by LRH Balzer
At two o'clock on Sunday morning, there had been another confrontation, this time between Tony and Graham, in the hallway outside Illya's bedroom. The unexpected sound of voices shook him from a sound sleep, and he had held his breath and listened to the conversation sifting through his slightly open bedroom door.
Graham said that Tony had promised to have the U.N.C.L.E. car he had borrowed back by twelve thirty. Not only was he late, but there was a small dent in it, which Tony then admitted. The two men had argued briefly, then worked out an agreement that Tony would not drive it again until he had paid for the repair work on it, and that he would stick to the agreed on hours, especially since it was not the Grahams' car, but U.N.C.L.E.'s.
Illya had slipped out of bed and watched the encounter nervously from the crack of light let in by his ajar door, wondering what was going to happen next. But Norm Graham just held open his arms and Tony smiled and shook his head regretfully. Illya thought he was going to walk away, but instead Tony sighed and walked up to his father, gave him a genuinely warm hug and said quietly, "I know the routine, Dad; I should, it hasn't changed in thirteen years. You get me to tell you what I did wrong, then you dole out the punishment and consequences, then we have to tell each other that we still love each other. You're crazy, you know, but I'll say it anyway. Yes, I love you, Dad, and I'm sorry I screwed up."
"And I love you, my equally crazy eldest son. Next time, take pity on your old man and take your own car if you're going to stay out late. You may not have a curfew anymore, but the car did. I expect you'll owe Nate an apology for having to wait up until you got back before he could lock up the U.N.C.L.E. garage. At least tell me, was it all worth it?"
"Nah. I think she liked the car better than she liked me. Next time, I am taking my VW Beetle."
They both laughed over that, said good-night, and the incident was over. At breakfast, two hours ago, there had been no mention of it. No tension hung in the air. No brooding over the event. No waiting for the father to suddenly inflict some additional punishment as his mood dictated. No fear.
And then there had been his own encounter with Graham. On Saturday, after he and Tony came back from their run and had finished lunch, Graham had called him to his study. Illya had been expecting something of the sort after his CIA interview. It was natural Graham would want to know what questions he had been asked and what his answers had been. Waverly would undoubtedly expect a report. He had steeled himself for this second interview, considering it could well be almost as bad as the first.
But Graham had not asked him a single question about the content of his interviews. Graham had seemed concerned about how he felt personally, asking him if there were any side effects from the drugs the CIA had used. If he wanted to be seen by a doctor. If anything had upset him, or confused him, that he might want to talk about.
The whole tone of the questioning had so perplexed Illya that he had answered in the negative to everything. What difference did it make if the CIA misused him, as long as Alexander Waverly got what he wanted?
But the actual content of the interviews, and Waverly's concerns, had seemed far from Graham's mind. Instead the Washington Chief's attention had been focused on him and Illya didn't care to be under that kind of personal scrutiny.
Then Graham had almost reluctantly broached another subject and Illya had sat in stunned silence at first, then, with betrayal choking him in a quiet fury. He should have expected that in a house where cigarettes were not allowed, that last night's outing was equally forbidden. Why had Tony set him up for such a mistake?
His anger had momentarily eclipsed his understanding, and the language difference only added to the turmoil. He had wanted to leave, willing to agree to anything to nurse this treachery in solitude.
But Graham had insisted on having the substance of his words repeated back to him, saying he wanted to be certain that Illya had understood his concerns. Flushing with anger, and eventually with embarrassment, Illya found he had repeatedly given incorrect answers. Graham had been patient, but refused to let him go until he heard the proper response.
Finally, when Illya had forced himself to calm down and listen, Graham had been able to fix into his stubborn Russian head some basic facts.
That Graham was not angry with him.
That Graham was not angry with Tony.
That neither had done anything wrong.
But that the CIA might be watching, and that he had to be careful.
All at once, it had made sense. He understood people watching him. He understood being careful under surveillance. And he understood that Tony, for all his American knowledge, because of his American upbringing, might not understand this. Tony was not an agent. He would not know the rules.
The relief he had felt upon realizing that Tony had not betrayed him, that, far from setting him up to fail, Graham was trying to tell him how to do the right thing, had surprised him. Incredible and oddly wonderful, Graham was trying to help him. He had heard the repeated offers the Grahams had made, but he had regarded them as another trap. He had never given them any real credit for being true, and now he was painfully aware that if it were not for Graham's patience with his own bullheaded suspicious nature, he still would not have understood.
The only perplexing thing was that Graham would not tell him how many drinks was considered acceptable behavior. Graham had shaken his head, chuckling in amusement at the naiveté of the question. He had said it depended. Illya, not amused, had wanted to know what it depended upon. The resulting conversation had been even more confusing than the first, but here it was obviously the rules that were unclear. Yet years of being a KGB agent had taught him the advantages of discretion, when one was under surveillance, and of prudence, when others were waiting for a fatal mistake.
He had left Graham's office with both profound relief and with much to consider. Was it really true, then, that Graham was not an enemy? That he was perhaps fair and trustworthy as Tony had claimed? And at the back of his mind burned the question he still refused to address -- what had Tony meant when he talked of him being family?
Illya's mind sheered away from the subject, still not ready to deal with it. There were too many critical issues at stake to consider trivial personal issues. Waverly had sent him here for professional reasons; if there were personal considerations, as well, they were of lesser importance and could be considered later. If at all. The CIA interviews were the primary thing. And the CIA was just across this river.
Illya tightened the straps of the life jacket and glanced up to the security camera on the boathouse, pointing the jacket out to whoever might be viewing. Then he made his way down the slope to the river and out along the dock, crouching down at the end of it.
Water had always fascinated him, ever since he was a child. During a course of survival training in Eastern Siberia, he had camped briefly along the banks of the Sea of Okhotsk, in Kamchatka. There was snow and ice and below-freezing winds, but the beauty of the water had drawn him time and time again to withstand the cold and stare out across the gray waves and wonder what lands lay beyond his reach. Even during his brief stint in the Navy, he would stand on the deck of the ship and let the wind and breeze slam into his face. The smell of the ocean was always wonderful, deep and spicy and dangerous.
This river didn't smell of salt, but it had a wildness of its own that attracted him. He lay down, stretched out on his stomach, and let one hand fall into the river, feeling the water press against his hand and flow through his open fingers. He waited until his hand went numb from the cold before bringing it up out of the water and looking at it, red and wrinkled and stiff. In a few minutes, it began to ache and then throb. He tucked it in his armpit, warming it up and watching the river race by. Ten minutes later, he looked at his hand again. It looked normal.
Tomorrow, he had to go to the CIA again. What would they do to him this time? Would he come back the same as when he left?
Probably not.
*****
; Monday, July 3
Graham delivered him to the CIA office early in the morning, leaving him waiting in the hallway while raised voices argued in the office beyond. When Graham came out, he winked at Kuryakin, and said in a voice that the other men couldn't hear, "I may not be free to come back and get you, but I'll either send Tony or Nate at three o'clock. I've talked to these guys and they've promised they will not use any drugs on you today. Dr. Mercer will test you later to see which drugs you are allergic to, so we can note that in your file and not have a repeat of last Friday." Graham paused and looked the young man carefully in the eye. "By the way, Tony said you knew that Sodium Pentothal makes you sick, but you let them administer it anyway. Why?"
Kuryakin shrugged, but there was a glimmer in his eye that Graham obviously caught.
"Well, do the best you can. Answer what you are able to do. Don't say anything if you feel it's not appropriate for you to do so. Okay?"
"Sir?" Kuryakin frowned up at him, but Graham had already squeezed his shoulder and left. Don't say anything if I feel it's not appropriate for me to do so. That's what he said. Fine.
He spent the next few hours sorting the questions fired at him into three categories. The first group were questions for information they probably already had and were just double-checking his responses. His name. His age. His father's name.
The second category was information they didn't have, but wasn't really important and they could have got it just as easily from another source: what roles did he play at the Kirov, how many KGB agents traveled with the groups, what other groups traveling abroad had KGB representatives among them, what academic courses he had taken, if he had ever met the Premier, if he knew different names they asked about, what languages he spoke.
The third group of questions held information they wanted that he didn't want them to have and he had to answer the questions carefully so as not to give any details or usable material. What weapons were being manufactured at the Kiev military installations? What was happening with the Soviet Space Program? Was there a Soviet mole in the CIA? -- that was especially of concern to them, and they grappled over that one for several hours until his growling stomach finally forced them to break for lunch.
He wondered why he was so protective of his country's secrets... They had never done him any favors. But there was a strong reluctance to give the Americans any Soviet information. Like most citizens, Illya had separated his hate for the Soviet system with his passion for things Russian. And he would not be a traitor to Russia, even to work for U.N.C.L.E., yet that seemed to be the choice these men were demanding of him. Were expecting of him.
U.N.C.L.E. had not asked him to betray his country.
Alexander Waverly had clearly said it was best to have no political leanings when one worked for U.N.C.L.E., so one would be able to impartially look above and through confrontations, rather than try to manipulate events for the good of any particular country or group.
In the afternoon, they hooked him up to a polygraph machine and asked him the same questions they had asked in the morning. He gave the same answers, word for word. The tape connecting the sensors to his hands itched and he tried not to scratch at it, as that seemed to irritate the men. But when the tape was ripped off at 2:55 p.m., his palm was red with sore blotches on it, and they yelled at him for not telling them earlier that he was also allergic to the electrical tape. They quickly sent for the doctor to bring some salve for his palms. They would use surgical tape the next time, they said. They wanted him to be sure to tell Graham that he had not told them that his palms were itchy.
Nate, the U.N.C.L.E. guard, was there to get him, glancing around at the CIA complex with obvious disdain, and making a big show of pointing to his watch and indicating to the CIA agents that they had kept Kuryakin ten minutes past time. Nate lectured him all the way back on how the CIA lacked in comparison to U.N.C.L.E..
Illya nodded, and watched the scenery go by. Twice now, he had walked into the CIA Headquarters and walked out again. He was still free. It was something he had not thought possible. Perhaps he had been wrong about certain things. Then he noticed the guard was turning from the prescribed route and Illya turned to him in shock.
Nate swung off the main road into a busy parking lot surrounding a large one-level building. "Illya, I'm just going to make a brief stop at the drug store for some aspirin and then next door to the grocery store, to pick up a few things for dinner. We'll be back on the road in ten minutes and home in about twenty minutes."
Illya nodded, bewildered at how his heart clutched at the word 'home.'
11
Tuesday, July 4
Another morning.
Illya woke up slowly. Outside, a mockingbird sang the same phrase over and over, as if trying to get it right. He heard voices through his open windows, the words indistinct. Some laughter, water splashing, male voices. Probably some of the guards swimming in the pool.
I am still here.
He turned over in bed, squinted at the clock, and rested his chin in his hands. Of any day since his arrival at this place, waking up this day felt the strangest. It had felt like home.
He had been here two weeks. Fourteen days. Except for the two nights when he had slept in Misha's room, he had slept every night in the same bed, in a room they called his. Illya's bedroom. They said it so casually, as though they didn't know what those words sounded like to him. His room. With things in it that were his. Alexander Waverly had given him a comb that was his. Norman Graham had given him five magazines that were his. Trish Graham had given him clothes and a toothbrush that were his.
Yesterday, on the way back from the CIA, when Nate the guard had stopped by the drugstore, Illya had gone in with him. He had looked around curiously and then hesitantly purchased, with his own money, two packs of cigarettes and another magazine. And a box of American gum. And a notebook and two pens. Nate hadn't even asked him what he had bought. The U.N.C.L.E. guard had then gone to the large grocery store and Illya had bought five big round beautiful oranges.
He could see them now on his dresser, all the things he had bought. In the last five years, he had never been in a place more than a few days at a time. Never in a room of his own. Never with money to spend on whatever he wanted.
He had only been to America twice, when he was ten and then at fifteen, but he had traveled to Western Europe on many occasions, of course. On missions, he had never let himself be distracted by trivial concerns and when he had traveled as a KGB mamka, his business had been to prevent or report any too obvious interest in Western things.
Others were not so discreet, using their favored position to their own personal gain. But he knew he was no ordinary mamka, and the reins on him were always much tighter. He had never risked looking too closely, much less allowing himself to be seduced by the material sirens of the West.
With Nate, he had decided to look. To covertly test his bounds. To play at being an American.
The shops had been almost unreal. Goods exploding on shelves, crowding each other for room. Dozens of items that were essentially the same thing, only competing 'brands'. And signs, urging the purchaser to choose one of the brands over another. It seemed terribly wasteful and inefficient.
The grocery store had astounded him. He had heard of American abundance, but years of empty Soviet shops had left him unprepared for the magic of an American supermarket. The lack of queues. The casual attitude of the purchasers. He was used to specific shops for specific things. Greengrocers. Butchers. And usually nothing much to sell. But a "supermarket" apparently held everything, including aisle after aisle of prepared or frozen foods, things he had never seen before and had no idea what they might be. He could have spent hours investigating and cataloguing the place, but Nate had only stopped in to pick up a few things and Illya knew his time there was limited. He had made a hasty purchase of a luxury that apparently was no luxury in America, if the stack of oranges ignored by the consumers was any sign. Even the special stores that party
members, such as himself, could shop in could not begin to compare with what the average American had access to every day.
Culture shock bad hit him like a physical blow. He could not possibly belong here. Even after he had made his token purchase with impunity, he found it inconceivable that he was actually supposed to live here. To live freely in this land of cars, televisions, and queueless abundance.
It scared the hell out of him.
What was going to go wrong? Something was bound to happen, despite the constant reassurances he had heard. Twice he had gone to the CIA expecting not to return and he had come back both times. He would not have to go there again until Thursday. Graham said that on Friday, he could go to the U.N.C.L.E. office with him all day, if he wished, to keep up his target shooting, try out U.N.C.L.E.'s latest Special, and book some time in the simulator room. If something was planned on Friday, that meant he was expected to return here again on Thursday.
He had never planned so far ahead in his life. Tony had asked if he wanted to go to the beach with him and some friends on Saturday. Graham had already told Tanya, an avid cyclist, that if it worked out that he didn't have to work on Sunday afternoon, they would all go cycling at Rock Creek Park. Graham had told Trish to make sure Illya got a bicycle sometime before that, so he was actually expected to go with them.
He had never owned a bicycle before.
He was starting to understand how things worked in the house and what he was expected to do. Clothes and bed sheets went in a basket that was taken to the laundry room on Tuesday and Friday mornings. He was expected to take it there and return in the afternoon, pick up his basket, and take it back to his room. The woman he had seen vacuuming occasionally, apparently also did the laundry. He had marked the days on his calendar. He had also marked the CIA days and the U.N.C.L.E. office day and the beach trip and the cycling trip. Today was July 4th. It already had the words Independence Day printed on it, and underneath he had written 'U.N.C.L.E. Picnic.'
