by LRH Balzer
That was an easy observation. Unlike Waverly's steel and chrome den, with its abstract prints, Graham's own office was more in keeping with Washington standards: plush carpets, deep comfortable armchairs, oil paintings of neutral landscapes, a big mahogany desk. But Graham gave him points for not only coming up with an answer, but neatly wording it.
"You're right. Alexander's operation is much larger than mine; he handles all of North America, as well as being head of Section One. He's responsible for all of U.N.C.L.E. I only handle the Washington area. And my work involves much less enforcement and much more intelligence. And diplomacy. Protocol. So, I have to have an office that doesn't intimidate the people with whom I negotiate." Not to mention unnerved Russian ex-KGB agents.
"I understand... protocol." He gave Graham another quick glance as he realized some further comment was probably required. "It is very handsome office." He stepped near the windows and examined the view of the Capitol buildings. Turning to speak, his eyes caught the photos on Graham's desk and his mouth closed.
Graham followed his gaze and wondered what he found so riveting. They were just family photos. A formal portrait of their whole family, taken last Christmas, and another formal one of Trish. The rest were just whatever recent candid photos had caught Graham's eye. Tanya in a fancy ballet costume at her year-end recital. Misha at his last birthday, sitting on Trish's lap, his face covered in cake and frosting. Tony and himself grinning over a string of fish.
Kuryakin tore his eyes from the photos to give Graham an uncertain look, then stepped carefully away from the desk. Finishing the water, he put the glass down. "It was an interesting game. If it is permitted, sir, I would like to do it again another time."
It was the boldest thing he had said yet, and Graham acknowledged the admission casually. "Certainly. We will just have to set it up with O'Connor next time you're here. So, have you had a chance to catch your breath?" Graham asked. "Come on, then. I'll give you the grand tour of this place. We can't compare with Headquarters, of course, but I think we have a nice installation here."
Twenty minutes later, Graham delivered him to the waiting Dr. Evans, where Kuryakin spent the rest of the morning taking a series of routine tests. Graham felt slightly guilty about setting him up for the testing without explaining the reasons behind it, even more so when he found himself too busy to see Kuryakin when he finished, detailing a junior agent to drive the young man home.
It was almost four o'clock before Graham got down to see the staff psychologist and he found himself anxious about the results. He discovered Evans staring balefully at what he presumed to be Kuryakin's tests. "How'd he do? He wasn't too upset, was he?"
"Him? Upset?" Evans said, shaking his head.
"Yeah. Like nervous. Intimidated. Scared. Angry. Or, in plain, non-psychological terms: upset."
"He wasn't upset." Evans swept the score sheets into a pile and stacked them. "Rather the opposite. Your little Soviet had the time of his life here today. Like a kid at Christmas."
"Illya Kuryakin?" Graham asked, doubtfully. "Are we talking about the same person?"
"When he was finished with the first IQ test," the psychologist related, carefully, "he asked me if I had any more. So I gave him a couple of other tests -- just variations -- while I scored the first one. He was actually disappointed when I ran out. That kid is a test nut, Norm. Showing him an answer blank or an equal sign is like waving a red flag before a bull, an irresistible attraction. To him, the Stanford-Binet was nothing more than an intriguing puzzle. He asked me if I had any tests for physics or quantum mechanics. I'm not even sure I know what that is."
Graham grinned. "He did good, huh?"
"Good does not begin to describe it. Top one percent. And that's not even taking into account the skew I should have put on the test for the language difference. I didn't bother because it would have put him over the top. And the new experimental nonverbal tests? The pattern-matching, the symbolic logic stuff? I have never seen scores like his -- Who recruited him? You?"
Graham pointed a finger upwards, and Evans sighed in relief. "Good. I'd rather he worked out of Headquarters. The Old Man sure knows how to pick them, but geniuses make me nervous."
"Waverly will make you more nervous if you don't get him that report right away. Make sure it gets in the late afternoon courier packet."
*****
Graham felt surprisingly better about keeping Kuryakin in his home after the day's revelations. For one thing, it was obvious Waverly hadn't mistaken the young Russian's abilities as a future agent. While the skills themselves were disturbing, Kuryakin seemed comfortably willing to disclose them, and more importantly, to be guided in the process. He had seemed more like a young U.N.C.L.E. trainee than an experienced KGB agent. He hadn't given either O'Connor or Evans a minute's trouble, and that was more than a lot of cocky neophyte agents could claim on their first day.
And while intelligence was no guarantee of morality, at least Graham could assume that he could reason with Kuryakin on any areas of disagreement. All in all, the boy had been thrown into a stressful foreign environment and had been expected to perform. Not only had he not put a foot wrong, he had done amazingly well. Not a bad start at all.
Graham found himself curiously proud of the boy, decided he deserved a little gift, and made a brief stop on the way home.
He was whistling as he came in his kitchen. "How's our Russian genius?"
"Ilyusha?" Trish said, abstractedly, her eyes on the sauce she was making. Some critical ingredient was added in and she turned to her husband, smiling as she stirred. "We now have a resident bookworm, Norm. He arrived back here just before I left for my meeting, and he asked if he could read something to practice his English. I said he could take whatever books he wanted from upstairs to his room. Well, Tanya promptly dragged him up there and helped him bring down about thirty books." She looked up and grinned. "When I got home about half an hour ago, I stopped by his room to say hello and, Norm, you have got to take a look at the hodgepodge he has on his shelves. Tanya cleared out her school books and gave them to him to read, as well as Tony's college books from last year. Even Misha lugged an armful of books from his own shelves down to Ilyusha's room."
She was glad he had been sensitive enough not to belittle the child. Illya had indiscriminately shelved them all in alphabetical order by title, indifferent to subject matter or intended age. And it appeared he intended to read them in that order, too, or at least he was reading those that held information new to him.
She had found Tony's college calculus texts in his "finished" pile, apparently nothing unfamiliar in them. When she had asked what else he had read while she was gone, he had pointed to The Story of My America, Tanya's sixth grade history text. He had read it carefully, considering it too pertinent a find to be taken in his self-imposed order. Tony's Basic Microbiology was also in the pile and he had just begun Misha's Charlotte's Web.
"Well, I've got some more for his collection." Norm made his way downstairs to Illya's room, pleased to find him intently turning the final pages to Charlotte's Web.
"Hi, sport. I bought you something." He tossed the magazines that he had picked up on the way home from work on the foot of the bed, the latest issues of Science, Nature, Popular Electronics, and every other scientific or quasi-scientific journal he could find.
Wide-eyed, Illya retrieved the periodicals, staring from one journal to the other in unmistakable covetousness. Glancing up at Graham, he murmured a scarlet-faced thanks and began to page through them.
It was hard to tell if he understood what he was reading, but if his "finished" pile was any indication, he certainly plowed through books with an impressively stubborn determination. Graham looked back after a casual perusal of the shelves to see that Illya had paused in leafing through the magazines, his eyes suddenly fixed on Graham. "What is it, Illya?"
"There is something you want me to study? To... research?"
Graham shook his head. "Not at all. You don't even
have to read them if you don't want to. I just thought you would enjoy them since you seem to like science." He smiled down at his guest. "They are only a little gift."
The blue eyes cleared, and Illya looked down again at the magazines as though he found them even more surprising. "Thank you very much. Is very kind."
"No problem, Ilyusha. Let me know if you want anything more," Graham added. By the time he closed the bedroom door, the young man's nose was already buried in the first journal, Charlotte's Web temporarily abandoned.
Norm returned to the kitchen, still chuckling, and related to Trish their guest's reaction to the magazines. "I'm glad he's starting to loosen up. I tried talking to him last night -- he seemed lost, just sitting here drinking the hot chocolate. You'd think I'd poisoned it." He went to the cupboards and got out the plates for dinner. "I talked to Alexander today. He wants to give Illya a few more days here before letting us know what the next steps are going to be to get him certified as an agent. If the rest of the process has results as impressive as what Illya did today at the office, he'll be in Section Two by the end of the month."
"So, Ilyusha did well today?" Trish frowned slightly, her voice resigned.
"Very well. Not only did he score right off the charts on all of Evans' IQ tests, but he is unbelievable with a gun. And his footwork," Graham shook his head. "If I'm any judge, he's going to make a great agent -- when he relaxes a little. He still is pretty jumpy. But all things considered, he handled himself very well in the office." He studied her face, which had been getting progressively longer. "You're not happy."
She shrugged. "Anyone can tell he's very smart. He could do anything he wanted to. Take an advanced degree. Teach. Regardless of how Ilyusha can shoot a gun," and the tone in her voice made it clear how little she valued that particular skill, "why does Alexander want to waste his other skills by making him an enforcement agent? And in Section Two, yet."
"That's what Illya wants."
"I don't believe it. Those were the only skills anyone valued in the past, so he thinks they are his only coin now. He's barely a child. Like any child, he is trying to please his benefactor. And Alexander will let him."
Graham thought about that, remembering Kuryakin's moves in the simulator room, his scores on the firing range. The way he automatically checked out rooms and people. The focused concentration.
Young as he was, slight as he was, the kid handled himself with consummate professionalism that made any other career seem a waste. "I don't think so, Trish. I won't pretend Alexander isn't expert at getting what he wants -- you know better. But he's not exactly hurting for enforcement agents, not enough to coerce or trick one into working for him. Illya sought him out, remember? Certainly, intelligence gathering has always been a necessary component of enforcement work. Besides, it would be a wasted effort for Alexander to try to coerce him into it -- no agent lasts long out there unless he's committed."
"And some don't last no matter how committed they are." Trish put a lid on the saucepan with a muffled bang.
Norm sighed. "You're getting involved, Trish."
She glared at him angrily. "He is living in my home and I am not supposed to care that he will become cannon fodder for U.N.C.L.E.'s Section Two?"
"Hey," Norm said, stung. "It's not that bad."
"Thank heavens, Tony is not interested in that nonsense!" Trish said, half under her breath.
"I'm sure Illya's reasons for wanting to be involved in enforcement work are not so very different from Tony's desire to be a doctor," Norm said patiently. "Tony's father was a doctor, and I think in some ways, it's his way of rediscovering who is father was. Maybe Illya just wants to do what Kolya did."
"It is very different. Spies get shot."
"And doctors just give shots," Tony said, coming through the door, and pitching a soft drink bottle into the trash. "He aims, he shoots, he scores!" He ducked his father's aborted block and went for the cookie jar.
"Don't throw things in the house," Trish said automatically. "Don't I get a kiss?"
Tony swept her into his arms, kissing her cheek. "So where is this Russian spy who has infiltrated our home?"
"Downstairs. We put him in the room next to yours. And keep your voice down," Trish said softly, pulling away from her firstborn. "It has not been easy for him, being here."
"Why's he staying with us, anyway? Seems to me he should be at the Safe House."
"Pardon me for not consulting you," Norm muttered, brusquely, his slightly sarcastic tone belying his words.
"I'm just asking, Dad. I mean, why stick him over here like he was one of the family? You don't even have him in our guest room."
Trish glanced to the stairway door uncomfortably. "Shhh. It was a decision your father and I made before he arrived."
"Because he's Kolya's son?" Tony asked, the dislike coming through his voice.
"Yes, because he is Kolya's son," Trish responded, her eyes blazing. "You only remember the hurt, Antosha. Do not forget the good times, the music, those wonderful afternoons in the park, going to the zoo. He taught you how to ice skate."
"I was eight, Mamasha," Tony said, tossing the Russian diminutive back at her. "I remember the good times quite well. I also remember he left the country without even the courtesy of giving us a phone call."
"You were young. There was a lot more going on than you understood."
"He made you cry. I remember that."
"Regardless, this is not Kolya; this is his son. And I expect you to treat him as a guest who is welcome in our home. He's the same age as you and I had hoped you would befriend him. He needs some friends right now."
Tony smiled, eyes twinkling, and he leaned forward to kiss her cheek a second time. "For you, Mamasha, I will become his blood brother." He popped a cookie into his mouth and rolled his eyes at her.
"Thank you. Don't eat that junk; dinner will be ready soon."
"Dad's eating it," Tony countered, passing a few to Graham as Trish snatched the jar out of reach.
"Yeah, but I'm just a dumb spy," Norm said wickedly. "I get shot during the day and eat junk food before dinner."
"Me, too," said Misha, coming up from the rec room, climbing into his father's lap, and stealing a cookie. "I wanna be a spy and eat junk food like Daddy."
"Yeah, doctors have to eat healthy stuff like --" Norm hesitated, selecting something suitably repulsive, "broccoli. And brussels sprouts."
"Bleah, broccoli!" Misha said, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.
"Broccoli? Wait a minute! No one told me about that."
"It's a job requirement," Norm said solemnly. "I'm surprised you weren't told that in Career Planning and Placement. There you have it, Tony. Med school and broccoli, or Spies-R-Us college and cookies."
"Cookies!" Tony grinned.
"Cookies!" Michael agreed. "Spies-R-Us!"
"Cookies?" Tanya walked in. "Before dinner? Hey, great, Dad!"
"You hafta be a spy to get cookies," Misha informed her, his mouth full.
"Okay," Tanya said agreeably. "I'll be a spy, too. Then I won't have to go to my stupid audition tonight. Girls can be spies, too, right, Dad?"
"Absolutely. Look at Mata Hari. You'll be part of a great tradition. Tonight, you just pretend that you're really a spy in disguise and do your best to fake them out. There you have it, Trish," Norm said, flanked by his children, "you're the lone sensible person in a family of dumb spies."
"Very funny." Cookies were snatched out of unsuspecting hands. "Misha, go wash those crumbs off your face. You, too, Tanya: you and I have to be ready to leave by six-thirty. And you," Trish turned to her older son, who was unsuccessfully trying to wipe the grin of his face and licking cookie crumbs off his fingers. "Get those dirty medical books off my kitchen table, bring your stuff in from the car, and go wash up."
"Hey, Mom," Tony paused in the doorway. "What's for dinner?"
"Broccoli." One strident finger pointed toward the door, "Now out!" Tony vanished out the back door.
"Broccoli?" Norm asked innocently.
"Broccoli." Trish opened the freezer door and tossed the frozen vegetable package on the counter, where it landed with a thud. "They'll learn to like it."
"I guess this means no Spies-R-Us college, huh?"
"Every night."
"Bleah." Norm turned and smiled slightly at the shadow standing at the top of the basement stairs. Well, if we haven't confused you before, I'm sure that put you over the top. Welcome to America. "I hope you like broccoli, Illya."
Kuryakin stepped backward as if wanting to disappear through the doorframe. "Ex-excuse me."
Trish looked up and threw a quick smile at him. "Ilyusha, dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes."
Norm watched as he turned and walked back down the stairs. "He's not very comfortable with us yet, is he?"
"This is still very new to him."
Graham nodded and took down some glasses from the cabinet. "How many times have we said that already? Well, maybe that's why Alexander sent him to us. Never a dull moment here." He grinned at his wife. "According to his record, he's already been through Survival School. Dinner'll bring back memories, don't you think?"
Trish gave him a dark look.
Dinner started out on the wrong foot. Illya came to the table smelling of cigarettes.
"Do you smoke?" Tanya asked, sniffing at him from across the table
He gave no response, concentrating on draining the wine glass in front of him.
"Illya, Tanya asked you a question. It is polite to give an answer." Trish kept her voice light, dishing out potatoes to Misha and then passing the bowl to their guest.
Illya glanced quickly over at Trish without moving his head, then looked across at Tanya. "Yes. Is it not allowed?" He couldn't have put less emotion in his words.
"We're not allowed to smoke," Tanya said, pointedly.
Norm could feel his heart thumping. Great. "Uh, Tanya, Illya is a lot older than you; I've told him he could smoke outside if he needed to. When you are an adult, you can make up your own mind about smoking."