Collection 4 - Kolya's Son

by LRH Balzer

  "Certainly. Perhaps, Norm, we could use your study. I have a few business items to go over with you privately before Mr. Kuryakin joins us."

  At the tentative knock fifteen minutes later, Norm rose from his discussion with Waverly and opened the door to his study. He smiled at Illya, standing nervously in the doorway, dressed in an off-the-rack suit Trish had purchased for him the day before. Norm hadn't seen him in it yet, but he noted now that it added a few years to the young man's age. "It's okay, Ilyusha. Nothing to worry about," he murmured, and clasped him lightly on the arm, wanting instead to safely tousle the slicked-back hair, and he left them alone.

  "Come in, Mr. Kuryakin. You can shut the door behind you." Waverly turned from his inspection of the assorted trophies on a book shelf, and gestured him to a chair at one side of the desk. "Sit down, my boy." Keen eyes dissected the young man. He hadn't seen him since the day he had sent him away, nine days previous. A lot had happened since then and, after hearing of the illness, he had expected a lot worse. "You are looking well."

  "Thank you, sir. I am very well, and ready to begin work."

  Waverly ignored the latter statement. "You have made quite an impression on your hosts. They appear to have become fond of you."

  Kuryakin's jaw stiffened. "They have been very kind. I did not mean to imply --" He stumbled and started again. "I am grateful for their --"

  "Yes, quite. I had hoped to tell you that your paperwork had been completed and you could begin your agent's training. Unfortunately, your background has caused some concern in various quarters and it appears there will be some delay." He noted the color leeching from Kuryakin's face and added quickly, "Nothing permanent, but some concessions will have to be made. You may have to work temporarily in research, or intelligence, before taking up enforcement work. And the CIA will be wanting to ask you some questions."

  The pale eyes held a touch of anxiety before becoming opaque and Kuryakin's nervous fingers rubbed against his thumbs. "I am sorry to be the cause of so much trouble, sir."

  "You are not, Mr. Kuryakin. The inconvenience, to both of us, comes from other sources. I trust that your performance, once you eventually take up your enforcement duties, will cause them to regret these delays. However, there is no need for distress; the situation is temporary."

  Kuryakin's eyes widened slightly at the tacit reproof, and his hands instantly stilled.

  Waverly took no notice of the reaction. "In any event, while we are negotiating, you have an unexpected summer vacation, of sorts. Certainly it seems unlikely that you will take up any duties with U.N.C.L.E. before the fall months. In the interim, you have a choice."

  "A choice, sir?"

  "Yes, your hosts have communicated to me that you are welcome to stay. Nevertheless, I am quite aware that you are not familiar with a family situation such as this and perhaps you find it not to your taste. If you prefer, we can relocate you to an apartment at our New York Headquarters, where our libraries and gymnasium will be open to you."

  Kuryakin frowned. "Which would you prefer, sir?"

  "This choice is entirely yours and it depends on where you would be most comfortable."

  Kuryakin stared down at his hands and his professional mask slipped a little. "My... comfort... is not a primary concern to me, sir."

  "Nonsense, Mr. Kuryakin. It is the only issue in question at this time. If you are comfortable in your present situation, you can remain with the Grahams. They are, in fact, quite desirous in your remaining. However, we are all aware that as a young man, you may find this situation somewhat lacking in privacy and independence. If you wish to live on your own, alone, in your own apartment, you can do that as well."

  Kuryakin shook his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You are offering me a choice?"

  "That is my sole purpose in being here, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, a trifle acerbically, and then relented. "I made this initial decision for you on a temporary basis, in the belief that solitude would not be best for you at the time. But you have recovered your equilibrium, so to speak. You seem capable of making a choice for yourself now. Which do you prefer?"

  "I have made choices before," Kuryakin said softly, "based on my preferences, that turned out not so wise."

  Waverly's voice gentled. "This situation does not carry the same weight; it is merely to determine a temporary residence. Even should you decide to remain here now, you are free to change your mind later." He waited, but nothing seemed forthcoming, so he asked a few questions. "Are you comfortable with the Grahams?"

  Kuryakin's face hardened, apparently his recent behavior weighing heavy on his mind. "They have been very kind to me."

  "Is there anything you dislike about staying here?" Waverly sighed as Kuryakin shook his head; it was doubtful the young man would tell him if there were. He turned his attention to the first concern that he'd had in sending a young man into a family situation. Despite Kuryakin's youthful appearance, he was not inexperienced and he was not a monk. "What about privacy? Is that a problem?"

  Kuryakin looked puzzled, shrugging slightly. "I have a room by myself. If I should want to be alone, I could go in there and shut the door."

  "It does not seem to me that privacy is a pressing concern," Waverly said dryly, having caught the revealing case of his verbs. If I should want to, I could. "Do you want to leave here?"

  Kuryakin hesitated and then again shook his head diffidently, his eyes on Waverly's as if trying to read what the older man wanted.

  Waverly studied him. Is it just a case of 'Better the hell you know, then the one you don't know,' or do you really wish to stay here? I gather you don't even know yourself...

  You will need to have more self-confidence if you are partnered with the agent I have in mind; he would walk all over you. Intelligence and discipline and training: you exceed what I look for on every level. But I see now that Sam Lawrence may be right. Perhaps the time spent with this family will be your best education. If you are capable of learning such things.

  "Very well, then. I will consider your situation as settled then, unless I hear otherwise from either you or the Grahams. Now, about your CIA interview..." Waverly shuffled a few papers from his briefcase, looking for the right document. He looked up to a stony mask on the young man. "Part of my concession in acquiring you the right to stay in the country, at least on a temporary basis, was that the CIA would be allowed to interview you with regard to your former activities with the KGB and GRU. They are within their rights to interview any defectors from the Soviet Union, especially those who were involved in any sort of intelligence work." His eyes met Kuryakin's and detected a question. "What would you like to ask?"

  "It is true, then, that I am defector?"

  "Of course."

  "If I am dead, how can I be defector, also?"

  "Your so-called death was arranged to give us time to act, without the Soviet government interfering. The United States government and the CIA know only that you are a defector, brought into the country by U.N.C.L.E. and are seeking asylum with U.N.C.L.E. first, and then the United States."

  "Will my father -- Will Mikhail Zadkine be told then, that I am alive?"

  "That will be up to the Soviet government, if and when they discover that your death was falsified. I have no intention of informing them. I have tried for years to convince them to provide U.N.C.L.E. with Soviet representation, and they continue to resist any overtures. When you are accepted as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, that need will be filled and I have no further use for them." Waverly wasn't sure if the boy was following him, but he had only a few minutes left before he had to leave for his plane and Kuryakin would have understood the gist of his words.

  "Until then," Waverly continued, "it is best that you stay here. Mr. Graham will arrange for appropriate activities and I expect you to give him your complete cooperation and follow his instructions explicitly, as if his orders were from me."

  "Yes, sir," Kuryakin said, relieved at a clear directive for once.

  "Now,
you will have your first interview with the CIA tomorrow at 9:00 in the morning. Answer their questions as best you can. As I have said, they have the right to interview you, and you should offer your cooperation. I expect your full cooperation with them. I have forwarded to the CIA portions of your file that I deemed necessary for them to have access to. The sooner we begin this, the sooner we will dispense with it." Waverly shut his briefcase and rose to his feet. "I will contact you again when there are further developments."

  "Yes, sir." Kuryakin shook the offered hand and left the room.

  Waverly frowned after him, feeling that there was something more he should have said, something he should have made clear. It was irritating to be so close to having his long-awaited Soviet agent as part of the Network and yet have to wait for clearance. He had considered having the boy located at the Eastern Europe office as Section One had suggested, but he wasn't willing to give up his plan of combining that mind, that intellect, and that skill with those of his other protege, a man whose tactical and diplomatic skills, and his ability to deal with people and talk himself in or out of a wide range of situations, was superb.

  Together... Well, that remained to be seen.

  *****

  Illya walked out of the office and closed the door after him, his hand trembling on the doorknob. He looked across the living room to the open sliding doors, to see the man and the woman sitting on the veranda talking. He saw the woman laugh, her head tilting back and her eyes creasing as she laid her hand gently on her husband's arm. He wondered what they were laughing about.

  Before Alexander Waverly could follow him from the office, Illya walked carefully down the winding staircase to the basement. It felt strange to move about the building without someone with him. It was quiet. Tony and Tanya were not in the house and the child, Misha, was sleeping.

  As he passed through the empty family room, his eyes rested briefly on the afghan draped over one arm of the couch. He felt his heart tighten, confounded that he had fallen asleep while watching the television the evening before. How long had he lain there before the man had awakened him and sent him off to bed like a child? It had been a deep sleep, untroubled, and without dreams.

  Without nightmares, he corrected. Perhaps he had dreamed. There had been no fear upon awakening, just confusion and the faint pleasant memory of... something. Something from a long time ago.

  Strange that he had made such a slip. That certainly would not impress the man with his abilities as an agent, to leave himself vulnerable like that. Graham would seriously doubt his competence if he continued to behave in such an unseemly manner.

  Alexander Waverly had been clear in his expectations this time; that he was to remain in this house and obey Norman Graham's orders without question and, second, that he was to present himself to the CIA for interrogation -- and whatever else they would do to him. Tomorrow it would begin.

  Alexander Waverly had talked about the two things as though they would happen at the same time, but, Illya reasoned, he must have misunderstood the man. First would come the CIA interrogations. That would not happen overnight. If the CIA was like the KGB -- and he had no reason to believe anything else -- he could easily be gone for several weeks or months. Then, if he passed those trials, he would be allowed to remain in this house until the next series of tests had been established for him.

  He went around the corner and into the bedroom, stripping off the suit the woman had insisted he put on before his meeting with Alexander Waverly. She had showed him before how to hang it up properly and he wrestled with the unfamiliar clips until he was satisfied it was correct.

  He reached for the T-shirt and jeans that he had left on the chair not even half an hour previous, and stopped. There was a shallow gray box resting on top of the clothes, obviously placed there deliberately so he would see it. He moved it aside and dressed, staring at the box as if it would suddenly explode.

  There were no marks on the outside, no indication of what it contained. Carrying it to the bed, he sat down, lifted the lid gingerly, brushed aside the tissue paper, and withdrew a small album. The cover was of black leather, the smell still new. His new name ILLYA NICKOVETCH KURYAKIN was embossed on the front at the bottom. Small gold letters that shone when the light caught them. There were many pages in the book, but only the first few had pictures mounted on them.

  They were of his father...

  His own name was on the cover. This was for him. A gift of some kind from the woman. But for what purpose? He had nothing to give her in return. On the inside front page, there was some handwriting, in Russian and in English, that recorded the date and listed all of their names.

  He shivered and closed the book, staring out the window.

  The smell of leather reminded him of his father more than the pictures had. He carefully replaced the album, folded the tissue paper, and closed the box. Where did one keep such a thing? He pulled open the bottom drawer of the bureau and placed the thin box in his jacket-wrapped rucksack.

  There was a curious pain in his chest that he couldn't place. A tightness in his throat. He sat motionless on the bed and experienced the sensations, wondering what they meant. Was he becoming sick again? It was almost the pain of two weeks ago in Paris when Nureyev defected and accountability was demanded of Illya from the KGB officials. Or a day later in London, when he had wanted to die rather than live under that pressure one more hour.

  No, it was closer to the pain of realizing he would never see his few friends in the Soviet Union again. Or the conflicting love/hate emotions tied into his relationship with his step-father and step-brother. To escape their clutching hold on him was providential, but for them to believe he was dead? All the pain would be forever unresolved; the scattered dreams he had allowed himself, forever denied.

  But this was a new pain, a different pain, yet it was an old pain, drawn from deep within, winding its way closer to the core of his spirit.

  There had been a dream the night before... The dream that had left him feeling empty and alone with an odd gasp, he sank to the floor, his hands covering his face. The haze whirled, then lifted, and he remembered it. He had dreamed of Papa.

  9

  Friday, June 30

  Illya stared up at the ceiling and pulled the covers closer. It was already light out, the dawn sky visible through one of his windows. He had lain awake most of the night, hardly noticing the sky's gradual shift from black to the grays and pinks of morning.

  With a rarely-allowed sigh, he sat up, taking the quilt with him, and stared out the window at the river beyond. Beyond that, somewhere on the far side, was the place they were taking him to. Soon he would have to put on the suit and go to the CIA.

  His hands were shaking, trembling. Well, best to let that happen now and get it over with. He had no misconceptions on how an interview would go. He had been "interviewed" before. From what he knew, there was no real difference between the CIA and the KGB. Each did the bidding of their country and each did whatever they wanted. He had heard the jokes and put-downs his countrymen made of the United States and the CIA, but they were still the enemy and an opponent to be reckoned with or the jokes wouldn't have been so numerous.

  And now I am the enemy.

  Another role to be cast in?

  He stared out the little window at the child's swing set and the wide lawn that disappeared down to the river. The roles he had been asked to play in the last few months had been increasingly difficult. In Paris, not even a month ago, he had been ordered by the KGB to play a homosexual and entrap an American diplomat. What would he have done if the man hadn't turned out to be Alexander Waverly and he had been forced to continue the charade? Would he have gone through with it? Could he have? He had been instructed long before on what was expected in such situations, but it was routine training and he never thought he would be required to carry it out.

  The danseur role was always easy. There was a simple pleasure in the steps and in working with a group of people on such a project. W
hen he was put with the Kirov, there was the additional bonus of being with his brother Grisha and with Sasha, a friend of theirs from their early teens in Kiev. Everyone knew why he was there; there was no need for pretense or disguises. He was there as a mamka for the KGB, an agent utilized as a "babysitter" of sorts, to be sure the members of the Kirov Theater minded their own business, didn't associate with outsiders, and didn't appear too interested in the countries they traveled in. There was an "official" KGB representative with them, of course, but everyone still knew why he was there, suddenly a part of the company. And if the Kirov administrator took revenge on their watchdogs by placing him in more public roles, what business what it of his?

  The other function demanded of him during that time had not come from the KGB, but from the others, the GRU. It was the role that had eaten away at him, a role he had played too often. While he was in London, he had been told he was to make his way to a certain barber shop, talk with the owner, a GRU agent, and collect any recent information he had. Then he was to kill the man, simply because the GRU no longer needed him and it was easier to dispense with him than retrain him.

  And Illya stared out the window and knew, his hands still shaking, that if Alexander Waverly had not abducted him when he did, that he would have done exactly that. Because he had been ordered to and didn't know how to stop it.

  Why are my hands shaking? Have I become an old woman who is afraid of the dark?

  Roles were tricky things. It was easy to pretend that none of what was happening was real, just a game, an exercise -- like the simulator game at the U.N.C.L.E. office last week. That had been interesting. Oddly familiar. The rules had been carefully laid out. He had been told exactly what his parameters were, where the boundaries lay, and what was expected.

  Alexander Waverly apparently did not believe in giving parameters, just a vague outline. What game was being played here, and how was he expected to pass the test if the rules were not explained? And if I step outside the boundaries in error, will the game end? One mistake was deadly; the simulator exercise showed that...