Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair

by LRH Balzer

  Napoleon crouched beside the couch, his voice edged with concern. "Take it easy. I'll be here for a while. You can talk to me after you wake up."

  Trish slipped the oxygen mask back on Illya's face to ease his laborious breathing. He yawned as the oxygen steadied his system, fading out.

  "You're Napoleon Solo?" Tanya's eyes positively sparkled as she eyed him. "Are you staying for dinner?"

  Trish answered for him. "Yes. Mr. Solo will be visiting with us for a few days."

  "Wow!" Tanya whispered. She glanced back at Kuryakin but his eyes were closed again. She shrugged, tossed another grin towards Solo, turned and bounded up the stairs.

  Solo's eyes followed her out of the door, his head shaking in wonderment at this strange family. "You've got an interesting household here, Mrs. Graham."

  "Call me Trish, please!" she said. "Now, have you met Misha? He's eight now, and Tanya's sixteen. We have an older son, Tony, who's away at college. He should be back tomorrow for the holidays."

  "I met Tony on Sunday at the theater when Illya was shot. We weren't introduced though."

  Trish's eyes flashed briefly in anger at what had happened. "Our whole family was there to see the ballet. When we realized he had been shot... It was horrible." Tears flooded the dark eyes, her right hand gently stroking the haggard face of his partner.

  Michael wandered into the room and spared a small glance for Illya before staring eagerly at Solo. "Are you staying for a few days? Wanna play Monopoly?"

  "Not now, Misha. Why don't you go watch TV until dinner?" Illya was asleep now and Trish carefully raised his shoulders and slipped out from under him, then laid him back and covered him gently with the blanket, once more kissing his cheek as though he were the eight year old. She smiled at Napoleon. "Counting Norm, our three kids, and this one, I have five children to watch out for. And now, I'm going to check on dinner. Why don't you get settled downstairs? Norm said to put you in Ilyusha's room. It is clean and ready for you. We're going to keep him on the main level until he can navigate the stairs on his own. Misha, show Mr. Solo where the room is."

  Sam Lawrence and his assistant came and transferred Kuryakin onto a stretcher and took him from the room. The boy grabbed Solo's hand and enthusiastically pulled him down the stairs into the basement, through the rec room, past a full-sized pool table, to another hallway and a half-open bedroom door on his left with his suitcase abandoned in front. The child grinned and disappeared back the way he had come.

  Napoleon flicked on the light and stared around at the bedroom. Illya's room, they had said. This household was certified crazy.

  But this was Illya's room. A single bed, bookcases, desk. A Russian calendar and a poster of Leningrad on the wall. A rather sophisticated phonograph and speakers. An indexed collection of records.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, already exhausted. Illya had a bedroom in Norm Graham's house in Washington? The room looked lived-in, even to the tiny fridge and hot plate in one corner. On another wall: a guitar, mandolin, and balalaika hung from pegs. A book he had seen Illya recently purchase while on assignment in London lay on the night table.

  But why did Illya have a bedroom in Norm Graham's basement? He had never mentioned it. Norm had never mentioned it.

  He wanted to freshen up so he flipped open his suitcase, but it only had his dirty laundry in it. He hadn't planned on being out of town for so long. He checked Illya's bureau drawers for a sweater and clean shirt, still shaking his head in puzzlement.

  Trish Graham was slicing vegetables when he found the kitchen. She looked up at him and her smile froze on her face. "What's wrong?" she asked, glancing quickly over to the monitor on the counter that showed Lawrence hooking Kuryakin up to the equipment in the guest room. She tilted her head to one side. "You look confused... you didn't know about any of this, did you? Norm said earlier that he had a feeling Ilyusha had never said anything."

  Solo accepted the cup of coffee she poured for him and settled on a bar stool at the counter. "Can you fill me in?"

  She resumed her chopping. "It's no secret. I don't know why he didn't tell you. Alexander Waverly called me in July 1961. He said he had a young man at his office from the Soviet Union who needed a place to convalesce for awhile, to sort out a few things. Would we--Norm and I--take him in until he got on his feet? Well, I remembered Nikolai Kuryakin from his time in New York in 1947, and when we found out it was Kolya's son, there were no questions in our mind… we absorbed him into our family. Tony and Ilyusha hit it off right away--they're the same age. It took a while longer with the younger two since Ilyusha had not had much experience with children, but they won him over soon enough. He stayed initially for the summer, even went camping to the Grand Canyon with us. September and October went by as Alexander tried to get permission and documents for Ilyusha--you call him Illya, don't you?--to work in the New York U.N.C.L.E. office. Illya had to go to Langley for... talks... but he was here most of the time."

  She paused, glanced at the monitor, then cleared the vegetables off the chopping board and into a bowl. Another glance at the monitor and she started slicing celery. "Section One had decided to allow him to work in an Eastern Bloc U.N.C.L.E. office but none of them liked the idea of a Soviet working in America. Especially one who had worked for the KGB. But Alexander persisted, finally convincing the rest to let Ilyusha work on probation as a boffin for a set period of time, so he could be observed. It still took two years before they would let him out of the labs. Then Alexander had to convince the U.S. government to let a Soviet defector work as a fulltime intelligence officer in the United States, regardless of whether it was for a multi-national organization like the Network." From the way she was chopping the celery, Solo could feel her frustration.

  "As for how this came to be his home... As you can tell by my accent, I am from Russia, from Moscow, and my first husband--Tony's father--was a doctor there. When he died, Tony and I emigrated to America, I met Norm, and we married just after World War II. So we have lot of familiar things in our home that Ilyusha finds comfortable. We also have a rule," she stopped cutting and gave Napoleon a hard look, "about wearing our hearts on our sleeves here. The other side of this building is a Safe House; this side is a safe home. It is a place Ilyusha needs badly, where he is free to show his emotions and where it is expected. Do you know that it is a strain for him to be with Americans, especially if they are friends? He worries too much about being a foreigner, that he will embarrass someone if he makes a mistake and reveals his Russian emotions. So here, masks are left at the door." She gave him another long appraisal as if making sure he understood her.

  Trish sighed and continued, "Lately, he comes down on his time off, a couple times a month. He just sleeps and reads and talks with us. As you may have gathered, he also tells some quite incredible stories of your cases, largely designed about how amazing you are as Chief Enforcement Officer and how lucky he is to have such a wise and daring partner."

  Solo laughed. "I thought my reputation had been a wee bit exaggerated here."

  She smiled. "It's been a difficult year for all of us, especially for Ilyusha." Trish cleared her throat before continuing. "He was here last about three weeks ago. Alexander wanted to make sure he had recuperated from his shoulder injury and his time in Russia during the Neptune Affair, before sending him out again. Putting on the KGB uniform wasn't easy for him, nor was being so close to Leningrad and other places he had lived or worked in before, always painfully alert that someone might recognize him and turn him in. And then he had to go to Langley, of course." She rubbed at her eyes again and turned to wash the vegetables.

  Langley. The CIA Headquarters. Solo wandered into the darkening living room and moved over to the large window. Bright lights had come on outside as evening descended. Blowing snow danced around the lit yard. The temperature had dropped again; it was well below freezing. Ice formed a strange pattern on the outer edges of the window. It was cold.

  A damned cold war.

&nb
sp; The Land of the Free. If you fit the required specifications.

  He stared at the winter scene beyond. He had an idea playing at the corners of his mind, but when he tried to grab it, it twirled away, much like the snow cavorting in the wind. He returned to the downstairs room and lay on the bed, the exhaustion finally catching up with him.

  ***

  Solo turned over and squinted through the darkness at the clock on the dresser. It was almost eleven-thirty. He groaned. No one had woken him for dinner. He stretched and stumbled out of the room and up the stairs.

  "Hi." It was Tony, heading into the kitchen. "Slept through dinner, Mr. Solo? I just got in and I'm starving, so I'm warming up some leftovers. There's more than enough for you, too."

  "Anyone else up?"

  "They're in the living room. Go on in; I'll bring you your dinner."

  "Thanks. And please call me Napoleon." Solo turned the corner into the large room and halted, surprised.

  Christmas had arrived at the Graham home. A ten foot tree dominated the room, ornaments heavy on the branches, its blue and white lights sparkling. Beneath the tree were wrapped presents of differing sizes and shapes, some beautifully packaged, others child-wrapped in the Sunday comics. In the stonework hearth, a fire was crackling, sending a flickering yellow and orange glow across the room. On the mantel above, an ivory nativity scene had been painstakingly arranged.

  Apart from Michael, the rest of the household were there, now mellow in the spirit of the season, tired from their obvious hard work in setting this all up after the youngest had gone to bed. Trish and Tanya were curled up at opposite ends of the couch eating popcorn, Sam Lawrence was stretched out on the smaller couch asleep, and Norm sat on the floor in front of the fire, Illya nestled in blankets beside him. Music played quietly from a corner phonograph, a record of timeless Christmas carols that matched the mood perfectly.

  Eyes still somewhat glazed, Illya stared at the tree, lost in the lights. He was still hooked to the intravenous tube, but he had been cleaned up and was wearing pajamas rather than the hospital gown--someone had washed his hair as well, Napoleon noticed with a smile--and looked far more alive and alert than he had ten hours earlier.

  "Sit down, Napoleon," Norm said, his voice low. "I knocked on the door earlier to let you know dinner was ready but you were out for the count."

  "I see you've been busy."

  "We brought in the tree from outside and decorated it, then Sam and I brought Ilyusha in here." Norm waved his hand in front of Illya's face but there was no reaction.

  Napoleon sat crosslegged, leaning back against the couch. "Has he said anything?"

  Norm shook his head. "Not yet. When we talk to each other, he turns his head and looks at us, but..." He shrugged, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Sam says it may be the drugs in his system or maybe the bullet that hit his head..." Graham didn't seem to want to finish his thought.

  Napoleon nodded, staring into the fire. There was a hominess about the family that was comfortable, even for a stranger. The fireplace, the lights, the music. A few minutes later, knowing he was being looked at, he turned his head and met his partner's eyes. "Hello. You in there?"

  Illya pivoted back to examine the tree, then said clearly, "Last year, the lights were red."

  Everyone in the room sat up. "That's true, Ilyusha," Trish said. "You helped us put it up, do you remember?"

  Kuryakin said nothing, staring hypnotized at the tree. After a long, uncomfortable few minutes, he spoke again in his raspy voice. "This is my fourth Christmas here."

  Norm Graham reached over and picked up an extra ornament, then placed it in Illya's right hand. There was no response; Illya made no attempt to hold it and it fell and rolled away.

  Sam Lawrence shook his head. "Don't force him. Let him work this through." The doctor, wide awake now, moved closer to the fire to observe his patient from a better angle. Tanya had already fallen asleep before Illya spoke again, just as suddenly as he had previously. "Napoleon, I don't know why those men were there."

  Solo leaned forward. "What men, Illya? Where?"

  There was no reply. Kuryakin had closed his eyes in a sudden wave of pain and Lawrence reached for his wrist to check the pulse.

  The doctor looked undecided. "We should probably take him back to his room. His heartbeat is on the high side and he seems a little feverish. I'm going to give him something for the pain and I want to listen to his heart and lungs again. We don't want to risk pneumonia."

  "Is he cognizant, Sam? Does he know what he's saying?

  The doctor shook his head. "I don't know, Norm. He's talking at least, and that's a start. Tomorrow we'll know more." Kuryakin's eyes were still closed, his left hand grasping Norm Graham's tightly. He did seem to be hurting.

  "What could he be talking about?" Norm mused. "Maybe some men at the hospital? Or at the theater before the shooting?"

  Napoleon caught Illya's attention for a moment as the Russian's head turned in his direction. "What men?" he asked again.

  Kuryakin coughed abruptly, eyes tearing from the stinging fire in his ribs and lung. Lawrence raised his head and shoulders as he coughed again, squeezing Norm's hand as his chest spasmed. As he was lowered back to the floor, he made eye contact with Solo. Listen to me. "They were the others. Not the neighbors." Do you understand?

  Napoleon shook his head slowly. It made no sense. Illya's eyes closed, unable to stay awake, and Norm moved to help with the IV pole as Sam Lawrence picked him up and carried him out. The room emptied further as Trish steered Tanya up to bed. Napoleon stared at the fireplace for a while, then ate the food Tony brought in, surprised at how hungry he was.

  "Do you understand the reference, Napoleon?" Graham was smiling as he came back into the living room.

  "To what?"

  "The neighbors."

  "No. What was he saying?"

  "Okay, simply put, the Soviet Intelligence service is divided into two main groups: The Committee of State Security, which we call the KGB, and the Chief Intelligence Directorate, the GRU. Now in the Soviet Intelligence world, the KGB is referred to as sosedi, 'the neighbors', and they call the GRU 'the military neighbors' or 'the others'."

  Solo's mind raced. Among Illya's code words to him just before the performance had been: Wrong Group. "So Illya saw some GRU men that he recognized and they were somewhere he hadn't expected to see them."

  "Exactly. Maybe Raskachevskiy fits into this after all. I'm not sure how much you know about the KGB and the GRU, but they cooperate even less than the CIA and FBI. They don't like each other and don't trust each other. The KGB--as the Party's right arm--is the more powerful and dominant of the two groups but I think maybe the GRU is more deadly. They excel at military and political espionage and subversion. They're not as concerned about what goes on within the borders of the Soviet Union as the KGB is, but they're just as interested in foreign intelligence. There's this fierce competitiveness between the two groups. You wouldn't believe the time and effort they spend on spying on each other."

  "Travkov mentioned that Illya was working for the GRU before he defected. They wanted him to kill someone and he was upset about it."

  "The GRU has a nasty habit of eliminating their spies once they're finished with them. They have a whole section that's responsible for getting rid of agents who aren't needed any more. They murder them, poison them, push them from windows, blow darts at them, stab them, or whatever it takes. They get especially nervous if they think an agent may be breaking down, or talking too much, or just knows too much."

  Trish came in with a tray of steaming mugs of hot chocolate and Norm cut their conversation short. "Tomorrow," he whispered. "Enough shop talk on Christmas Eve. She hates it."

  ***

  Friday, December 25

  It was late Christmas morning before Illya was awake enough to talk with, but Sam Lawrence refused to let them question him. "When he volunteers information, fine. If you must ask him another leading question, do so, but if he doesn
't answer, drop it. I don't want him agitated."

  Trish and Tanya had cleared away the wrapping paper and bows from the living room and Lawrence brought his patient in and deposited him on the couch, propping him up with pillows into a half-sitting position. The intravenous lines had been taken from Illya's arm and he seemed a bit more aware of his surroundings.

  Michael played with a miniature train set that wound around the room, making whistling noises and explosion sounds as he crashed the engines in head-on collisions. Napoleon and Norm sat near the fire and discussed the case, rehashing the hundreds of pieces of information Napoleon had uncovered over the past week.

  "Misha has a towel on his arm," Illya announced in his scratchy voice half an hour later, as he watched Michael.

  They looked over to Illya, then down at Michael who didn't have a towel on his arm. Napoleon cleared his throat and asked, "Why does Misha have a towel on his arm?"

  "I don't know. Why is he here?" Illya asked, closing his eyes and turning his head away from them, drifting to sleep. He said nothing more, alternating between sleeping and staring at the Christmas tree.

  Christmas dinner was an elaborate affair, with the whole family, including Napoleon and Sam, pitching in to help. There were seven guests at the meal, five of them single men or women that worked for the Washington U.N.C.L.E. office and had no homes to go to for Christmas, and two were visiting dignitaries from Africa that were staying at the Safe House.

  Napoleon found himself on the kitchen clean-up crew, washing dishes for an hour, before he collapsed again in the downstairs bedroom and slept off the turkey and trimmings, and the pressures of the past month.

  ***

  Sunday, December 27

  After spending most of Saturday and Sunday in New York, Solo arrived back at the Washington Safe House. The guard on duty let him into the passageway leading to the Grahams' home and Norm met him at the door. "You made good time. I wasn't expecting you till later."

  "I caught an earlier flight. There was a cancellation." They passed the room with the medical equipment but the door was open and the bedroom was empty. "Where's Illya? Out lifting weights?"