Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair

by LRH Balzer

  "They are trying to pin this on you. They have been for two years now. You are going to be raked over the coals regardless of what you do. You are going to be followed by the CIA and the FBI and that will compromise our operations. Three times over the last year I have already had to restrict you to these offices for your protection. There is another war out there that I cannot shield you from. I thought I could. I thought the United Network could, but even we are not immune.

  "I wish it were otherwise. I promised you complete freedom when you came to America and I have not been able to provide it. Perhaps this is my way of making it up to you."

  Kuryakin's face went paler. "I won't go. Not if you or the Network could he compromised. I won't go."

  "You said this was an assignment. Will you stick to that story? Will you go in that capacity?"

  "Sir?"

  Waverly stared at him, the dark eyes locking with Kuryakin's light blue eyes. "I am letting you go, ordering you to go, but remember you are still on assignment. If you uncover any information of value, you are to contact Mr. Solo with the details. At least once every twenty-four hours, beginning tonight at eleven o'clock, you are to contact him and advise him of your situation. There are no other restrictions, but I cannot predict what the final consequences of this... assignment will be."

  "Yes, sir, I understand. Thank you, sir." Kuryakin looked at Solo and Graham, then stood hesitantly.

  Waverly nodded. "Mr. Graham will drive you back. Your appointment is in half an hour."

  Solo accompanied them to the reception area. Heather McNabb met them there, handing Kuryakin the standard cigarette case/transceiver and a few other gadgets that he pocketed. Kuryakin looked haggard, anxious to get to his rehearsal, reluctant to leave. Graham hurried him into his coat and pushed Kuryakin out the door ahead of him.

  Bemused, Solo stared at the closed door and gave a little offhand wave with his fingers. "Bye." He shrugged his shoulders as he looked over at McNabb. "I guess that was that."

  The door opened and Kuryakin slid back in. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. Thank you. I will call. Thank you for letting me do this." He nodded, a slight smile pulling at his mouth. "Thank you." For a moment, he met Solo's eyes and again the wordless communication passed between them.

  "Take care of yourself," Solo said quickly as his partner disappeared out the door.

  Chapter Eight

  Illya Kuryakin moved briskly up the staircase, his feet pounding the steps to the fourth floor, then down the hall towards his room. He had sat outside the building in the car talking with Norm Graham longer than he should have, but there had been a sudden vacillation to enter the building.

  He opened the door. Komleva was by the window, one hand pressed nervously over her mouth as she anxiously watched the pedestrians passing on the street below. She turned as he entered. "Ilyusha! You are back! I--" Her eyes radiated the fear of what might have happened had he not returned. "You must hurry. Aleksey Antonovich will be angry if you are late."

  His clothes were where he had left them after morning class and he stripped quickly, half-listening as the older woman rattled off instructions and the agenda for the rest of his day.

  Slippers in hand, he raced from the room and up two flights to the rehearsal room, sliding in the doorway as the teacher, Aleksey Malikov, glared at the clock on the wall and Rodian Voronskiy, his dance partner, let a small sigh of relief escape his dry lips.

  Malikov frowned, watching him adjust the leather slippers and then move to the box to dust them for better grip. "Mr. Zadkine, perhaps you find other matters more important than this lesson, but I do not have time to waste. I have been asked--" and the way he said the word let them know clearly that it had been a request he was unable to refuse-- "to prepare you both for this special performance. I require your cooperation."

  "I apologize, Aleksey Antonovich. It will not happen again," Illya replied quietly, taking his place next to his friend.

  With a nod at the accompanist, the lesson began.

  Two hours later, Malikov left them. Exhausted, they shrugged into warm sweatshirts and leg warmers to prevent their perspiration-soaked bodies from chilling in the late afternoon dampness of the old hall.

  Wiping his face with a towel, Illya glanced over to the other man. "Rodya, if we succeed at this, it is by your skill only. I have forgotten too much... At first, I wondered if... But it has been too long for me..." his voice trailed off, as he clamped down on 'what might have been'. "It is true what they say, you have become one of the Soviet Union's greatest dancers," he added, with a rare smile.

  Rodian Voronskiy reached over and rumpled his hair good-naturedly. "Thank you, my quiet friend. I have missed you, Ilyusha. Tell me honestly, are you happy here in America?"

  Illya rubbed absently at the tape marks on his palms. "Am I happy? I am not sure what that is... But I have a purpose here. I have found friends here. It is my home. I have at times been content... It is where I must be, Rodya."

  "You do know they expect you to come back with us?" Rodian asked in a muted voice.

  Illya nodded slightly, removing one of his leather slippers and examining a nonexistent defect. "Rodya, what did Aleksey Antonovich mean--a special performance?"

  Rodian gave a small laugh. "Kosygin is coming to the capital of the United States next weekend and it coincides with our performance there. It has been decided that you should dance for him, to show everyone your remarkable recovery."

  "For Kosygin? In one week?"

  "Less than one week, actually. We are scheduled for the matinee performance next Sunday. We are to do this pas de deux last on the program." Rodian shrugged. "It means I will not be traveling with them this week. There are performances scheduled in the Eastern cities that I will miss."

  Illya studied him carefully. "I am truly sorry, my friend. I seem to have caused you many problems."

  "Are you serious, Ilyusha? To dance the final piece for the new Premier and the United States President? So I miss seeing Boston; I will still have the rest of the tour for two weeks following!"

  A noise at the door; they fell silent. There was never any guarantee who was on the other side.

  Grigory Zadkine entered and approached, his shiny, pointed, Western shoes clicking on the floor. He crouched down in front of them. "The rehearsal went well. I watched from above."

  Illya glanced up at the forgotten tinted mezzanine window, then back to Zadkine. "I was not aware you were here. Hiding. I was wondering when you were going to appear. May I speak with you? Privately?"

  Rodian Voronskiy cleared his throat. "We have a costume fitting in a few minutes, Ilyusha. I will go first, but do not forget it. I will see you there." Rodian pressed Illya's shoulder as he rose to his feet and escaped the room.

  "What is it, milochka?" Zadkine asked, sitting on the low bench next to Illya.

  "Do not call me that. I am not your darling brother."

  "Softly, little one," Zadkine chided, his eyes meaningfully darting to the upper observation window and back to Illya.

  "Why are you here? I hoped I had imagined you there last night," Illya whispered fiercely. "I thought you had defected to the United States!"

  Zadkine stretched his legs out, crossing them. "I could say the same to you. And you are here, also."

  Illya sat stiffly. "Are you going back?"

  "Are you?"

  "No."

  Zadkine looked at him, thoughtfully. "Reconsider. It may be best for everyone if you do go back."

  "Never. I will not even contemplate it. Grigory-- how can you go back? You have given secret KGB information to U.N.C.L.E.! How can you even be here?" His teeth clenched, Illya tried to keep his expression civil.

  Zadkine's voice dropped further and he spoke without turning his head or hardly moving his lips. "Perhaps our government is not concerned with the information I gave. Why must you be concerned about matters beyond you? This is not your business. Your business now is to dance."

  "I cannot close my mind to everythin
g around me. I am not a dancer, Grigory. I never have been. Not really. And I live here now, in America.--Tell me, Grigory, why are you on good terms with the KGB after you have supposedly defected?"

  Zadkine kept his gaze ahead. "Be careful what you say, little brother. While you are here, you are a dancer. Your life may depend on it. And the information I gave was about another group that has been pestering our government for some time; I said nothing I was not told to say."

  "Thrush?"

  "What? I do not know the name."

  "And who told you to give this information?"

  "It no longer matters. But our plans have changed, regardless. We had not expected to find you here."

  "Who do you mean 'we'?" Illya leaned forward intently, his voice hushed.

  Rodian appeared at the door, gesturing anxiously for Illya to join him.

  Zadkine stood up and said in a louder voice, "You better get to your fitting. We can catch up on gossip later."

  "No--Grisha!" Illya hissed as Zadkine walked away from him. He scrambled to his feet and caught up with him as he reached the door, grabbing the other's arm. "What's going on?"

  Once in the hallway, Zadkine wrenched out of his grasp, his face darkening in anger. "Shut up, Ilyushka! Go to the fitting now!" he ordered, pushing Illya towards Rodian. "Take him with you before you are both in trouble," he directed the tall Bolshoi danseur.

  Rodian pulled Illya down the hallway and away from the furious Zadkine who had turned and smashed his fist against the wall.

  ***

  "Maybe you're overreacting, Mr. Graham." Heather McNabb accepted the coffee from Solo with a nod, then turned her attention back to the Washington U.N.C.L.E. Chief. "Illya seems confident that he'll only do one performance. What's the chance that they'll let him go when the dance is over?"

  "None. Absolutely impossible, McNabb. It is obvious they are trying to re-educate him," Graham insisted, leaning forward in his chair in Solo's apartment living room.

  Joining them, Solo said nothing as he listened to the argument. He sipped on his coffee, put his feet up on the coffee table, and stared across at the two U.N.C.L.E. agents who had individually dropped by to see him, concerned.

  Graham continued, "Their actions so far have been textbook persuasion methods. First, they deprived him of sight--a common isolation technique. Then there was the faceless attack. He didn't know where he was, who or where the enemy was, or the condition of his partner. Third, they drugged him, forced him to sleep for several days, physically weakening their prisoner and throwing off his normal patterns. In this case, they must have kept him under until the Kirov vacated the building. He told me he was weak when he did awake and was told he was simply undernourished.

  "Fourth, they utterly controlled his environment. They forced him to depend on them for food, clothing, shelter, and companionship--all basic human needs. They isolated him from the world, shrunk his sphere of reference to Komleva until he said he felt alarmed when she was not there. It has been done over and over. The North Koreans did it, the KGB does it, and I know the CIA does it. He was alone, yet never alone. And they went a step further here, they provided someone who he trusted, who has in the past controlled him, so he would not perceive this person as an enemy or guard. From talking with him today, I believe he still does not view her that way.

  "Fifth, they had him concentrate on an activity--in this case, dancing--which demanded his entire strength and personality and focus. They didn't allow him time to think. He said he usually fell asleep shortly after he ate, so it is entirely possible they drugged his food. Sixth, they began to carefully blackmail him--initially, the articles in the newspaper and who knows what else will follow. And last, they gave him a bit of freedom to try to convince him that he was not a prisoner."

  Heather McNabb crossed her legs, her beautiful face pulled into a frown. "He seemed okay today..."

  "Yeah, right. Things are not what they seem. And this is only the beginning." Graham glanced over to Solo, aware of the Enforcement Agent's detached involvement with the conversation. "Well, Napoleon, feel free to jump in."

  Solo felt strangely calm. He understood their concern, but seeing Illya earlier that day had reestablished his confidence in his partner. They had talked in his office and he had witnessed the transformation Graham had alluded to: Illya emerging from his careful, all- business cocoon to express himself verbally, sitting on the edge of his chair, his eyes alive and impassioned. Knowing now what it meant, it was strange to be trusted like that, to that depth, and there was a curious responsibility that went with that kind of trust. "Is Illya in any immediate danger?" Solo asked finally.

  Graham looked from McNabb to Solo before nodding. "I think so. Maybe not physical danger at the moment, but some things are worse. We have sent him right back to them, played him into their hands, and all to get some information."

  "It's his job. It's our job." Solo reached for his U.N.C.L.E. Special and his weapon cleaning kit. "Speaking of which, McNabb, what all did you give Illya today?'

  She put down her coffee cup, counting off the objects on her fingers. "Your standard cigarette pack/transceiver, backup battery, lighter camera, an U.N.C.L.E. listening device, a bug detector, lockpick set, aspirin, and a Swiss Army knife."

  "Aspirin?" Solo twisted off the various U.N.C.L.E. attachments to the semi-automatic weapon. "Since when has aspirin been standard defense equipment?"

  "He looked like he had a headache," she retorted.

  "I have a headache and I don't see you bringing me any aspirin."

  "You seem rather glib tonight, Napoleon Solo." McNabb was angry. "Aren't you worried about him?"

  "Mr. Waverly referred to this as an assignment and I'm satisfied with that. As long as my partner is on assignment, I will simply be concerned for his safety and impatient for any information he passes on. I have to ask myself: Have we taken appropriate security precautions? Can we get him out quickly if we have to? Will the end product be worth the risk?

  "It's the job that is crucial. We don't know what is happening here and we need this information. Is there a Soviet threat? Is there a Cuban threat? What is Thrush doing? Any information Kuryakin can provide about the satellites, Kosygin's visit, the bomb threats against the U.N. or the Soviet Mission--all of it is vital."

  "But he's your friend, too," McNabb said quietly.

  Solo glanced up from cleaning his weapon. "Yes, he is."

  ***

  It was three hours before Illya stopped to think again, leaning against the shower wall, gasping as the hot water nettled his skin pink. Concentrate, Nickovetch. Don't stop thinking.

  Fear clutched at him. Fear that he would forget what he was supposed to do. Fear that he would forget and not know that he had forgotten. And worse, fear that he would forget only his reasons and change his mind and not want to do it any more.

  Three hours of not thinking.

  He turned the water pressure up.

  He had gone for the fitting, carefully putting the previous encounter to one side in order to deal with the flustered seamstress.

  Dinner was brought in immediately following, and he had sat next to Rodian, bent over the meal. At the table next to them, the teacher, Malikov, sat with the accompanist, the seamstress, and Komleva. Across the room, at another table, were Petrov, Grigory, and two others. From where they sat at different tables, Malikov and Grigory had argued about a moot point of interpretation and the room had listened without interest.

  Then another rehearsal. Zadkine had drilled them, his anger still not burned out, and the practice was a disaster. They could not dance with such tension. Malikov had appeared finally and after a short break, had taken over the rehearsal. By the time they were dismissed for the evening, everyone's nerves were tight.

  And now, he waited until the searing pain brought a yell to his throat before switching the hot water off and the cold on, his skin taking up the scream. It shocked his system, simple but effective. He stumbled out of the shower, wrapping himsel
f in the towel, his body shaking.

  It was too easy to fall back into old patterns. There was something in his early Soviet training that had left a residue within him. Believe everything you are told. Feel no need to think for yourself. We will take care of you. Cradle to grave. We know what we are doing. It is not your concern. Cradle to grave. Cradle to grave. Do what you are told. We will take care of you. Do not think for yourself.

  Petrov would be counting on that.

  Keep thinking. Concentrate.

  Hands trembling, he gathered his dance clothes and hobbled down the hallway, clutching the towel. The building was virtually empty. The ballet company had left for their tour at noon and now only a handful occupied the narrow six storey building.

  There was no one in his room this time and he shut the door tightly behind him, dressed quickly, and reached for his coat where he had left it earlier, slung over the end of the bed. As the time for him to report to Solo approached, the desire to hear another sane voice was overwhelming and he thrust his hand in the pocket for the transceiver.

  It was empty. He tried the other pocket. Empty. He glanced around the room, looked on the floor and under the bed. His things were gone.

  ***

  Petrov smiled as he entered. "Sit down, Illya Mikhaylovich. I will be with you in a moment." He gestured for the U.N.C.L.E. agent to have a seat opposite him. "Would you like some vodka? Sergey, bring us some vodka." He continued his telephone conversation.

  The dark-suited man who had accompanied Illya to the small room Petrov was using as an office, brought in a bottle of expensive, imported vodka and several glasses, pouring some and handing it to him before leaving the bottle with the KGB colonel.

  Petrov hung up the phone and took a glass for himself, pouring the clear potent liquor. "First we drink to this marvelous ballet your brother, Grigory Mikhaylovich, has choreographed." He raised his glass and tossed the drink back, aware that the glass in Illya's hand remained untouched.