by LRH Balzer
There were two beds in the room, only one of them occupied. Illya Kuryakin lay motionless, his head wrapped in bandages, his closed eyes purple smudges against the sallow skin. His lips were blue-tinged and the tube down his throat now had a T-piece oxygen feed above it, tied in place around his neck. A nasal gastric tube went down his nostril into his stomach and was taped securely across his nose. His arms were spread out on either side, tubes feeding into his left lower arm, while the other showed red blotchy marks from various needles.
His chest was bare, but besides the taped wound midpoint on his upper right side and the cardiac monitor's leads, another tube exited from his chest, showing pink frothy liquid dripping into a glass jar. Dr. Mercer quietly explained its purpose, showing the pump on the wall that was draining the fluid from the injured chest cavity and keeping the damaged lung inflated.
"How soon before he can talk?" Solo asked again, knowing Mercer would have a more accurate idea of what was at stake.
"That tube should stay down his throat for a few days at least, and we will be keeping him sedated during that time. As soon as he is stronger, we'll allow him to breathe on his own, but for now, he needs assistance. I assure you, when it is reasonably safe, we'll awaken him."
Mercer moved away from the still body. "Let me add this, Norm. Regardless of how dramatic this looks, the bullet that pierced his lung is not our major concern. It should heal normally and if that was his only injury, I would say he should be back to a desk job in three weeks. But he was also shot in the head. We have no idea what damage that did, and we won't know until he comes to. We are tackling one problem at a time. But don't expect him to wake up remembering everything that happened to him. His memory is bound to be affected by the trauma, by the drugs we've been feeding him, and by the concussion itself."
"So what do you suggest?" Graham asked.
"I suggest you treat him as a dead man for the next little while and go about your investigations as though you will never get information from him."
"Can't you word that differently?" Solo asked, grimacing.
"No. Not and give you the facts you need right now. This man is out of the picture for at least the next two or three days."
Solo kept his back to Kuryakin. "What if we force him awake? Can it be done?"
"Then you may very well kill him and accomplish for the assassins what they were unable to complete. And his death would be on our hands."
***
Colonel Petrov strode down the hallways of the embassy, his face an enraged mask, his dark heavy coat weighing down one arm. What did they expect of him? Two weeks ago he would have jumped at this last request, but now it infuriated him. He felt his gut twisting, rebelling.
Tsvetayev met him at the entrance to his office, equally as grim. "There is still no word on Zadkine yet, sir."
"This is insufferable!" Petrov exploded. "I have to answer to the premier for this fiasco, and the perpetrator is probably out having cocktails somewhere. He was supposed to contact me this morning!" He threw his overcoat in the direction of the coatrack and sat at the desk, one massive arm clearing it off, heedless of the papers scattering around the room. He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and started writing quickly. "I have to prepare a statement for the American press. Call the hospital and see how young Zadkine is." His voice had calmed somewhat as he scribbled. "And Ivan Vasilyevich, have someone call who speaks English without an accent. We may get a more accurate answer. Do we have someone at the hospital observing yet?"
"The Bolshoi is reluctant to send any of their people, since Illya Zadkine is not a member of their group. They have no formal authority for him. Besides, they are already on a plane to Chicago, as previously arranged in their schedule. They have two performances there, beginning tomorrow night."
"Where is Komleva? Did she continue with them?"
"I wasn't told, sir. The message said simply that the entire Bolshoi troupe, including their administrators and associated personnel, had left the hotel and were accounted for. Would Komleva have been included in those numbers?" Tsvetayev looked up from his notes, pen posed to take his superior's instructions. "Shall I enquire?"
"Yes." Petrov returned to his speech. "Send Grigory Zadkine in, should he show up. I cannot believe this! The traitor is shot and taken out of our hands and to get him back now would cause an international incident! How am I to answer Kosygin?"
***
Solo caught the next flight back to New York with Waverly, returning directly to the U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. At his own desk, in the privacy of his office, he laid out his index cards again, staring at the patterns they had caused, and might yet cause.
Heather McNabb stood at the doorway, hesitating, and he looked up and saw her. "Come in. Sit down, Heather."
"What happened? I thought everything had been planned." She was pale, her eyes wide. She was dressed in a casual outfit, as this was not her normal workday; along with others, she had been drawn to the office after hearing of the shooting, as though they could help somehow by their presence.
"I don't know what happened. He's alive, don't worry," Napoleon added. "The doctor said three weeks until he's back to work, so I imagine he'll be here in two."
"It's not serious then? I had heard--" she stopped short, her face puzzled.
"What did you hear?" Napoleon asked quickly.
"On the radio, they said Illya had been shot twice at the theater and he had been taken to the hospital, but was not expected to survive."
"Interesting... What last name did they use for him?"
"Zadkine. Illya Zadkine, now dancing with the Bolshoi Ballet, who just last week regained his sight after an unknown amount of time blind. That's what they said." McNabb glanced down at the paper in her hand. "Oh, I meant to give this to you right away."
Solo took the message from the Communications Section, then reached for his telephone. "It's from Sasha Travkov. I never thought of calling him--I didn't realize it would be on the news." He dialed the number but there was no answer. He glanced again at the message. Travkov had phoned at 6:00 that evening, probably just before leaving for his own performance of the Nutcracker the ballet company was presenting, and it was now almost midnight.
His phone rang. Norm Graham's voice, calm and reassuring. "Everything's fine here. We have Illya registered as Zadkine and have been issuing notices that suggest he may not live."
"Why? Do you plan on killing off Illya Zadkine again and letting Illya Kuryakin walk out? It didn't work last time."
"It did work last time, for almost four years."
"They'll be watching more closely now."
"Napoleon, you come up with a better solution and we'll do it. Meanwhile, this is the scenario. I just spoke with Alexander before I called you and he agrees with me. He also ordered us to keep Illya's real condition to level one and two U.N.C.L.E. staff only. Everyone else gets the official version, including the CIA, the FBI, and the Soviets."
"Did you know they announced it here on the radio?"
"Yes, we are trying to flush out Grigory."
"What about Travkov? I was just trying to call him."
"Sorry, Napoleon, but he isn't cleared for this."
Solo shook his head wearily. "I'll put him off until tomorrow. I hope things change by then. Have you located Zadkine?"
"No. But word on the street is that the Soviets are after him as well."
"Any news on your dead body?"
"Nothing. No reports of him missing and no mention of his name in any of our searches."
"So what do we know?"
"We know his name is Igor Raskachevskiy and his rank is listed as Brigadier General. According to his papers, he's a Soviet Military attaché--more likely, he's GRU, with Soviet Military Intelligence. He arrived with Kosygin's group on Saturday morning."
"A Brigadier General is missing and they aren't telling us!? What was he doing at the theater? He doesn't sound like he would be concerned with setting up security procedures."
&nb
sp; "I have no idea--I can't even ask the ballet. They all left on an early evening flight for Chicago. It's all legitimate; the tickets were purchased four months ago. I've contacted our Chicago office and they'll talk to them in the morning."
"Well, then, I'm going home to get some sleep. I can't do anything else here and if I keep this up, I won't be any good to anyone."
"I'm just heading home myself. Tony's at the hospital tonight and we have four of our own agents there, plus the local police in force, so Illya should be fine."
"Good. I'll be in contact in the morning."
***
Grigory Zadkine double-checked the documents in his briefcase, then carefully locked it and handed it to the bookstore owner, summoned out of bed at two in the morning. "I will come and collect it later, when things quieten down. See to it that the case stays closed. It is wired."
He ran back to the street and crawled into his cab, giving the address of the Academy Building. In the morning, he would turn himself into the CIA and begin the long procedure to stay in the country. Meanwhile, he would sleep.
It had been a long day. He had wasted most of it trying to impress the girl's father. He had accompanied them back to New York in the hope of getting more information to give to Petrov to prove the value of his work in the United States. Instead, he couldn't get rid of them and ended up taking them to Travkov's ballet so he could try to convince Travkov to help him clear his name.
It didn't matter. His KGB contact in the city had no choice but to help him or the man would find himself implicated.
The taxi driver handed him his suitcase and he walked carefully up the slippery stairs. He explained who he was to the doorman and showed his papers, and was let in. It had begun to snow and the stairs were already ice-packed under footsteps. He wondered briefly who else was staying at the building, but in his hurry to get inside, he didn't ask the doorman.
***
Napoleon Solo was woken up at 2:20 in the morning by an apologetic agent reporting in over the transceiver.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir. I'm doing the night shift for Lagto and I just saw Grigory Zadkine enter the Academy building. My orders are to call you if either Zadkine or Petrov show up here."
"Zadkine is there? How many men do you have with you?"
"Just me, sir. Should I send for reinforcements?"
"Yes. If they get there before I do, just have them wait. Call me if Zadkine leaves and follow him if you can."
"Yes, sir."
Solo crawled out of the warm bed, sighing. Two hours of sleep was a record for him lately.
"Yes? What do you want?" The doorman peered at him through the glass door, but made no attempt to open it for him.
"Let me in. I want to talk with you." Solo held up his U.N.C.L.E. identification and the man looked at it carefully.
"I don't know that group. Are you the police?" the man asked, suspiciously.
"I am with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. I can get the police, if you want. Who hired you?" This man was obviously American, quite different from the one who had been present the previous two weeks.
"Oh, I'm with a private security firm. The people who own the building contracted me to watch the place. It is still actually rented by the Russian ballet people. Are you with them?"
"Listen, buddy, it's cold out here. Would you please call someone and tell them an U.N.C.L.E. agent is at the door and is slowly freezing?"
The doorman disappeared, returning a few minutes later as Solo stamped his feet and waved his arms, trying to stay warm. "They said I better let you in." He opened the door and Solo entered quickly, his face red from the wind.
"What's your name, son?"
"Bob, sir. Bob Gitlin."
"Well, Bob, I'll be back down here in about twenty minutes. I have sent for some more U.N.C.L.E. agents, so don't be surprised to see them out there."
"Is there going to be trouble?"
Solo shrugged. "Why not? There's been trouble everywhere else I've been lately. Now who's all here?"
"I started at one o'clock and I just let in one guy."
"How many others are staying here?"
"I don't exactly know. Not many, though. The ballet people are traveling right now, I was told." Bob scratched his head. "Sorry I can't help you there. I only watch the door from one until eight in the morning. To make sure no vagrants come in."
Solo called the U.N.C.L.E. agent stationed in the building across the street, but he also had started shortly after midnight. There was no record of how many people might have entered the building before midnight, only that no one they were watching for had come. Solo left his transceiver on the watcher's frequency and started up the stairs.
As he approached the second floor, his transceiver twittered and he pulled it from his pocket. "Yes?"
"A few lights just came on in the large rehearsal hall. Two men are there and it looks like they're arguing."
"Is Zadkine one of them?"
"I believe so. I have the cameras running."
"Good work. Call into U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters and arrange for my reinforcements to watch the entrances to this building. They should be here any time. If anyone comes running out, I want them detained until I can speak with them."
"Yes, sir."
Solo took his gun out and checked it quickly, then continued up to the top floor. A gunshot echoed through the corridor as he reached the fourth floor. Another shot, fired from a different gun, sounded before he could reach the top of the stairs.
He listened but there was no noise in the hallway. The door to the rehearsal room was ajar and he opened it slowly, then quickly entered, the U.N.C.L.E. Special held out before him.
Grigory Zadkine lay on the floor near the entrance, a gun in his right hand and a hole through his left chest, blood running from his mouth. A quick touch to his throat confirmed he was dead.
The second man lay huddled across the room in the shadows, also not moving. Solo approached cautiously and the man moaned, rolling over onto his back. Alexander Travkov. His eyes opened, and he clutched at his side looking up at Solo, recognition flickering. "Did you stop him?" he asked weakly. "He shot me. He shot me!" Travkov had no gun.
Solo scanned the room carefully, but it was empty. There was no place one could hide. "Who else was here, Sasha? Who shot Grigory?" He knelt down beside Travkov, his left hand moving aside Travkov's jacket to check the wound, but the bullet had only grazed the dancer's side. "You'll be fine. Just lie still." He opened his transceiver and called the U.N.C.L.E. watcher. "Did you see what happened?"
"It's on film. They argued, like I said, then the one you're with now started a fight, but it didn't last long and the other one kicked him and he went down. Then the other man pulled a gun and shot him. There's a door near the south end of the hall that someone else came out of and shot Zadkine, but it's in the shadows, sir. I don't know who it was. We can check the film at Headquarters. We've got equipment there to enhance it."
"Call for an ambulance. I'll stay here until it arrives. I don't want to leave Travkov unprotected. Let me know if anyone tries to leave the building."
"Yes, sir. Our men have arrived and I have passed on your instructions."
Solo tried to make Travkov comfortable, keeping a watch on the two doors as he talked. "What are you doing here, Sasha?"
The big Russian danseur grimaced in pain. "I heard about Ilyusha and I thought Grisha might be here."
Solo groaned. "Illya's fine. The doctors say he'll recover completely."
Travkov looked up at the Enforcement agent. "The radio said--"
"I know. I know. I couldn't get a hold of you to tell you the real story."
Relief flooded the ashen face. "Ilyusha will live? I could not bear for him to die again." He turned his head to see Zadkine's body. "I did not wish him dead, though. If you did not kill him, who did?"
"I'll find out. How long have you been in the building?"
"I came after evening performance. I wait l
ong time for him to come, but I was angry. He finally came, but he didn't want to talk to me. He walked over to piano to get his music. He kept pushing me off, ignoring me or telling me to mind my own business. He had not heard radio announcement and said I was lying. He said because I talk to you, the CIA has warrant for his arrest. Because I told you he worked for KGB. Is this so?"
"Yes, they wanted to talk with him. Then what happened?"
"He said I ruined all his plans. I tried to steal his brother. He said if he could not have control of him, I could not have him either. He said Ilyusha had to go back to Moscow and he didn't want me to get in way again. And he shot me." Travkov's voice went up as he realized again he had been injured. "I must dance tomorrow night!"
"You won't be dancing for a while, until that heals."
The ambulance came and Travkov was bundled away down the stairs. Solo instructed the two U.N.C.L.E. agents to search the upper floors of the building as he patrolled the hallways, peering into the empty rooms. He had reached the third floor when one of the agents came down the stairs and called for him.
"I found someone, sir. You better come see for yourself." He led the way to the fourth floor dorm room.
Solo stood in the doorway and stared into the small room. Slowly, he slid his gun back in the shoulder holster and moved towards the body on the bed. He had never met her, but he knew who she was. The older woman sat primly, regally, the covers drawn up around her chest, a shawl around her thin shoulders. She had a book open on her lap and her head was tilted to one side, her eyes closed. An empty tea cup was on the night table beside the bed; he bent down and sniffed the few drops left in it, nodding at the bitter smell. Next to the tea cup and the little lamp, Solo could see the gun that had shot Grigory Zadkine.
He took the book of poems to see what she had been reading while waiting for the poison to work. Her fingers still clasped the page. The Poet, by Nikolai Zabolotsky. She had underlined part of the poem, the ink beginning to fade.