by LRH Balzer
Baker studied Kuryakin's downcast eyes, flashing to the woman's face in the photograph If she was not Kuryakin's mother, she was a close relative. The resemblance between the two was uncanny. "We have every reason to believe—and no evidence to the contrary—that the woman in the picture was Yekaterina Dmitriyevna Kuryakina."
"You remember her name?" Kuryakin asked, surprised.
"I spent a long time studying you, Illya," Baker said, using the first name, a smile playing about this lips. "Yes, I remember her name."
"What happened to her?" The question was soft, slipping through Kuryakin's exhausted resources as though he had no strength left to shield himself.
"We don't know. She disappeared during the first sweep of the Germany army through Kiev during the summer of 1941. A lot of people died during that time."
"And some were taken prisoner."
Baker nodded. "Some were. But if she was, I believe it's safe to say that she died either during the attack, or in the camps afterward. There is no indication she lived through that time."
"Maybe it is safe for you to say, but if she was indeed my mother, I have no such luxury." Kuryakin slipped the photograph back into the envelope. "Is there anything more you can tell me?"
"I'll look into it for you, Illya, but I can't promise anything. That was over twenty-four years ago, at the beginning of a war that tore those countries apart. The chances of us finding anything are slim. If she was alive, she would have come forward by now."
"I understand." Kuryakin stood then, his hand outstretched. "Thank you for your time."
"No problem." Baker stood as well and followed Kuryakin to the door. "Merry Christmas," he said, as the young man walked out into the hallway.
"Pardon me?" Kuryakin turned and looked back at him.
"I said, 'Merry Christmas'," Baker repeated, leaning on the doorframe, trying to smile encouragingly.
"Yes. Yes... thank you. And... to you, the same." Kuryakin looked honestly surprised as he walked down the hall, distracted to the point of bewilderment.
* * * * *
Washington, D.C., U.N.C.L.E. Safe House
Friday, December 24, 1965,10:00 p.m.
The silver tinsel threads were carefully, meticulously separated and draped over the edge of the couch. A few were weeded from the others, holding some tiny flaw seen only to his sharp eyes. One strand had knotted itself, and he gingerly pulled it free, strong, gentle fingers pressing the wrinkles out. Only when he had exhausted this small chore, did Illya look up from his task, catching her eye. "I'm sorry. I'm not very talkative," he said, without apology. He seemed too tired to apologize.
Trish Graham smiled faintly. "You're here; that's what's important."
He had arrived from New York earlier that afternoon, sat with them for dinner—consuming only his wine and a piece of bread. He had played a card game with Michael, seemed unable to hold a conversation with Tanya, and now was helping Trish with the decoration of the Christmas tree, something he had always enjoyed taking part in before.
Tonight, it seemed a chore. But then, it seemed that even breathing was a chore.
Trish continued tying the ornaments onto the tree branches, concentrating on the tiny golden threads. "You're here and you're alive." She saw her words made him flinch. "Lusha?" He was often quiet during the first few hours back, but rarely did he have the edge he had tonight. The living room shivered with tension, robbing the evening of the traditional joy they shared in decorating the tree. "What's wrong?"
At first he said nothing, then he opened his mouth to speak as though to lie about it, changing his mind before he could vocalize the damning words. He looked down, away to one side, then back up at her, meeting her eyes for one brief moment before the effort required to do so taxed him.
"It was just a difficult mission," he said, dismissing the topic.
I know that already, she thought. Tell me something I don't know. Like why you are avoiding Tanya and why you are uncomfortable with me. She had seen Tanya's reaction to his coldness, her confusion at his reluctance to talk with her, or even look her in the eye. Yes, he had been injured, but he had been injured before and had recuperated well at their home. Tanya had seen him in far worse condition, yet he seemed embarrassed around her, avoiding her with a skill he had not yet mastered.
Illya cleared his throat, trying to jump back into the conversation. "Where's Norm?" He moved around the tree, checking the connections on the Christmas lights, but she could see the slight tremble to his hand as he touched the bulbs. Maybe he was just overtired.
"Norm's on the phone in his office."
"Oh." A bulb was twisted off the line and another inserted. "There was more snow last year at this time," he said, his voice still irritatingly neutral.
"True. I'm glad you are on your feet this time. These injuries are mild in comparison," she said, although she wasn't sure that was true. Beneath his shirt and sweater were eighteen wounds from the Thrush darts, a spider bite, and several slashes. Norm had described the injuries to her, told her about the fight to keep him alive. But those wounds—like whatever other baggage he was weighted down with—were hidden away from sight.
Trish watched him through the branches. "I'm can't tell you how happy I am that you're all three home for Christmas. I've missed Tanya—Switzerland is too far away. With you in New York and Tony in Boston, the place is pretty quiet."
"I can imagine. When's Tony coming?" he asked.
"He should be here any time." Trish glanced up at the clock. Her oldest son was due to arrive before eleven, if the roads remained clear. She handed Illya the box of ornaments to hold for her. "What's wrong?" she asked again softly.
The blue eyes remained elusive, not meeting hers. There was a microscopic shake of the blond head, then a frustrated sigh. "Perhaps I just don't want to talk about it."
"That's your privilege," she answered shortly. "Either way. Talk or don't talk."
He smiled grimly. "Napoleon says the same thing. He feels I should tell him about this. And I have," he clarified. "Not all of it, but I told him what I have told you."
"That you have nightmares about what happened in Switzerland with that Thrush woman and you have nightmares about dying."
"Yes." He took another step, following her as she rounded the tree.
"And you think this will happen before your birthday."
He shrugged. "It is nothing. Just a dream."
"But your dreams have been premonitions before, and they have come true, and that makes you uneasy."
"Yes." He looked up at her, ice beginning to form in his eyes. "So, what do you suggest? That I hide here for another few days? Wait it out where I am safe and nothing can touch me?"
"Would that be so bad?" she responded.
"Yes!" Illya dropped the box on the couch, his hands at his sides. "I feel ready to scream from the inactivity. Sam Lawrence says I am to rest and put it all behind me. Alexander Waverly has sent me here as though I am a carton of eggs that he must keep from breaking open all over his pristine office floor. Napoleon watches me, dissecting everything I say to him, looking for double meanings and subtle shifting of phrases as though I might slip and tell him what I am really thinking."
"And us?" Trish asked, motioning for her husband to join them as he stood at the doorway.
Illya groaned, his hands covering his face. "This is not about you."
"Of course it's about us. You're here. This is your home."
"Maybe the word has a different meaning."
"Home?" she asked.
"Home. Family. Truth." He said the words as though they were curses.
"Ilyusha..." Norm's voice held a warning at his tone. "If there's a problem, if you need help, then you talk to us. That's the way it has been since the first day you were here."
"You followed me to Kenya."
"Alexander sent me to attend a meeting."
"You were in Bondolo."
"I went there because John Muliro wanted me to see firsthand wha
t the weapon was capable of. He had no way of knowing that we were related."
"We aren't related," Illya said coldly.
"You know what I mean. He didn't know about our relationship."
Illya paced the edge of the carpet along the fireplace, stopping when he got to the far end. "I am feeling suffocated."
"By me? By us?" Trish sat on the arm of the couch, her hands folded on her lap. "So what have we done that is so wrong? Caring about what happens to you? Wanting what's best for you?"
"No, damn it." He spun to face here, switching to Russian. "That's not it. That is not how I feel."
"Then how do you feel?"
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I feel like my soul is imprisoned. And truth is in the next cell, being tortured."
Norm stepped closer, one hand gently resting on Illya's shoulder. "So who is the jailer?"
"Me," Illya whispered. "But I've lost the keys." Turning from them, he walked down the stairs and shut himself away in his room.
* * * * *
Illya sat carefully on the edge of his bed and wrapped his arms around his chest, holding back the shivers. He hadn't felt this vulnerable since he was a teenager, alone in a hotel room, a gun before him, a bullet missing, a stranger dead. All part of the job for the KGB or GRU. Except no one sat with him afterward as his nerves threatened to unravel.
The last two days had been a mad scramble to hold himself together. All the meticulously crafted braces which had kept him intact over the past ten years were crumbling. Tears ran down his cheeks unchecked; he couldn't seem to get a rein on his emotions.
For a man who can look Thrush in the eye without blinking, you are a sorry sight.
Maybe this was it. A turning point, perhaps. The time when the men are separated from the boys, the strong from the weak, the competent from the inept.
And all because of a dream. Because of a nightmare.
And what happened... a part of his mind reminded him.
Sleep was a dim memory now. He hadn't slept since the night before he left Kenya. Four days—three nights. Yes, he had gone to bed, had slept for half an hour or an hour here and there—but that was not sleep, not rest. After a complete physical when they had returned from Kenya, Doctor Lawrence had banished him from Headquarters for one week, insisting he get himself together physically before coming back. And that was before they had talked about the dreams.
His hands shook. He held them out in front of him, watching the tremors that palsied his limbs. Weakness in his muscles, he knew, from lack of sleep and from tension. If he was called upon for an emergency assignment now, he would have to tell them, to turn himself in as incompetent and medically unfit for his job. There was no excuse for an U.N.C.L.E. agent to be in such a condition as he now found himself.
He wanted to talk to someone.
Sam Lawrence had offered his time, he had listened calmly, but had no answers. Alexander Waverly had called him into his office the day before, hedging around the topic as though resigning himself to being available should Illya want to talk to him. U.N.C.L.E. resources had been placed at his disposal, his worth to them expressed by their scramble to find avenues to help him.
Norm and Trish, even Tanya, the whole Graham family were ready to talk, to thrash out whatever was bothering him. To love him and reassure him of his place in their lives. But that wasn't the issue. He already knew that.
Napoleon had been there. God, Napoleon had been there. He had driven him to the airport that morning and had hovered just within reach, trying so hard not to pressure Illya, but making sure his partner knew he was more than willing to talk about it. Whatever it was, it didn't matter.
And if I had a clue of what to say to you, I would in an instant. But sometimes feelings have no words attached to them.
Illya lay back against the mattress. Who else was there? He had realized finally that Sasha was on tour with the ballet; he had no idea where his boyhood friend was. Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott were on assignment in Hong Kong. April Dancer was on assignment, as well, and Mark Slate was in England.
The list was relatively short.
His head ached. He rolled onto his side, feeling sleep gesture as if to overtake him. Just as he surrendered to the momentary lull, he thought of someone else.
* * * * *
New York
Christmas Day, 11:30 a.m.
Napoleon picked up his telephone on the third ring. "Hello."
"Napoleon, it’s Norm."
"Hello, Norm. Merry Christmas." Napoleon felt his grip on the receiver tighten. "What's happened?"
"Illya had breakfast with us, we opened the gifts. He seemed fine, just a little more quiet than normal. An hour ago he left in a cab. He had a suitcase with him. Said he wanted to get away for a few days."
"Where did he head to?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know? You're a fucking U.N.C.L.E. agent. We've got ways of finding things out! Pick up the damn phone and call the cab company."
There was silence on the end of the phone for a moment. "I can't. I promised him."
"What??"
"He made me promise not to go look for him. He said that if he was coming back, he'd be here by dinner on Monday. "
"His birthday."
"Yes."
"Damn it, Norm." Napoleon could feel his headache kick back in. "If he's hurting, I can't leave him out there alone. He's my partner. I'm supposed to work with him, not send him off into the night alone. We're supposed to watch out for each other. How can I do that if he's gone somewhere to die?"
"I've no idea where he'd go."
"He's looking for answers. Something to do with his mother and Mother Fear."
"As far as we know—as far as anyone knows—Yekaterina Dmitriyevna, died in 1941 at the age of twenty-five. If he thinks she is Mother Fear, she's not. That woman was only forty. If Lusha's mother were still alive, she'd be almost fifty."
"Does he know that?"
"I told him myself two weeks ago in Switzerland."
"So what's his problem?"
"I don't know. You're right. He's looking for answers, but I don't think there's anywhere for him to look for them. It may be a lot simpler an issue than we think—which would make it a whole lot more complicated to find an answer that will satisfy him."
Napoleon carefully counted to ten, then exhaled. "So what do we do?"
"Well, Napoleon, I promised him that I would not go looking for him. I didn't say anything about you."
The smile came slowly. "I understand. I'll... see if I can take care of the problem."
"And get him back here quick. Trish is worried sick."
"I'll do my best." He put down the telephone receiver, spent fifteen minutes considering his options, then began to make a few phone calls.
* * * * *
Ward's Island, Ontario
Christmas Day, 7:20 p.m.
He got off the last ferry of the night to the island, hoping someone was home or he would have a difficult time getting back to the mainland. He had only been here once before, but he remembered it being a short walk from the ferry dock, down the main road. It had snowed recently, the island looking like a postcard with its snow-laden trees and multi-colored Christmas lights. Almost every house or cabin had something up. Even those residences that weren't occupied year round, were being used at the holidays.
It got colder as he walked, the wind off the lake stealing through his winter coat. He pulled the heavy hat further down over his ears and neck and kept walking.
He reached his destination finally, surprised at the single row of lights that circled the two windows facing out to the road. For some reason, he didn't think there would be lights on this house. He squared his shoulders and walked to the door, knocking sharply.
There was a short time when he thought no one would come, then the porch light came on and the door opened slightly. "Napoleon, come in." Antonio Solo stood back as his son squeezed past him into the
warmth of the house..
Before he could ask, Antonio nodded. "He's here." His father took his suitcase from him, then his coat and hat, hanging them on hooks near the doorway.
Napoleon took off his boots and set them on the plastic mud guard. "Is he okay?"he asked, carefully slipping his arm back in the sling.
Antonio smiled sadly. "He's sleeping."
"That's a start," Napoleon responded, then walked down the hallway into the living room. Illya lay on the couch, covered in a blanket, his head turned slightly, eyes closed. The relief at seeing him was enough to weaken the Chief Enforcement Agent's knees and he, very uncharacteristically, felt the need to sit down before his legs gave out on him.
He sat on the couch at Illya's side, wanting to touch him, but reluctant to place his cold hands on Illya's to wake him up. Instead, he tucked his right hand under his arms trying to warm it first. He glanced over to his father, feeling awkward being this near to the man, still a virtual stranger. "How long has Illya been here?"
"A few hours. We talked and he fell asleep an hour ago. Woke once, then went back to sleep."
"He's been having nightmares."
"He told me." Antonio Solo sat down in his armchair by the fireplace. "And then I saw for myself."
"I figured he might be here. I would have called but—"
"But since I don't have a telephone, that would be difficult. He must be a good friend, indeed. You came a long way on a hunch."
Napoleon smiled. "When I found out he had flown from D.C. to Toronto, I had a good suspicion where he was heading. And then I realized I knew why he would come here." At least I think I do. Napoleon glanced around the room then, taking in the small decorated Christmas tree and the crackling fire. "I never figured you to be sentimental about the season." He rubbed at his aching arm, his gaze returning to his partner. He reached out cautiously and place his hand across Illya's forehead, relieved at the absence of fever. "How is his shoulder doing?"
"The spider bite? It's still quite sore. The area around the wound is mildly inflamed, but he had some medication he took to combat that, and I put some salve I have here on the bite. How is your arm, by the way? I heard you were shot."
