wife. "At any rate, when he graduated, Waverly sent him back to the Soviet Union."
"I will not say what I am thinking of Alexander," Trish said tightly.
"I won't defend him at the moment myself," Norm said wearily. "I can't believe Illya didn't know what had happened in London."
"What did Alexander say?"
Norm shrugged. "Alexander wasn't too clear and we didn't discuss the abduction. I found out that Wednesday morning, Illya was told he was going to be staying with us, but apparently Alexander didn't exactly clarify his status. He said Illya didn't ask any questions, which he thought odd, but he also said he handled the matter in a hurry, and he didn't press the boy to make sure he understood. That's something we'll have to do, Trish. We just discovered the dangers of assuming he understands us. And the danger of assuming he'll ask questions, or even that he knows what to ask."
Trish sighed and shook her head. "I can see why he is so cautious. He has probably been used and manipulated on countless occasions by people who claimed that they cared for him and that he should trust them, and yet they only wanted his skills. He has no reason to think otherwise of Alexander, of you, or even of me. The KGB had undoubtedly done exactly this same thing when he was younger. When he moved in with this Mikhail Zadkine's family, I'm sure they soon professed affection for him. Perhaps they really did; Ilyusha has many endearing qualities, even on such short acquaintance as we have had. But in the end, it was all secondary to his real reasons for being there, which eventually were made clear to him." She looked at her husband. "Is it any wonder he is wary? He is intelligent enough to recognize the pattern."
"So how do we convince him otherwise?"
"We can't, darling. Adjusting to the differences in culture will probably take Ilyusha years. It is a shame."
"What is?"
"That Alexander did not tell us of this boy's existence when first he came across him. We were already married when Kolya died. We could have taken him in."
"He had relatives -- cousins, I think -- in Russia. Anyway, it sounds like you are getting awfully fond of this boy. Be careful, Trish. Not only does he not know us, but we don't know him that well."
"You have not been with him as much as I have. Or seen him with Misha yesterday afternoon when Misha brought him those books. He is a nice boy, Norm. He does not deserve the life he has lived so far. Kolya would not have chosen such a fate for him. When I think of the opportunities he could have had in America, I am furious that Kolya did not bring his child with him sooner, that he made no provisions for him. Causes are one thing, but children are important too. His only son! He left Ilyusha to the wolves -- the Russian wolves of the KGB -- and his son was almost devoured by them."
"He's safe now."
Trish smiled cheerlessly at her husband. "As safe as a potential Section Two agent will be. No, don't," she held up a hand to forestall Norm's comment. "I know we will never agree on that issue. You are right; I am becoming too involved. But seeing him with our own children, I have this strange feeling of déjà vu. He even looks a little like you, Norm. Blond and blue-eyed, with your jaw. There have been brief moments in the past few days when I have to remember that he is not our child." She shrugged. "Well, I had better get breakfast before the kids disappear. Tanya has her bike ride today. Don't be too long, darling."
*****
Tony took Illya jogging later in the morning, encouraging him to take advantage of his newly discovered freedom. The two young men came in slightly late to lunch, sweaty and disheveled, with Illya's tight coil of tension marginally reduced.
While Tony bragged about how far they had run and that Illya was in almost as good condition as he was, Norm studied them with a quiet amusement. He understood Trish's sense of déjà vu when he saw Illya, wearing his eldest son's old Georgetown Prep running shorts and singlet, gulping a glass of water next to Tony. Illya looked nothing like the taller dark-haired medical student, but Tony was treating him with the casually overbearing condescension of an elder brother. And to all appearances, Illya was soaking it up. Not openly, of course, but behind the rigid mask and solemn mouth, the eyes were clearer than Norm had yet seen them, and fixed on Tony's words.
Trish was right. You need someone to befriend you. After all, apart from Alexander Waverly and the people in this house, minus a few U.N.C.L.E. personnel and CIA agents, not a soul knows you're alive. I can understand your wariness with adults -- you haven't had one so far who seems to have put your welfare first.
Well, if Trish and I can't get through to you, maybe our children can.
The offhand way the other kids had treated Illya right from the start, seeing him more as family member than a guest, all added to the general impression he belonged to them.
Why are we all working so hard to make you feel at home? Why is it so important, suddenly, for us to see you smile and relax? Yes, you are Kolya's son, and Trish and I knew your father, but that was years ago. Trish practically adopted you sight unseen. And even though I resisted getting too involved with you from the start, even though your record worries me, and your future belongs to Waverly, why do I have this feeling that you belong to us? Do you need us? Is it possible that somehow we need you?
Or is all of this just our response to your expertise at impersonation?
Perhaps it was Illya's early KGB training that taught him how to blend so seamlessly into their family. Perhaps it was some more basic survival instinct that guided his chameleon-like protective coloration and behavior, a hope that if he didn't appear different, his presence would be overlooked. Or perhaps he was hungry enough for the security and stability of a family that wearing Tony's old clothes gave him some obscure comfort. Perhaps he simply didn't know or care enough to want anything better.
Having seen Kuryakin's dossier, Norm suspected it was a combination of all of those factors, but whatever, as a camouflage tactic, Kuryakin's methods were effective. Despite Trish's claims, he couldn't see any resemblance to himself, aside from Illya's blond and blue-eyed coloring, and, yes, the jawline was similar. But somehow, in
just a few days, a place had been carved out for him. Shorter and slighter than Tony, dressed in his worn-soft clothes, he seemed to fit naturally in their family between Tony and Tanya, another boy for their collection of boys, another towhead for their collection of towheads, Russian like Trish, a potential agent like Norm, studious and intelligent like Tony, a dancer like Tanya, he seemed tailor-made for their family. Based on a casual glance, no one would suspect he wasn't theirs.
Graham poured another cup of coffee, nodding to himself as he stole a glance at the young man standing at the kitchen counter. Illya's physical resemblance could be useful, if a cover was needed. A cousin, perhaps, just arrived from the Soviet Union? He would have to speak with the Tony and Tanya and enforce the importance of watching how they referred to Illya when speaking to their friends. With Misha, it would be easier; simply calling Illya a 'cousin' would be enough.
"Movie night," Tanya commented as Tony and Ilyusha joined them at the lunch table. "It's Saturday, Dad."
"Is it?" Graham asked, pulling back to the conversations going on around him. "I hadn't realized," he said with feigned surprise.
"Don't tease, Daddy. You missed it last week. You'd better not have to work tonight."
"Nope, not tonight, kiddo. I have to go in this afternoon, but then the decks are clear. Okay, hamburgers before or ice cream after?"
"Why can't we do both?"
"You want to bankrupt me," Norm said grievously.
"We did miss last week, Dad."
"All right, both. Tony, movies tonight?"
Tony took a swig of milk. "Beats studying my biochemistry texts, and besides, Sandra's going out with some of her girlfriends tonight. Sure, Dad."
"Good. Tanya, since you started this, you can find a movie that your little brother can see and your big brother will see."
Tanya grinned. "Impossible, Dad. Tony swore when he turned seventeen that he'd only see R and X rated movies from then on."
