by LRH Balzer
"But to us, then, he was dead. There were some human remains, but nothing recognizable. His watch was identified." Travkov continued to pace the floor, unable to be still. "Grisha was never the same. He changed that day. He became hard. He withdrew from our friends. I know he made plans."
"What kind of plans?" Solo asked.
Travkov smiled grimly. "If I knew that, perhaps I would know where Ilyusha is." He looked down at his watch. "I am sorry. I must go. There is a rehearsal I must be at."
***
"Chin up!" she called to Illya. "Begin in the Fifth Position, right foot front, epaulement croise. Good. Keep your chin up in the beginning. We are doing Croisee Devant. Let your arms move from Preparatory Position to First.
"Now do it again and your head should bend forward slightly, and to the left. Look at your hand. Do you see it? Hold the picture in your head. Are you aware of where you are?"
He remembered being in the shower, the warmth beating against his back.
Then he was lying in his bed and her strong hands were working at his back muscles. He didn't remember getting from one place to the other. He couldn't talk while she was massaging his back.
He woke, wondering if it was morning, afternoon, or evening. He was hungry.
Komleva was there and gave him food, encouraging him to eat. His appetite was returning, she said, and talked of the snow on the tree branches. His friend was in a coma, she said, and talked of the frost on the windowpane.
She introduced the turns and spins of the classical dance. They worked only on the floor, and he followed her voice as she explained what she wanted him to do. There was a growing fascination as to what he could actually accomplish being blind.
He was apprehensive about being in the air, even for a moment, but by the end of the class, he had performed the beginning small jumps in First, Second, or Fifth Position to Komleva's satisfaction and they had collapsed on the dusty floor, laughing at their success.
He slept and danced and showered and ate and slept and danced until whatever idea of night or day he kept was lost. Sometimes he awoke and wondered where Napoleon was. And wondered where he was.
But then he fell asleep and dreamed of nothing.
***
Friday December 11
Heather McNabb, Waverly's assistant, met Solo at the agents' entrance when he returned to Headquarters mid-morning. He had been at the United Nations building a few blocks away checking out a bomb threat that the FBI had reported to U.N.C.L.E. at 6:45 that morning. The Cuban Minister of Industry, Major Guevara, was scheduled to address the General Assembly later that day and already a demonstration was in progress, many of those involved parading down the street in front of the U.N.C.L.E. buildings on their way to the Plaza of Nations.
"Napoleon, Mr. Waverly wants you in his office immediately," McNabb said, quickly pinning on his badge and activating it. She took his coat from him and tossed it to the receptionist, pushing him ahead of her.
Solo entered Waverly's office at a run. "What is it?" He had been juggling five cases for the last few days and had also been anxiously waiting for Garcia and the other Section Two man to return from Bulgaria after completing the assignment there.
"We found him, Napoleon." Norm Graham had activated the street map of New York City on the large screen. "He's at this address."
"Illya?" Present tense. His partner was alive.
"Yes. John Lagto was checking the airport records of all returning Soviet passports when he realized that one member of the Kirov Ballet company was missing and the company agent said the woman's visa had been extended. She is the ballet mistress, a sixty year old woman by the name of Irina Y. Komleva. We checked the name with Alexander Travkov late yesterday; he confirmed the woman was a close friend of Illya's while he was in the Vaganova School and with the Kirov company later. She was one of the instructors, now retired and traveling with the tour groups teaching some of the daily classes the dancers take." Graham handed him a copy of Komleva's passport picture.
"Last night Lagto set up a surveillance around the building that had housed the ballet group while on tour here--the old Academy building slated for demolition next spring. The Kirov stayed there, and some of the Bolshoi--who arrive later today--will be staying there.
"Anyway, Lagto has film of Illya moving around the top floor rehearsal room before dawn this morning."
Graham's excitement as he poured over the report and maps failed to reach Solo once the initial news registered. "How are they holding him?" he asked, glancing over the documents.
Waverly tapped his pipe on the desk, his face back to its usual neutral mask. "Lagto's team showed him only with the woman. We have been unable to ascertain bow many others--if any--are in the building."
"Could they tell how he was?" the Enforcement Agent asked.
"Still blind, but otherwise he appeared in good condition. Lagto reported no apparent ill treatment and the woman seems to be teaching him." Waverly harrumphed, turning back to the U.N.C.L.E. agent's account. "That is how Lagto described it. He says here that Mr. Kuryakin in no way appears to be a prisoner."
There was a few moments of awkward silence before Solo spoke again. "Then why is he there? Why didn't John get him out? It's not embassy grounds."
Waverly gestured for Solo to sit down. "Legally, we can't enter the building without permission. It is private property. When we have proof that Mr. Kuryakin is being held there against his will, then we can acquire the correct papers and move in."
"Forget the legal papers!" Solo said, leaning on the round table. "Of course he is being held against his will. Let me go in. We can get the paperwork done later. That has never stopped us before."
Waverly looked pointedly at Solo's bound arm, still in the sling. "No one is going in at this time," he repeated. "It is in Mr. Kuryakin's best interest for us not to reveal where he is, or that we know where he is."
"Why?"
"Until we know more..." Waverly's voice trailed off, then he coughed abruptly and continued. "It's a national security issue, Mr. Solo. If the FBI or the CIA knew he was missing, he would be--"
"That's ridiculous! Illya would never--"
"To them he is only another Soviet defector. An ex-KGB agent. If I report him missing, or try to get government approval on a raid on a private building, questions will be asked that I have no answers to at this time." Waverly spoke more harshly than he had intended. "And there's a mole hunt still on; the CIA could confine him for years if they find out about this."
"But he's not CIA. Why should they be involved? Isn't he U.N.C.L.E.'s responsibility?" Solo demanded.
"Yes." Waverly nodded, wearily. "Yes, he is our responsibility. And watching us in this matter are both the FBI and the CIA. And the Department of Defense. The State Department. And Section One of U.N.C.L.E.."
Solo sat down slowly, starting to understand the situation. "And you haven't told any of them that Illya's missing," he repeated softly, as the grandfather clock in the corner of Waverly's office chimed twelve o'clock noon.
"Unless I have absolute proof he has been abducted, I can't risk it. For his sake. Not until we talk to him and know more." Waverly had aged in the last few days. He sat in his chair, shoulders slumped, one liver-spotted hand trembling slightly as it rested on the smooth ivory pipe handle.
"So what do we do?" Solo glanced at the map, leaning across to pick up the slightly blurry telephoto pictures.
"We wait and watch, for a day or two more. And turn our attention to other pressing matters. We have to sift through the information given to us by Zadkine and I must give a detailed report on him to the Soviet Division of the CIA. They will probably want to talk with him themselves."
"And the satellite?"
"Hmmm ...Yes ...Mr. Solo, after you debrief Garcia--his plane comes in from Bulgaria within the hour, by the way--arrange for him to take a trip down to the American Air Force Headquarters to talk with them about the security systems in effect. That is his specialty."
&
nbsp; Solo carefully put the photos of his partner on the table. "I'll arrange for it immediately."
"Also set up a cover for yourself as a newspaper reporter and take one of the Section Two men along as a photographer. The press has been invited to view the Bolshoi in rehearsal tomorrow, to help publicize their performances here. It will allow you access to the building."
"Yes, sir!" Solo said, with more enthusiasm, sharing Norm Graham's smile.
The red phone on Waverly's desk rang and he answered it quickly, nodding as he listened. "I'll send someone immediately," he said, hanging up and turning back to Solo. "I have another job for you first. There's been an attempted missile attack on the United Nations Building from across the East River and there is a woman wielding a knife in the Plaza. Please see to it. I had hoped this situation was dealt with earlier. We don't want this sort of thing escalating while the Soviet Foreign Minister is in town."
It wasn't really a reprimand, but Solo moved quickly.
***
"They're here," announced Tsvetayev, as he opened the door to the office Petrov had been given in the New York Soviet Embassy. "The Bolshoi Company will be arriving at the old Academy School in forty minutes, if traffic remains constant."
"Good. You've done well, Ivan." Petrov continued to stand at the window and stare out at the busy street below, the snow falling into oblivion on the sidewalks. "I saw him again yesterday. She had him dancing. Blind as a bat and he was soaring into the air at her command as though gravity had no meaning for him. He frightens me.
"In the past, I have seen this same man take a knife and with utmost ease send it end-over-end across the room to pierce the neck of his victim. I have seen him leave his seat in a lecture, take the chalk out of the hand of a scientist and correct his formula, then return to his seat, without a flicker of emotion on his face."
Tsvetayev came further into the room and took a chair. "An artist, an assassin, a scientist. I see why they valued him. Why then did you wish to kill him?"
"The snow is turning to rain," Petrov said, without turning around. "Do you know why I was sent to the United States? To deliver documents to the Washington and New York embassies, to update those concerned on the Zadkine defection, to confer with Foreign Minister Gromyko about his United Nations speech earlier this week, and to prepare for Kosygin's two-day visit later this month. Instead, this occupies my time.
"So why do I wish to see our blind little danseur dead? Because I do not trust him. Too many people tried to control him and they ended up destroying him. I knew this but they did not believe me. He is a loose end that must be dealt with.
"I had redesigned the Rapira anti-tank gun, in the spring of 1955, and because of that I first met him. I was sent on special assignment by the State Security Office for scientific- technical intelligence work in America, in New York City. There was a public exhibit of Post World War II U.S. tanks, jeeps, and other equipment that I was to study, being the expert in the field, as well as to attempt to get photographs and specs of current army equipment.
"My cover was that of a Canadian photo-journalist doing an article for a Montreal-based magazine, accompanied by his fourteen year old son, Raymond. Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine was sent undercover to pose as the son. He was already the KGB'S prize tool and though sixteen, he looked younger. His father was the esteemed head of the Kiev Artillery School. He spoke fluent French. And, as my superior calmly reported during the initial briefing, he could take care of himself.
"I found myself on a flight to Canada alone. The boy would follow, I was told, in a few days. He had a dance recital to perform. A dance recital." Petrov stared out the window, watching the winter rain pound ceaselessly against the pane. "I was twenty years older than him, I was already a ranking officer in the Army, respected in my field, but it was his schedule we had to accommodate.
"We did the assignment, not only photographing the vintage tanks on display, but the child managed to get us an invitation to see the army's latest equipment. He was utterly convincing. I almost believed him myself.
"Before I left New York City, I went out for a drink with another agent, a Soviet rezident illegal who had worked in the city for years and was an old colleague. While we conversed in the restaurant, my companion was murdered. I saw Zadkine fade into the background and I recognized the knife handle as my own. He was not there when I returned to the hotel. I reported the incident to the Soviet embassy GRU officer, who said the boy had other 'assignments' and the responsibility for his whereabouts was lifted.
"I checked later and there was never an acceptable reason for Zadkine's disappearance during those ten months. There were rumors of an old underground group he had been investigating. He came back trained in hand-to-hand combat, but where he had taken the instruction was unclear in the files I examined. It was only after his death that I realized that because he had worked for both the KGB and GRU while in New York, both thought the other had controlled him during those missing months. But if they hadn't, who had?"
Tsvetayev nodded, understanding now. "I see. And later they were afraid he would suicide and there would be questions. Instead, someone else had done the job for them and the files were closed."
"But he is still alive somehow. With his computer mind, he looks out at the world through a dead man's eyes. And yet he dances with shocking emotion and I must let him live. I will have mixed feelings when he is dead finally and I see his body." Petrov turned abruptly, gathered his coat, and strode from the room and the building.
***
A copy of the Soviet paper, TASS, arrived on Solo's desk, followed a short time later by an early copy of the Friday evening New York Times.
The Soviet paper, dated two days previous, had a small picture of Illya in a mid-air leap, the caption below it bragging about the courage and bravery of the blind Soviet spy/dancer who was recently relocated. Soviet doctors had been called in to attempt to reverse the eye problem and "all the Soviet Union wish them every success and hope the young hero would soon be returned to his homeland."
The New York paper did not run the photograph but reported on the article. It identified him as Ilya M. Zadkeen, a former danseur with the Kirov Ballet Company believed to have been killed in the summer of 1961. It stated they had received information that he was currently "rehearsing with the Bolshoi Ballet" while waiting for medical treatment.
57
Solo went immediately to Waverly's office to find both papers already on the round conference table and the Section One Chief packing his briefcase. "What happens now?"
Alexander Waverly seemed distant, mechanical. "I must go to Washington. I have been asked to make a personal report on this to the Department of Security. I had hoped to have something concrete to say, but I must improvise. I will talk with Appleton at the CIA myself. If he calls here, tell him I will contact him and he is to speak only with me."
He glanced through the folders on his desk, quickly advising Solo of several top priority cases U.N.C.L.E. was working on. "Norm Graham is returning here. He knows Mr. Kuryakin better than anyone, even yourself, I suspect. Mr. Solo, you are in charge of this office, but he is in charge of this case, the reason being he already has full clearance on it and I do not have time to make the necessary changes for you. He will tell you whatever you need to know. I will call to see how the satellite information is coming. It is of priority importance. Garcia will be sending his report through the Washington U.N.C.L.E. office." Waverly glanced at his watch. "I also need to be kept up-to-date on the United Nations attack. The Soviet delegation is upset because the anti-Cuban demonstrators cut down their flag. I require an explanation of how this was allowed to occur with U.N.C.L.E. agents and the local police on site watching the demonstrators. I must go. The helicopter is waiting."
He walked out of the office stiffly and Solo watched his progress on the monitors, waiting until the helicopter had cleared the roof before sitting down and opening the top file.
The report came in within the hour that Gr
igory Zadkine had eluded his guard and had not returned to his hotel room. The room was checked and his suitcase was missing.
Lagto's team was expanded to cover all entrances to the Academy Building, but they admitted he could have arrived there prior to the watchers being in place.
***
Illya stopped for a moment and with the towel around his neck, wiped the sweat off his face.
Irina Yakovlevna had been especially demanding this day, patiently insisting he could accomplish the choreography she had outlined. When they had started, however many days before, be would not have believed it possible that she would bring him so far, for it had been years and he was blind.
The music and the movement stirred something inside him. It was from a ballet he had never heard of, a dream of utter freedom, of life unrestricted, then of awakening. It was a beautiful but uncomplicated sequence, one such as he had done while still in the Vaganova School and well within his ability then. He had no words to explain it, but it touched something deep within his core, it propelled him as surely as Komleva's own encouraging drive.
He followed her voice as she moved toward him; he was confidently aware of her and his surroundings. He no longer felt blind and awkward in this room; he knew it intimately: the smells, the dimensions, the echo when they laughed.
"Can you put both parts together now, darling?" she asked. "Tell me what you are going to do."
He named the steps, describing each movement for her, gesturing with his hands, smiling when he knew she smiled.
"Can you see it all in your head?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It is not too long?"
He shook his head, feeling the excitement building within him. "My body sees it. It is enough."
"Then we will do it. From the beginning, as far as we have rehearsed it. I will play the introduction, then you will begin. Take your spot. Two paces ahead, one pace left." The piano bench scraped and she played the opening bars, the music echoing through the room and drowning the heater's rattle. For five minutes, he moved alone in the center of the floor and put the steps together, feeling the air against his face as he ran and turned, as he leaped into the air in a grand jete and hung for a moment, then landed, knowing exactly when he would touch the floor, turning once, his feet lifting a second time, changing position and landing, his arms still raised. Then he dropped to the floor, stretched out, each muscle straining as he matched the music's pain until the last note left him curled on the floor.