by LRH Balzer
THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.
THE COLLECTION:
YEAR ONE
January - May 1965
Volume 3 of The Collection Series
by L.R.H. Balzer
artwork by Warren Oddsson
The Collection Man from U.N.C.L.E Chronology
I realize everyone has their own way of reckoning dates and order of shows. Some go by date of filming, others by airdate. For those who are concerned about such things, this is my chronology of U.N.C.L.E., with the televised episodes listed on the left, my stories on the right, and in the middle is when I figure they really happened.
TV Episodes
My Chronology
Collection Stories
June-July 1961
Kolya's Son (Vol.4)
Double Affair
August 1963
March-Sept 1964
Dutch Blitz Affair (Vol 1)
Vulcan Affair
Sept 1964
Iowa-Scuba Affair
Sept 1964
Quadripartite Affair
Oct 1964
Shark Affair
Oct 1964
Deadly Games Affair
Oct 1964
Green Opal Affair
Oct 1964
Giuoco Piano Affair
Nov 1964
Project Strigas Affair
Nov 1964
Finny Foot Affair
Nov 1964
Neptune Affair
Nov 1964
Dove Affair
Dec 1964
Dec 64 – Jan 65
Defector from Leningrad Affair (Vol 2)
King of Knaves Affair
Mid Jan 65
"
Terbuf Affair
Mid Jan 65
""
Deadly Decoy Affair
Jan 65
Fiddlesticks Affair
Jan 65
Yellow Scarf Affair
Jan 65
Jan 65
It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time (Vol 3)
Mad, Mad Tea Party Affair
Jan 65
Secret Scepter Affair
Feb 65
Feb 65
The Affair (Vol 3)
Bow-Wow Affair
Feb 65
Four Steps Affair
Feb 65
See-Paris-&-Die Affair
Mar 65
Mar 65
Pelyonki Affair (Vol 3)
Brain Killer Affair
Mar 65
Hong Kong Shilling Affair
Apr 65
Never-Never Affair
Apr 65
Love Affair
Apr 65
Apr 65
Little Boys Lost Affair (Vol 3)
Gazebo in the Maze Affair
Apr 65
Girls of Nazarone Affair
Apr 65
Odd Man Affair
May 65
May-June 65
My Brother's Keeper (Vol 5)
June-Aug 65
Collection: Summer of '65 (Vol 6)
Second Season
Mid-September 65 on
THE COLLECTION : YEAR ONE
Volume Three
INDEX
The 'It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time' Affair
The Affair ** (see below)
The Pelyonki Affair
The Little Boys Lost Affair
** (An earlier shorter version of this story appeared in Kuryakin Files 1112.)
The 'It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time' Affair
Thursday, January 21, 1965
Harrisonburg, Virginia
Late afternoon
Illya Kuryakin waited. Occasionally he moved, shifting his position slightly, but he was unaware of it, just as he was unaware of the hard bench he sat on or the curious officer who looked in on him from time to time. With empty eyes, the Russian stared fixedly at a spot on the floor without seeing it, his hands limp within the handcuffs. Sooner or later, someone would walk through the door and they would tell him what had happened, what the result was of his actions, and what they were going to do with him. Until then, drained of life, he sat and waited.
Is he dead?
He knew all about waiting. He had sat before in many rooms, many cells like this one, and waited for others to make decisions about which road his future would take. He hated waiting. Thoughts became muddled. Reason sank into oblivion. Judgment shifted and convictions blurred. Waiting devoured a person.
I killed him.
His breathing grew difficult, but it was only anxiety surfacing and eventually the numbness of isolation cancelled the emotion. He wanted to disappear, to be anywhere else but here, just sitting and waiting for the gavel to fall on his life and his career. It would be easy to escape, to remove the cuffs and leave -- but after that?
Where would you go, Illya Nickovetch? You've run out of places.
There was nowhere to go. He was where he was supposed to be, where he had put himself. This time, his own actions had pronounced his fate. He had broken the laws of his adopted country and the officials were waiting to see what happened before they pressed charges. Worse… unthinkable
Napoleon would not be there to stand up for him.
Waverly had been summoned to identify him; he could picture clearly the old man's eyes looking down at him in reproach, shaking his head in disappointment. He had failed his superior, had failed Napoleon, and had failed himself. It was gone. It was all gone. The dreams he had allowed himself, the tentative plans for his new life, all had vanished in one quick stroke.
What did you think you were doing, Illya Nickovetch?
He waited, bewilderment shutting out the metal bars and graffiti- covered walls. Time passed, but again it had no meaning. His mind skipped over thoughts, frantically searching for answers, then dwelled on nothing for hours. They had taken his watch, his ring, and the thin chain he wore around his neck. His gun, his badge, and his cigarette case were on display on the front desk, as well as his new citizenship card and driver's license. After being thoroughly searched, he still wore the clothes he had put on at the beginning of their assignment, the dark jeans, turtleneck, and hiking boots, but they had taken his tools.
"Illya?"
Someone was standing on the other side of the bars and he looked up, wide apprehensive eyes focusing on the familiar face. Fear clutched at his heart, intense shame robbed him of words or movement.
Norman Graham, head of U.N.C.L.E. Washington, D.C., turned to the accompanying officer. "It's him. Open the door and then get out of here." After a moment's hesitation, a key turned in the lock and the guard left, no doubt to check on what authority this U.N.C.L.E. agent actually had in a Harrisonburg, Virginia, lockup. Graham stared hard at Illya, then entered the cell and squatted down before him. "Are you okay?"
He couldn't move. His mouth was dry.
"Ilyusha, I'm here. We'll work this out. Are you okay?"
No. What have I done?
"Have you been waiting here by yourself all this time?" Graham asked. "Have they told you anything?"
"No," he whispered, and Graham held him as he trembled, the emotions finally catching up to him in the paternal security of the older man's arms. He bit back the sounds threatening to escape, his eyes squeezed tight to block any tears. There could be no relief in tears or in friends.
"We're here for you, son. We left as soon as we got your call. Trish is at the hospital checking on the situation there. Whatever happens... we're here." Graham eased his hold and Illya pulled away, struggling to regain the public mask. The older man affectionately tousled his hair, hoping to ease the despondent mood. The situation was serious, far from over, and he had no idea what the outcome would be.
Illya knew he was being prepared for the worst.
Graham pulled a thin picklock from his wallet and released the cuffs, saying, "I've arranged for you to be released into my custody, Ilyusha. The guards will be back in a few minutes, once they've completed the paperwork. I think we've disappointed them; when they saw your name, they were sure they had caught themselves a KGB spy." No response. He smiled, anyway. "I told them we'd wait here, rather than in the noisy reception area -- we don't need everyone staring at you. When they're done, I have a car waiting to take us to the hospital."
"Thank you." Hope battled against Illya's overwhelming despair and lost.
Graham sat beside him on the bench, the man's compassionate blue eyes staring into him, trying to understand. "Why, Ilyusha? Why did you do it?" he asked finally. "What on earth were you thinking of?"
Illya didn't answer at first -- he couldn't answer -- but Graham's quiet patience gave him time to gather his thoughts. "I don't know... I've been trying to figure that out ever since they arrested me and brought me here, Norm. I've been trying to retrace everything that happened, to remember why I did what I did. Everything made perfect sense, then. I –" Bozhe moi, what did I think I was doing, Napoleon? Illya fought to keep his voice calm. "But I have no idea, Norm. It just seemed like a good idea at the time."
Trish Graham was already in the waiting room at the hospital. She rose when they entered, her arms enfolding Illya wordlessly. He lay his head on her shoulder and let some of the tension in his body melt. Trish fought back her own tears and kissed the top of his head. "There's no word yet, darling. He's still in intensive care," she murmured to him in Russian.
She looked over his shoulder to her husband, shaking her head at the diagnosis she had heard. "Alexander is on his way from the airport. He'll be here soon." She waited until Illya lifted his head, then smiled gently at him. "I brought one of your suits and a shirt and tie for you, Ilyushechka. Go put them on before he arrives. You should look your best." She handed him a garment bag and a pair of dress shoes.
Illya emerged from the tiny restroom a few minutes later and handed her his hiking clothes, trying not to look at the blood stains as she refolded them and put them away. Napoleon... don't die because of me.
"Thank you," he said, finding his voice. "You've done so much. You didn't have to come all this way; I just phoned you because I wanted you to know what happened." He felt himself drawing away from them, unwilling for his shame to pass to them.
"You're part of our family, my love." Trish tried to tilt his chin up, but he refused to look at her. "If this happened to our natural son, Tony, you know we'd be there for him. How could we not be here for you, our chosen son?"
For a moment, his gaze flickered to the man who had become a father to him. Norm Graham was fifty-five years old, tall and straight, his blond hair beginning to gray, his tanned face still ruggedly handsome beneath the lines of age and responsibility. Norm's eyes smiled sadly at him, full of acceptance and yet puzzled.
Eyes blurring, Illya glanced to Trish Graham. Trish -- or Tasyusha, her name in Russian -- was the same age as her husband. Her dark hair, flecked with white now, was pulled back from her face in a soft roll. Although born and bred in the Soviet Union, she had adapted to life in America with a gracious finesse that endeared her to those she met. She was still startlingly beautiful, but it was her hazel eyes that captivated Illya when he had first met her four years previous. Alexander Waverly had sent him to live with them, shortly after Illya's frenzied arrival in the States, and the Grahams had provided not only a home and security for him, but their love.
He sat alone across from them now and waited, feeling their eyes on him. He knew the warmth in those eyes would soon fade; from past experience in the Soviet Union, he knew they would have to put him at arms' length so as not to be implicated by his actions. It was how it was. They must wonder now why they had associated with him and he imagined their unvoiced questions: Why did you do it, Illya Nickovetch? Are you crazy? Weren't you thinking?
A burst of activity startled him from his thoughts. Waverly entered the room, the cold air from outside clinging to his coat. A doctor accompanied him and they stood at the doorway and conversed in quiet tones. Twice they glanced at him. Then they shook hands and the doctor continued down the corridor and into the inner realms of the hospital.
The Washington Chief moved now to help his long-time friend with his coat. "Hope you don't mind us being here, Alexander."
"I'd rather expected you would come to his defense," Waverly said, moving past Norm to stand before the young agent who eyed him nervously. "You, Mr. Kuryakin, what have you to say for yourself?"
Illya returned the man's intense gaze for a moment, then looked down impassively. "I have no explanation, sir."
"What made you think you were capable of such an undertaking?" Waverly demanded, his cane loudly tapping the floor in emphasis, no shred of sympathy in his bearing. "You are a trained field agent; surely there were other options -- what was your reasoning?"
"I have no explanation, sir," he repeated helplessly.
Disgruntled, Waverly motioned for Norm Graham to join him and they disappeared through the swinging doors after the doctor.
I'm sorry, Napoleon. I have no idea why I did it.
He sat down and waited for the outcome.
* * * *
Fourteen hours previous
Appalachian Mountains
Halfway down the steep hillside, Illya Kuryakin skidded to a halt. The evening was clear and cold, frost biting into his lungs with each ragged breath. Sharp moonlight filtered through the bare branches and reflected off the virgin snow. He crouched low, his black clothing, darkened face, and wool cap hiding him from view.
It was quiet. He caught his breath as he paused and stared up the hill, mentally retracing his steps back to Napoleon Solo. Something wasn't quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. There had been many times in the past where Solo's instructions had seemed strange or without reason -- or ridiculous -- and he had accepted them blindly and followed the orders to the letter. There was precedent. Why should this be any different?
But it was. Earlier, Napoleon had sent him ahead to check the terrain. When he returned with his report, the senior agent, surprisingly, had already built a small campfire and insisted that Illya lie down and get some rest while he took the first watch. When Illya woke a few hours later, Napoleon had admitted to being tired and had calmly handed him the coded tape and told him he would have to go alone to the hidden transmitter. He was to broadcast it to the waiting relay station and make sure the rig was destroyed afterwards. Then he was to continue to the tiny town of Vanderville where they would rendezvous with the Virginia U.N.C.L.E. agents.
Napoleon said he would meet Illya there.
So why don't I believe that? Because in the past, Napoleon Solo always kept going on a case until he dropped from exhaustion. Napoleon Solo did not pass over assignments of this magnitude just because he was a little tired. Napoleon Solo was not a complainer. He had a good reason. He just chose not to tell me what it was.
Illya felt his implicit trust in Napoleon's decisions falter. Guilt brought him back to his feet and he continued down the hillside a few more steps, then stopped, wavering. He crouched low again. I've got to think about this. Something is wrong.
It was hard to pinpoint what it was that plagued his thoughts. He trusted Solo, of that he was sure. Since Solo was the ranking agent, proven worthy of the title of Chief Enforcement Officer, Illya seldom saw any need to put forth his opinion unless it was specifically asked for. He didn't have Napoleon's experience in dealing with people, or his knowledge of the American country and customs.
Napoleon drew information on explosives, or chemicals, or whatever he required, from his partner when he needed it, and one did not offer unnecessary advice to one's superiors. At least, that had been Illya's training in the KGB and it was a difficult habit to break. The last few months had showed him that
he was definitely a product of his former country no matter how hard he struggled to acclimatize himself to the rituals and nuances of the Americans around him.
Knowing this, Napoleon had, of late, begun to verbalize his deliberations, letting Illya witness the chain of thoughts that led to his plans. It was fascinating to see how the man's mind worked, how the answers were pulled from the air and hammered into place. For Illya, taught not to think independently, Solo's belief in the Russian's ability to function as an equal part of a team was gratifying, especially when few other Americans had granted him that privilege.
Tonight had been different. Tonight, Napoleon had spoken quickly and precisely, as though everything was planned in his mind and he had been only waiting for Illya to wake up before sending him away. He sent me away. This mission is vital, but for some other reason he has sent me away from him.
There was something else Napoleon didn't say. He was uneasy about something. Dusha ne na meste, Illya decided; his soul was not in its place. The American was keeping whatever it was from his partner.
Illya glanced at his watch, then slowly, silently, crept back up the hillside until he peered into the small camp Napoleon had made. He's sleeping. Solo lay curled on his side, close to the fire. That isn't safe, Napoleon. There may still be Thrush around. Illya circled the camp, keeping his distance, until he was able to see the American's face.
I don't understand... You're in pain. Why? You were not injured. Something had happened, but he wasn't sure what.
Illya toyed with the idea of rushing over and demanding the truth from his partner, but let it go. The mission was important. The information was needed in New York. The best thing he could do would be to follow Napoleon's instructions and fulfill the assignment.