by LRH Balzer
"I personally will vouch for his--"
"Alexander, that won't be necessary." Donald Johnson closed his notebook. He folded his hands and directed his next words to Waverly. "At the Agency, I specialize in working with Soviet defectors. I know the pull on them to return to their old lives, despite their changed philosophies. I feel it is entirely too dangerous for Mr. Kuryakin to mix with them, and is an unnecessary security risk. As an agent for the U.N.C.L.E. operating in the United States, he has had access to a great many top secret documents, conversations, and people." He paused again for a moment, then looked over at the young Russian. "Mr. Kuryakin, could you please wait outside for a few moments. We would like to speak to Mr. Waverly."
Peter Baker, the Soviet Division Counterintelligence agent, waited until the door slid shut before addressing Waverly. "Alexander, I realize your investment in that young man but surely you can see the strain on him already. What would happen to him if he were to be allowed to continue his involvement with the Bolshoi with the KGB present? For security reasons alone he would have to be pulled from U.N.C.L.E. operations and, should he decide to remain in America, his activities would be severely restricted ."
"And if he were to not return there today? What would be the outcome?" Waverly asked, tapping his empty pipe on the table.
"We will be talking with him at greater length later. Should he decide to stay here well, I am not in a position to say anything at this time."
"And if he should decide to return to the Soviet Union with the ballet company?'
At this point, the third man spoke up for the first time. He was James Appleton, the CIA's most experienced counter-espionage officer, the chief of the counterintelligence staff. A tall, thin man that looked more like an undertaker than an active agent, he had a strange sense of secrecy about him that had affected even Waverly's power of control in the room.
"Mr. Waverly, he must not return to the Soviet Union. He knows too much."
"To what lengths will you go to stop him, should he make that decision?" Alexander Waverly, Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America asked, his voice dangerously low.
"Whatever it takes."
They brought Kuryakin back in the room, took away his cigarettes, and removed his jacket and tie. A technician came in and hooked him up to various polygraph instruments, a pneumograph tube around his chest to measure his respiration rate and a pressure cuff around his arm to record his blood pressure and pulse. Then his arms were strapped to the chair and the technician attached electrodes to his fingers and a pair attached to his palm with surgical tape. Additional electrodes were placed on his forehead although Waverly protested the uncommon procedure.
For another forty-five minutes, they questioned him again, repeating the same questions, coming back to his answers and grilling his replies. No new ground was covered, except for further questions about his time in Germany when he was fifteen years old and one other confusing question.
"Do you know Sasha?" they asked.
Kuryakin looked up, startled. "Sasha who?"
"Sasha ."
"I know a Sasha," Kuryakin answered carefully, frowning. "I don't know if I know the Sasha you are asking about."
They didn't inquire further on the topic, but recorded his response meticulously.
At twelve o'clock, the CIA agents announced they were taking a break and left the room with Waverly. Graham and Solo joined them from the observation room. When the Chief Enforcement Officer realized they were going for lunch and had left Kuryakin sitting alone in the room still hooked to the machine, Solo excused himself on the premise that he had work to do. Graham nodded, smiling gratefully back at him as the other men continued walking down the hallway.
The door was locked, but Solo's passcard admitted him. "Let's go to my office," he said, as the bound figure turned and stared at him, curbed relief in the otherwise empty eyes. It was the first time Illya had seen him. Solo wasn't sure of the legal consequences of removing Kuryakin from the room, but he knew equally he had to get him out of there.
Kuryakin sat mutely as Solo released him from the polygraph equipment. Aware of his partner's strained silence, Solo quickly helped him out of the chair, gathered his jacket and tie, and steered him down the hallway. Kuryakin walked awkwardly beside him and Solo was mindful of the other's light grasp on his sleeve.
"Want some coffee?" he asked, when they were inside the office.
Illya dropped onto the bench behind the desk, nodding, rubbing his palms nervously on his suit pants. Napoleon tossed him a pack of cigarettes and he caught and opened them, lighting one before speaking. "Thank you."
"That was quite the meeting."
He nodded, his breathing ragged from tension. "They are always the same. Except for the German questions this time. And the one about Sasha. I don't know where they came from."
"When was the last time they talked with you?" Napoleon handed him the cup of coffee, then poured himself a cup and sat at his desk, turning to face the younger man.
"Three weeks ago. After the Neptune Affair." He shrugged. "I had been in the Soviet Union, unescorted."
Napoleon whistled softly and put his cup down. "I never considered that when I sent you there. Why didn't you say anything?"
"I was the best one for the job. Why shouldn't I go?"
Napoleon grinned at the remark and the inescapable logic of it in Illya's mind, the smile fading rapidly as he saw the intense look on his partner's face. "What are you thinking?"
"That you are alive. I was not sure before. When Norm drove me over here, he said you were alive." Clutching the cigarette in one hand and the hot coffee in the other, Illya stared at him, still breathing shallowly. "How is your arm?"
"It's fine. They stitched me up and I spent a day in the hospital, but everything's fine now." He moved his arm back and forth carefully.
Illya continued to stare at the injury location, his pale eyes blinking as the memories resurfaced. Napoleon, in a moment of understanding, took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeve, and showed him the stitches that would come out the next day.
"How did you get out of the building, Illya?" Napoleon asked casually, doing up his cufflinks.
"I walked out. I told them I was checking in here to let everyone know that I was okay."
"And they let you just walk out? No tail?"
"None."
"How have they treated you?"
"They have been very kind. They have been... kind."
Napoleon had to admit that his partner looked to he in excellent health, his hair had been cut, and he was wearing a new, immaculately-pressed dark suit. "When did your sight come back?"
"Yesterday just before lunch."
"Ten days is a long time to be blind."
"It was more than ten days. It was at least a month." Napoleon frowned at the remark and Illya tried to clarify it, "To me, it was longer than ten days. But I know what the date is. Norm told me."
"How did your sight come back?"
Illya told him. The fall, hitting his head, the needle. Zadkine by his side through the afternoon.
"No side effects?" Napoleon asked, watching Illya blindly slide his hand along the leather surface of the bench until it nudged the ashtray and flick the cigarette at it without looking.
"Just a wicked headache," Illya said, absently massaging the back of his neck. He finally gave a faint smile of his own, looking up at Napoleon. "Norm says it may be the strain."
"No doubt." Napoleon rolled his chair closer to the Russian. "Turn around. I'll rub your neck."
"That's not necessary," Illya said, quickly dropping his hand to his side. Napoleon turned him anyway. "If Yuri can do it. I can."
Illya shifted slightly. "Yuri?
"Yes... was this spot he was working on? On the right side? The muscle is tight, still knotted, I guess."
Illya twisted back around to face his partner, his eyes wide. "How do you know that? How do you know Yuri?"
"Norm and I were there, Illya. At the steam bat
h."
"You saw me? You were there? Why didn't you say anything?"
It was difficult to put into words. "We didn't want to do anything to jeopardize your situation. We saw you were fairly unrestrained and, more importantly, with friends. We learned a lot from watching you and watching how they treated you. The expressions on their faces that you couldn't see." He turned the blond agent around again and put some muscle into working out the knot on his neck. "Relax. Tell me about Rodya. Was he a friend?"
"Yes. He was my friend at the Bolshoi. Sasha was my friend at the Kirov." From his tone of voice, friends were few and far between.
"What about Yuri and Misha?"
"I had never met Misha before. He came since I was there. But Yuri was a friend of Rodya's. I knew him."
"And the woman? Komleva?"
"You know about her?" It was difficult to say whether Illya's wince was from Napoleon's comment or the pressure being exerted on his neck.
"When you were upstairs in the rehearsal room, we watched through our telescopic cameras. She seemed to take good care of you."
"Yes." Illya swallowed nervously. "You saw me? You saw me dance?"
"Uh-huh. I was there as a reporter, too, when the press agents came to take pictures of the Bolshoi in class."
"I didn't know you were there..." He gave a little gasp. "In the small room, did you--were you--"
"I asked whether you would be continuing with the Bolshoi," Napoleon said, using the disguised voice.
"Oh, I wondered if it was you... but they told me you were in a coma... I thought you might be dead and they hadn't told me."
Napoleon frowned. So they had lied to him.
Illya cleared his throat. "Once, in the cab, I thought I heard--"
"The transceiver go off. That was an accident. I was hoping you hadn't heard it."
"You were there."
"I drove the cab. We wanted to make sure you were okay, Illya." He felt the knotted muscle finally give way and stopped after a moment, pushing back in the chair toward his desk. "What are you going to do now?"
Illya rotated to lean back again the wall, one hand absently rubbing at his neck. He stared at the far wall. "Napoleon, remember how you told me you sailed from New York to the Caribbean alone when you were younger? You said it was a dream you had, something you knew you wanted to do before you got too involved with U.N.C.L.E. and you had no more time."
"Yes."
"I want to do this," he said quietly. "I want to dance this piece. Before I can't do it anymore. It is my dance. I can feel the emotion in this. Grisha choreographed it for me. I want to dance it without restrictions, without the KGB controlling me. Without obligations and politics. I want to dance it for me. Just once. It is all I need. Just once."
Napoleon leaned back in his chair. "Illya, do you know what they'll do to you if you dance it?"
"To tell the truth, Napoleon, I no longer care. You saw them in there. This is all over for me. To them, I am only a defector from Leningrad. I can think of no way out of this. I have nothing inside to care any more. I do not care about the KGB, the GRU, the CIA, the FBI--or even Grisha. I don't care what they say. I don't care what they do. I want to do this."
"No matter what anyone else says?"
The animation faded from Illya's face. "I have told Waverly that I will not dance if he says I must not. I have told Norm Graham and I will tell you the same thing. Knowing what it means to me, if you say I must not do this, I won't."
"Why? Why does it matter what we think?"
Illya's soft reply sent a chill up Napoleon's back. "For my friends, I will give my life."
The interview continued at one o'clock, without the lie detector equipment. There was no mention made of Kuryakin's absence from the room over the lunch hour. From the adjoining observation area, Solo, Waverly, and Graham watched as the questions picked up in intensity. Only Baker and Johnson conducted the interrogation; Appleton sat off to one side, quietly watching it all.
"Tell us about Grigory Zadkine," they asked finally. "When did you first meet him?" Baker asked.
"About 1941."
"What were the circumstances?"
"My mother and brother had been killed. My father was away at war. Grigory Zadkine's family took me in."
"How long did you stay with them?"
"Two years."
"When did you meet him again?"
"In 1948."
"Has he contacted you in the last week?"
Pause. "Yes."
"How would you describe your relationship with him?"
Kuryakin took his time answering that question, glancing at his watch, then slowly lighting another cigarette from his emptying pack. "I suppose you could say we have a brotherly love-hate association."
"Was Grigory Zadkine ever employed by the KGB?"
"I don't know."
"Make a guess."
"No."
"No, he was not employed by them or, no, you won't make a guess."
"The latter."
"Grigory Zadkine choreographed the dance you are now working on. When did he compose this?"
"Last year."
"He composed a dance for you two years after your death?"
"Yes."
"Don't you find that odd?"
Kuryakin didn't answer at first, staring at the table surface. "No. There is precedent in the arts. Many works of music and dance have been written in memory of a performer. Why do you say it is odd that he would do this for me?"
They ignored his question. "Your stepfather, Mikhail Zadkine, was a member of the KGB."
"Yes."
"What was his position at the time of his death?"
"Retired. Don't you have anything better to do than to ask questions you already have the answers to?"
"Petrov has been seen at the building you have been in. Has he talked with you?"
"Once."
"What about?"
Kuryakin shrugged. "This morning we discussed the weather, food--Nothing of importance."
"No mention of future plans?"
"No."
"Did he tell you about the article concerning you in the Soviet newspapers?"
"What article?" Kuryakin asked, looking up.
In the observation room, Solo groaned. "They're going to roast him."
They showed Kuryakin the TASS paper and he read it cautiously, glancing up at them afterwards. "I knew nothing about this. Why are you so surprised at propaganda in a Soviet paper?"
Solo grinned.
They took the paper from Kuryakin, paging through their notes again. "Tell us about the information that Grigory Zadkine passed to U.N.C.L.E.. Did he discuss it with you before he spoke to U.N.C.L.E.?"
Kuryakin sat quietly, tapping his fingers on the table, glancing up at the clock on the wall. It was almost one-thirty.
They repeated the question. "Did Grigory Zadkine discuss his information with you prior to giving it to U.N.C.L.E.?"
Kuryakin leaned back in his chair. For a moment, he looked up at the mirrored wall, as though he could see the three men watching him. He chewed on his lip.
"Mr. Kuryakin, you will answer the question."
He took a deep breath. "I am unable to answer that question," he said, evenly.
The three men in the observation room leaned forward. They all saw the brief smile flicker over the usually impassive face. "What is he up to?" Graham whispered.
In the interrogation room, Appleton frowned, lighting another cigarette and speaking for the first time. "Why?"
Kuryakin looked directly at him, answering calmly, "The information is classified, sir."
Even Waverly's eyebrows shot up.
Johnson took over the questioning. "Why is it classified?"
"I am on assignment for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Such assignments are classified, in this country open only to the President of the United States. If you do not hold this post, I am unable to provide further information."
Solo grinned
again as Graham slapped his shoulder. Waverly put his pipe between his teeth, nodding.
"You are on assignment? What is the nature of your assignment?"
"My partner and I were assigned the Zadkine case on Thursday, December 3rd. Until Mr. Waverly says we are off the case, we are still investigating it. Further information is restricted, but may I add that you are endangering my cover." He stood, pointing to the clock. "It is now time for me to return before I am missed. I believe Mr. Waverly, Number One of Section One of the Network, my immediate supervisor, informed you prior to this interview that I would be available from eleven o'clock until one-forty. I have another appointment."
"Sit down, Kuryakin. You can miss your appointment. You aren't going anywhere."
Kuryakin said nothing, but stood calmly by the door. It could only be opened from the outside and he knew the next move would be Waverly's.
The U.N.C.L.E. boss gestured for Solo and Graham to go. "Take him back to my office. I'll be there in a moment."
It was almost ten minutes before Waverly returned. He moved across the office slowly, carefully sitting down in his chair and looking across the table at the three men sitting there, anxiously waiting his verdict.
"Mr. Kuryakin, you took a risk that I would not back you up."
"Yes, sir."
"The CIA is not happy. They will be speaking with the President's Office about this." Waverly's craggy face was stern. "Do you still want to go back?"
A mere whisper. "Yes, sir."
Waverly shook his head, as close to exasperated as Solo had seen him. "You realize what they will put you through when this is all over?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know what this office will be put through if you fail?"
Kuryakin's head dropped.
"Look at me!" Waverly demanded and Kuryakin's head snapped back up. "I am going to allow you to leave but I want you to listen very carefully and understand why I'm doing this.
"The CIA is looking for a Soviet penetrator into a U.S. Intelligence agency. The information given them from another Soviet defector is that the double agent works for the KGB, his codename with them is Sasha, he is of Soviet background, has spent some time in Germany, his last name begins with the letter "K", possibly ends with "sky", and has access to highly sensitive material.