by LRH Balzer
Petrov laughed. "Just remember that it was the KGB who made you the top in your field in the Soviet Union. What if the Americans do not like your work?"
"I am good at what I do. Besides, it is fashionable to be a Soviet choreographer in the West. We have already instilled in their minds that the Soviet Ballet is the purest form. That alone will open doors and the Americans would love to believe that I have been treated unjustly by the Communist overlords."
"You have learned the lingo well. But what of the little pigeon? Are you willing to walk away from him?"
"Do whatever you like with him. I do not really care if I see him again. He will perform adequately tomorrow, Aleksey tells me, but he will never regain what he once had. He has been gone from dance for too long. Don't worry, he will not embarrass you; the ballet was written for his strengths and to hide his weaknesses. But aside from this one ballet, I doubt he would continue for long in the theater, so you must find other avenues to consume him. I warn you, though, he has a conscience that has always been difficult to control."
Raskachevskiy nodded, brusquely. "We are well aware of his complexities."
"You would not want him to remain in America with you?" Petrov asked.
"It would be impossible for me to accomplish anything if he were to live here. He would be underfoot and watching me."
"So the option you wish me to present is as follows: rather than you and the little brother returning with us to Moscow as Boris Fedorovich conceded, instead we take the brother and leave you here as an illegal as was our original intention." Petrov poured himself another drink and sucked on the cigar. "Do you think bringing Illya Mikhaylovich back with us will be enough to make up for these changes you are making?"
"Was that not what Boris Fedorovich wanted? The change in policy..."
"Oh, we can still make use of him, I have no doubt of that." Petrov stood as Tsvetyalev pointed to his watch. "Yes, I realize I have other duties tonight before the reception. Grigory, I will let you know tomorrow morning what the decision is. Contact me."
***
Napoleon Solo entered the executive office of the U.N.C.L.E. Washington agency as the meeting was already in progress.
"And what exactly do you plan to do at 4:48 p.m. tomorrow afternoon when the Russian finishes his ballet?"
At the center of the conference table, Alexander Waverly looked calmly across to the CIA officers. "It was the expressed wish of Mr. Kuryakin that once the piece had concluded that he would be allowed to return to the United Network Command Headquarters in New York for debriefing. Our intention at this time is to proceed with that arrangement."
Peter Baker, the CIA's Counterintelligence chief for the Soviet Division, glanced down at his notes and continued his line of questions. "When was the last time the Russian contacted you?"
"Mr. Kuryakin spoke with Mr. Solo within the hour."
"Did the Russian give any indications as to his future plans?"
Waverly tapped his pipe on the desk with deliberate care and Napoleon Solo watched the procedure with practiced composure. Waverly was angry and it took a lot to get Waverly angry. "Mr. Baker, I will say this one more time. In my presence, in my organization, you will refer to the subject by his name: Kuryakin. He will not be referred to as the 'Russian', the 'defector', or the 'former KGB agent'. Have I made myself clear?"
"You have, Alexander," Appleton answered for his men, ice in his voice. "Now I will make my position clear, as well. We are investigating everyone working in the United States who is involved in espionage, intelligence, or counterintelligence work and who fits some or all of our criteria. We have been advised that there is at least one high-ranking mole in either our organization or another American agency. Your Mr. Kuryakin matches almost every single item on our list. Now what do you expect us to do? We have a responsibility to the American people to ascertain if this man is the mole we are looking for.
"Kuryakin is currently in the hands of the KGB, unrestrained, and we are not prepared to see him disappear at 4:48 tomorrow afternoon with your secrets and ours. If he were a simple enforcement agent in your organization, we would not be so concerned. But he is the Assistant Chief in your Enforcement Section. If something should happen to yourself and Solo, Kuryakin would--at least temporarily--be in charge of all U.N.C.L.E. operations in North America. Can't you see that until this is resolved, this situation is unacceptable?"
Solo cleared his throat. "If I may?" he asked Waverly, then addressed the CIA agents. "According to his file, which I studied in great detail this week, Mr. Kuryakin has been detained, confined, and cleared five times by your organization since his arrival in this country." He opened the bulky file, removed two papers, and laid them on the desk so they could read them if they chose. "This top letter is from the Attorney General's office dated earlier this year. It states that Mr. Kuryakin is, in the eyes of the Department of Justice, exonerated of any charges against him. It also reflects their appreciation for his service to the American people through his work with the United Network Command in this country. It also acknowledges the years 1958 to 1960 when, unsolicited, Mr. Kuryakin mailed over fifteen packages to Mr. Waverly from cities all over the world, at extreme risk to his own life. As you are aware, these contained valuable information on world issues that averted more than one global crisis. As this is top secret, there can be no public praise, yet the Attorney General wished to have this document attached to Kuryakin's permanent file at U.N.C.L.E..
"The second letter is dated this morning and is from the office of the U.S. Senator from New York, repeating his affirmation of the character and deportment of Mr. Kuryakin, despite the current situation."
Waverly's bushy eyebrows were drawn together, his forehead furrowed. "For your information, gentlemen, when we were in contact with Mr. Kuryakin in the last hour, he stressed again to Mr. Solo his wish to leave the tour group following the special performance. I have personally seen to it that President Johnson is aware of the situation and is ready to step in and confront Premier Kosygin should Mr. Kuryakin be abducted."
Appleton lit another cigarette and stared across the room at Waverly, shaking his head in disbelief. "How can you be so sure of this one man? Our undercover agent in the theater says that Kuryakin seems completely dominated by Petrov and that the atmosphere in the Bolshoi is that he will be returning with them."
"He is our undercover agent, and I am happy to hear that his cover is intact," Waverly responded. "Now, gentlemen, I must ask you to leave. I must prepare for the reception this evening. We have set an appointment for Tuesday morning, ten o'clock, at your Langley offices for you to debrief Mr. Kuryakin."
***
Illya leaned his head against the car window and watched the cold, uninviting city go by. It was growing dark and the street lights were coming on, one by one, as they passed beneath them. Home and safety seemed far away, but he knew it was so close that if he had the strength to turn his head, he would see it in the distance.
His arm stung.
The man beside was talking and poked him to answer every few seconds. He had learned to say, 'Yes, comrade,' and 'no, comrade' at the appropriate times. He rubbed at the small bandage on his arm and tried not to argue with the guard. Better they should think he was still under the spell they had woven.
They escorted him out of the car and into the hotel, leaving him with Komleva in his room. He dropped into a chair, closed his eyes, and said nothing to her. She checked his arm and started the bath running, insisting he relax this evening.
Petrov came in before the bath was ready and talked with Komleva, informing her of the schedule for the next day. It was very matter-of-factly stated that after the performance, they would all be returning to the embassy for a reception with Kosygin.
"Vladimir Konstantinovich?" Illya said, opening his eyes. "Where is my brother?"
Petrov smiled, bending over to talk to him as if he were an imbecile. "He is away on business. Why do you ask?"
"I am not happy wi
th Aleksey Antonovich's arrangement. Grisha will be angry, as well."
"Why is that?" Petrov sat in the chair opposite him.
"Aleksey Antonovich has changed the meaning of the dance. If I am to perform the entire ballet later after we return, it will be difficult to learn the new steps."
Petrov studied him silently, one hand brushing his mustache flat. "And this bothers you?"
"Yes."
"There is no time to change it before tomorrow's performance."
"If we go in the morning, perhaps there is time."
"And it is important to you?"
"Yes, Vladimir Konstantinovich."
"We will see, Ilyusha."
Illya watched Petrov's face as he exited the hotel room and knew Petrov felt he had won the battle. "Irina Yakovlevna? Will you help me change my bandage?" he asked passively.
***
In the Washington U.N.C.L.E. office he was using, Napoleon Solo carefully wrote up on index cards the pieces of the puzzle he was trying to solve. The chief difficulty was not knowing what the final picture would look like, or how many jigsaw puzzles he was dealing with. There were still far too many pieces that didn't fit and he was trying to weed out the extra unrelated events that, while important in their own right, were not a part of his assignment.
He put the incidents in piles first: those events dealing with Thrush, with the KGB, or with other unknown groups. Then he placed them by personal involvement: Zadkine, Petrov, Kuryakin, U.N.C.L.E., Thrush, and others. There was also the bazooka attack on the United Nations building, the NATO conferences, the Cuban demonstrations and the Gromyko/Stevenson Cold War statements.
Next, he had to consider U.N.C.L.E.'s involvement in the above and in the current situation he was investigating: the U.S. Army attaché/U.N.C.L.E. agent who was deported from Moscow and whose pictures had contained shots of Jonathan Heatherly, the British Thrush leader.
It was difficult to know where to start. Or how to merge the above with Illya Kuryakin, Grigory Zadkine, Thrush, and an unknown satellite.
Napoleon Solo was a man of action, but he was also a trained tactical specialist. This may not be a battle of guns and physical fighting, but it was a deadly battle just the same and one he took just as seriously.
***
Sunday, December 20th
Mid-morning, the entire company warmed up with a short class on the stage. It was the first time Illya had seen them in five days and he made a great show of being together with Misha and Yuri again. From offstage, he could see Petrov smiling and nodding and knew the man was convinced.
Following the class, the dancers were officially invited by the ballet master, Malikov, to go out into the auditorium and watch the dress rehearsal of the pas de deux. There was a fifteen minute break while Rodian and Illya went down to their dressing rooms.
Slipping into the costume, Illya felt his awareness shift from agent to dancer and he jerked at the edge of the bandage, feeling the tape pull the hairs on his arm. A minute passed and he sat down quickly.
His heart was beating rapidly and he wiped his damp palms on his lap. He had thought he could do it, but he knew at that moment that he could not dance as Kuryakin. He had to let go of his identity and become the character he was portraying. In the Soviet Union, forgetting was an art. A citizen worked hard to keep their social and business worlds separate, to not let their left hand know what their right was doing. He had no time to learn another way, to integrate his compartmentalized life.
And no time to call Napoleon and end the assignment. So he would keep going.
Komleva entered the room, fussed over him for a moment adjusting his costume, then escorted him to the stage. She seemed distracted, on one hand proud of him, but when he saw her look away, he knew she was afraid of him as well.
"Irina Yakovlevna? When I finish dancing, please change this dressing. It is uncomfortable."
She nodded, scolding him again for being careless and scraping himself on the railing and Illya felt some of the tension dissipate. She would not forget the bandage. And perhaps he would not forget.
He stood offstage and watched as the curtain rose and Rodya began the dance. Fifteen minutes were then swallowed up as he let himself descend into the role, moving where the dance carried him. Only a very small part of him was aware of the orchestra's climax and his final leap which carried him across the stage to land stretched out across the floor as the cymbals crashed, the stage vibrated beneath his body, and the curtain slowly fell.
He didn't move for long seconds, his chest heaving from the effort of the last minute. Rodya pulled him to his feet and into a tight embrace, passing him on to Komleva and several of the ballerinas and danseurs who had climbed onto the stage and now stood in line to congratulate them both. It would go well, all agreed.
He let himself be carried along with the excitement, swept down the stairs with the crowd and abandoned outside his dressing room. Komleva drew him in and helped him out of his costume. When she changed his bandage he remembered again, his body shaking in sudden terror despite his efforts to calm it. She brought him some tea and insisted he stretch out on the couch and rest for awhile. He asked for some food and she said she would get it for him from the catered lunch provided by the management of the theater and she left him alone.
Alone. Kuryakin smiled and sat up, strength returning to his body as the memories and hot tea revived him. He downed the rest of the cup, surprised at how much he did remember. Petrov had been there in the auditorium.
The smile faded. Others had been there as well--faces he had only seen briefly but knew as well as he knew any faces. He could not begin to imagine why they were there, at a ballet in Washington, D.C., in America.
But he had been there, too. Watching. It had been years, of course, but years could not wipe out those memories, no matter how hard he had tried to purge himself of them.
The rage started, grew within him as he clenched his fists and focused on the faces in his mind. The hatred and loathing of the last ten years surfaced, bubbling through every pour of his being. They had come, just as he knew they would, vultures ready to swoop down and grab him. What they had forced him to do was unforgivable in his mind. Never again. Never would he be controlled like that again.
This would not be done for U.N.C.L.E.. He would do it for himself. Just once he would not be controlled by anyone or anything, no matter how honorable their purpose.
Kuryakin slipped out of the dressing room and ran lightly down the hallway, listening for sounds. They had put him apart from the rest; he could hear the other dancers talking as he neared their dressing rooms. An alibi...
"Is there a television here? I cannot sleep. Maybe if I watch something trivial...?"
Misha came to the door at once. "You should be in your room."
"I told you, I cannot sleep. It is too quiet. There must be a television here somewhere. I find most American television puts me to sleep in seconds," he explained.
"You will only make them angry." Misha turned him towards his room with a tolerant smile. "Go back to your room and don't go wandering around the halls."
Yuri joined them and Illya repeated his request. Yuri sighed and stepped between them. "Let him go, Misha. What harm is this?" He gave Illya directions to the lounge, adding he would join him after his shower.
Illya grinned gratefully, then called over his shoulder to Misha as he walked down the hall, "If anyone's looking for me, you'll know where to find me."
He found the lounge, then quickly explored another hallway branching from it. He was ready to head back the way he had come when an elevator door near him opened and three men exited, walking towards him, staring at him. There was nowhere to hide so he walked calmly in their direction, ignoring them. They passed him, their eyes briefly touching, and then they rounded the corner and were gone.
He knew them. Especially one of them. Him.
Illya stood alone in the hallway, his mind trying to sort it all out. Then he moved, knowing his decis
ion had been made ten years before. There wasn't much time before he would be missed.
He went by a serving cart on its way to the buffet lunch and stopped and politely asked the waitress directions to the staff lounge, one hand slipping a sharp knife from the cutlery as he held her gaze. The young lady did not notice, being rather tongue-tied, in awe of talking with him, one of the foreign performers. His accent had thickened; he noticed, but made no attempt to change it.
He returned to the hallway near the elevator, knowing the man would return for him. Within two minutes, footsteps sounded in the passage and he faded into a doorway as the man rounded the corner.
Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin waited only a second to make sure it was the right man.
He ran down the corridor, turned right and came into the deserted open lounge area, complete with a television and couches. It would do perfectly. He adjusted the knob on the television, switched the channel selector to an old movie, and curled up on one of the couches, in plain sight. He willed himself to unconsciousness, counting on his other training to take over now.
By the clock, it was ten minutes later when they woke him up from the deep sleep.
"What are you doing here?" Petrov demanded.
Illya peered at him, half-awake. "Watching television."
Petrov pulled him to his feet. "You were left in your dressing room."
"I thought I wasn't a prisoner! I was trying to relax as I was told. I am not hiding!" Illya retorted angrily. "I told everyone I would be here!"
Petrov glanced around the lounge, glaring at Yuri who sat nearby. "How long has he been here?"
Yuri shrugged. "He was here already asleep when I got here, about fifteen minutes ago."
Petrov scowled, then turned to the two KGB officers accompanying him. "Sergey, his lunch is waiting for him in his room. See to it he relaxes there. And if Grigory Zadkine finally shows up, bring him to the luncheon."
***
From his position at the side of the stage, near the main curtain controls, Napoleon Solo watched the backstage tension elevate as the Bolshoi matinee performance proceeded. Just as the audience was a Who's Who of Washington elite, so the dark-suited observers scattered behind the rows of curtains ringing the stage covered every intelligence organization in America. And another double handful from the Soviet Union.