by LRH Balzer
For most of his twenty-three years, he had been Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine. The name was given to him by Mikhail Zadkine, a friend of his father's who had taken him in after the war, and in the postwar reregistration in 1949, Zadkine had presented him to the public as his son. Zadkine had paraded him through the KGB halls, had stood proudly, chest puffed out like a peacock as Illya had demonstrated his prowess with a rifle, with a handgun. Mikhaylovich. Another lie. A convenient lie, to be sure, as it gave him a name and kept him from the orphanages.
Then in June of 1961, five months earlier, Illya had by all accounts defected and come to America; and Alexander Waverly had asked him to choose a name for the papers, whichever name he wished.
Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, he had written on the form then, making his decision, not realizing his foolishness in mistaking the patronymic.
With a sigh, he picked up the pen and filled in that name on the first line, staring at the foreign curves of the letters written in the American style, rather than the Cyrillic. Again, not quite right. Masked.
Camouflaged, hiding the Russian in the American. He was growing quickly tired of being American.
1 do not know who I am, he whispered suddenly. I suspect this name, too, will be shown to be a lie, and I will stand accused.
Place of birth? Kiev. Soviet Union. He knew that one, writing the name after sounding out the letters.
Birthdate?
Again, the pen went down after several minutes of staring at the word and wondering what he should put. "Date unknown." He tried to remember what he had put on other form he had filled out in Waverly's office.
His adopted father, Mikhail Zadkine, had made up a date but Illya was not comfortable with it. The KGB used it. The GRU had it in his files, but Illya knew it was not true. Or that it only had a one in three hundred and sixty-five chance of being right.
"Date unknown" was the truth. His father couldn't tell him. Around Christmas or the New Year, Nikolai Kuryakin had thought. Sometime in there. As a little child, his father had used January 1, 1939 as a date to count from, but there had not been any form of celebration offered. He had just become a year older than he'd been the previous year.
He wrote in the date, frowning as his hand trembled.
With a fit of rage, he threw the pen across the room, choking back a strangled scream.
He could not do this. He was too tense, too uptight to function properly. Norm Graham would ask him to leave; it was preposterous for him to assume that a strung-out operative would be tolerated in U.N.C.L.E., let alone this man's home. And it was obvious that U.N.C.L.E. did not want him.
"Ilyusha?"
He jumped at the voice at his door, then cursed himself for his reaction.
"Ilyusha? Son, are you okay?"
Son.
Illya's nostrils flared at the word. He was not this man's son. His father was dead. His adopted father was dead, too—the news had been delivered by the CIA operatives. Suicide. Shamed by Illya's apparent kidnaping and murder. Better for Mikhail Zadkine that he had not known the truth—that his adopted son was a defector. At least Zadkine had taken his own life, died by his own hand. When they eventually would find out Illya was a defector—if they did not know already—then the KGB would have taken Zadkine's life.
The door knob turned.
*****
"Vhat?" Illya demanded before Norman Graham's head poked into his room.
"Are you okay?" Graham remained behind the door, reluctant to intrude on Illya's personal space. The young man had so little, that it seemed unfair to begrudge him anything.
"Yes. I apologize. The forms are not ready. I will bring them to you shortly."
"No rush." Graham looked around the comer now, wanting to see him, to gauge how he was doing. In the last week, since the funeral, the young man had withdrawn more and more, seldom leaving the basement room, not wanting to interact with any of them. Illya sat now at the narrow desk, his back straight as a soldier's, his face blank, every trace of emotion ruthlessly hidden. Before him, the forms lay, and a quick glance confirmed that he'd barely begun to fill them out.
"Dinner is in ten minutes, Ursula says."
"I am not hungry." Illya looked back at the forms.
"Can I help with them?" Graham asked, moving into the room, needing to connect with the young man somehow.
Illya stared down at the top paper, flinching when Graham's hand came down on the back of his neck. Despite the gentleness of his touch, the careful placement of his hand, it was clear that other memories assaulted him at the contact. Instead of feeling the affection Norm had hoped to impart, Illya's body was probably remembering the others who had grabbed him at the scruff of his neck, winding their hands in his hair, tugging his head backwards as they spat in his face.
Norman kept his hand still, knowing only too well Illya's past memories and knowing his fears. He didn't lift his hand, but he didn't leave either. Instead, he bent over Illya's back, looking at the form, seeing the first three answers filled in, and realizing the enormous difficulty those three little questions would have caused.
"It's hard to know how to answer these, isn't it?" he asked quietly.
"They are necessary, yes?"
"Yes. Sorry."
Illya rubbed at his forehead, then opened his eyes and read the next question. "Father's name?"
Norm watched him toy with his pen. The question was another one that could go in many directions; it all depended on who he listed as his father. But then, he only had one true father.
"Nikolai Andreiovetch Kuryakin," Norman said, and after a moment, Illya wrote in the answer.
Mother's name? Yekaterina Dmitriyevna Kuryakina, Illya wrote.
"How is Trish?" the young man asked, suddenly.
"She's coming home tomorrow. Feeling much better," Norman said, smiling at him when he turned to look at the older man. "She asked about you."
"Good. I am... happy she is to be coming back." Illya looked flustered at the rush of emotion he had felt and Norman's smile deepened. It was clear that 'Mother' had come to mean 'Trish' over the past few months, at least in this one's heart, whether he was aware of it or not.
"Why don't you come to the hospital with me to pick her up? She'd like that."
"Is not this a private... thing?" Illya grimaced at his English.
"It's a family thing, Ilyusha. And you are part of our family."
He had been told this ever since his arrival in June. Part of the family. But what if the word meant nothing? He had no context for such thoughts.
Zadkine had never offered him a family life. As a child, when Illya had been taken in by Zadkine, he had been a sharpshooter with a rifle, the top of his class with a hand gun—the top of the adult class in Kiev when he was ten years old. It made sense that Zadkine wanted him. He had something to offer, something that made Zadkine look good in the eyes of the KGB. Forget the fact that this was a young boy who had just seen his father murdered before his eyes.
Country of residence? U.S.A., Illya wrote in.
Status?
Illya pointed to the word. "Vhat this means?"
"Leave it blank for now. We'll see how Alexander wants to put it."
Home address?
Illya paused, just for a moment, but Graham spoke up with the address of the U.N.C.L.E. Safe House they lived in, and Illya wrote it on the form. At his hesitation, it was likely he'd never known the address before. Or maybe he wasn't sure it constituted a 'home' address.
Current occupation?
Again, Illya sat motionless, his pen posed over the paper.
"Student," Graham prompted, and Illya stared up at him. "Well, you're not an operative, not yet. You're a student—that's why we're doing all this, right?"
"So that I can work for U.N.C.L.E."
"Lusha, you don't need a degree to work for U.N.C.L.E."
"For science section, degree is needed."
Graham pulled around a chair and straddled it. "Not necessarily. You just have to s
how competence."
Illya's brow furled again, frowning. "Then why is this done?"
"Why are we getting you to fill out the forms?"
"Yes. How will this help U.N.C.L.E.?"
"Lusha, we're doing it for you, not U.N.C.L.E. Down the road, yes, we're hoping that your degree might work in our favor, but right now, this is just for you, to give you a proper resume, one that more strongly represents what you are capable of doing."
"I do not want to cause problems. Look at what has happened—"
"We did nothing we didn't want to do. The baby's death had nothing to do with this." He tousled the longer blond hair. "Believe me."
He saw Illya shrug and saw that he was not yet believed. Illya still had a wary look on his face, as though he suspected he would be called in and interrogated about his role in the affair. Each day, he dressed in the morning, braced and ready to start a day, his clothing neat, his hair combed, and probably his suitcase packed.
For all the good they had done in this boy's life, the past three weeks had undone it all. Even his English had slipped, reverting to old habits of dropping articles. How much else had he dropped, while they were looking elsewhere?
"We need to talk." His hand was on Illya's shoulder, so he felt the shiver at his statement. Rather than continue to tower over the seated young man, he got down to one knee, their eyes level now.
"Yes?" the former Soviet agent asked, looking for all the world like the dangerous man he was. Strange how he could do that, could flip from school boy to assassin, from Waverly's hope for the future to deadly KGB/GRU agent. From son to stranger.
"Son," Norm Graham said deliberately now. "Ilyusha?" he said softly, using the familiar calling name. "It won't always be like this. It will get better. I promise you."
He thought, for a moment, that Illya would fight him further, but he crumbled rapidly, showing both how close to the edge he was, and how desperate for reassurance.
"My soul is empty."
Norm cringed at the anguished whispered words and at what they signified. He tried quickly to think of what to say, how to reassure him. Trish would probably have known the right words, but she was still in the hospital. Norm was finally left with only actions, for words foiled him. He gathered the stiff young man in his arms, holding him, waiting for the tension to release, smiling as Illya's head bent to rest on his shoulder.
"What would it take to fill you up?"
Illya shrugged, eyes closing as he leaned into the embrace.
Norm sighed quietly, knowing what it was the young man needed.
A friend. You need someone your age to talk to. To hang out with.
Tony and Illya got along fine, going out to a nightclub now and again, or boating or biking, but that happened only when Tony was home, which was seldom since his son was in university. Their friendship was one of convenience and proximity. More like cousins than friends.
Illya needed to get working, to meet and interact with peers, to find like-minded men and women to converse with. He wouldn't get it hiding from the housekeeper in the basement bedroom while life passed him by.
With a last squeeze of his shoulder, Norm eased back, smiling at the young man. "Let's go to dinner; I'll help you with the rest of the questions later tonight."
"Is not necessary."
"Is necessary," Norm responded. "Alexander just called. He wants the application tomorrow in New York. Alexander is going to London on U.N.C.L.E. business, and he would like to take it with him. He wants to deliver this in person to Cambridge and Oxford."
Illya stared at his desktop, hands flat on the desk. "Will you be there, too?" he asked finally.
"No. I was planning to, but I don't want to be away from Trish right now, " he murmured. "It'll be fine. There are some good people there, Illya, and Alexander has been careful to pick who will be helping him in London. There won't be any problems with your application that they can't handle."
"Will I work in London, then?"
"No. Alexander still wants you at the New York office. He'll find a place for you there somehow."
Illya looked up finally, searching Norm's face as though to seek out evidence he was speaking the truth, then he took Norm by surprise by smiling. "Then we will do this thing, yes? We will finish these idiotic questions for the geniuses in the English universities?"
"After dinner."
"Of course. I am hungry. I am—how do you say it?—a growing boy."
"Come along, then,” Norm said with a laugh. He stood, drawing Illya up with him. "Soup's on."
- 2 -
January 1962
With a bounce off the curb, the cab pulled in front of the brick office building and came to a neck snapping stop.
"Y're here, mister. Six thirty-five." The driver turned around in his seat and stared at his passenger expectantly.
Illya Kuryakin, in turn, stared up at the building he was about to enter. He let his eyes move down the block, skimming over the outer facade of buildings that housed the United Network Command for Law Enforcement. Or was it Law and Enforcement. He could never get it right.
"This the right place?" the cabbie asked, still waiting for his money.
In the six and a half months since his arrival in the United States, Illya Kuryakin had visited the U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters on several occasions, but always with Norm Graham, never alone, unescorted. And never had he been summoned to appear, before now.
"Yes." Illya opened the back door and slid out of the cab, pulling his suitcase and briefcase with him.
"Six dollars, thirty-five cents," the driver repeated.
It was cold in New York City, a blustery day that had the residents bundled warmly and shuffling along the sidewalks, heads down against the wind. Illya paid the taxi driver, then walked quickly across the street, hardly mindful of the snow that attached itself to his jacket and clung to his hair. The snowfall from a week previous lay pushed to the side of the walkways, gray sludge bearing little resemblance to these white flakes tumbling in the wind.
His suitcase was in his left hand, and he tried to relax his grip on the plastic handle. It was a new case, at least new to him. Trish Graham had brought it out of storage and insisted he take it, now that he had more clothes than his small rucksack could carry. He had chosen what to take with him, his feathers ruffled further as Trish had gone through his choices and made some changes, adding more underwear and another white shirt.
In his right hand was his briefcase, filled with papers and documents, and Norm Graham's addition: a courier bag from the Washington, D.C., office. Norm figured he might as well make himself useful.
Illya stepped through the outer doors of the office building, then pressed the button on the elevator that would take him to the third floor office 'front' where U.N.C.L.E. hid itself behind the pretense of a non-profit charity organization. When Illya had questioned Norm about the facade, the Washington, D.C., agent assured him that charity monies were indeed raised by the phony organization, and appropriate accounting was kept of the funds, all proceeds (plus a hefty donation from U.N.C.L.E.) going directly to a children's charity.
Squaring his shoulders, Illya nodded at the office worker, then stepped past her into the office marked "President". Once inside, he was scanned and monitored, then another door opened and he was ushered into the stainless steel corridors of U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters. Two guards frowned in his direction, even though they must have been expecting him or he would never have been allowed inside the building. He schooled his face blank, staring back at them.
For a moment he was back in June, the day after U.N.C.L.E. had kidnaped him in London. He felt the fear that crested over his body, how close he had come to total, unprecedented panic, and tried to push it away, back to the vague set of memories he held over that time. Illya knew what had happened, why Alexander Waverly had done what he had done by faking Illya's death, but he still noted the wave of trepidation that swept his body as he passed through the security perimeter.
>
The receptionist stood as he approached. "Mr. Kuryakin, welcome to U.N.C.L.E. New York City."
Be polite, Trish Graham had told him.
"Thank you," he responded quietly, taking the yellow pin from her hands and fastening it on his jacket. "I have a courier bag from Washington, D.C."
"Just leave it here. We'll see it's delivered."
He opened his briefcase, withdrew the thin zipped bag, and passed it to her. She placed it on a wooden tray marked "Mail Room" and then motioned ahead of her.
"This way, please." She turned and left before he had a chance to get his bearings. He picked up his suitcase and followed her. As he walked, he felt eyes on him, looking at his appearance, his suit, his haircut, his 'foreignness'. Two men reached for their weapons as he turned the comer and startled them, but they did not draw their guns.
You'll be safe once inside the building, Norm Graham had told him.
His heart took awhile to stop thudding wildly in his chest, but he knew his face and body language had not betrayed his panic. This, after all, was what he was used to. KGB and GRU had buildings such as this one. Maybe not as bright or as modem, but there was still the feeling of controlled power in the structure, negotiations behind the closed doors.
The elevator was ready, opening as the receptionist approached, responding to some cue or other. Once inside, she did not touch the controls, but the lift sped upwards to the top floor. It opened to a floor similar to the one he had just left, but there were more guards now, men in dark suits walking quickly in the corridors, the cut of the suit jackets, to his trained eye, hiding the holstered weapons.
He did not have a gun. Not even any weapon hidden on him.
You'll be safe once inside the building, Norm Graham had told him.
He followed the woman, walking tall, looking neither left nor right, keeping his face to one of blank indifference. She left him at the entrance to Alexander Waverly's office. It hissed open as he stepped forward, and from the security cameras mounted along the corridor, he knew that Alexander Waverly was aware of his approach. His arrival would not be a surprise to the Head of U.N.C.L.E., North America.
