by LRH Balzer
Tony snorted and Norm turned a hardened gaze on him. "Did you have a comment, son?"
"No. Not if I value my life," Tony said, as he shoveled food onto his plate.
Unfortunately, twelve-year-old Tanya didn't seem to catch on. "If Ilyusha's the same age as Tony, and he can smoke, how come Tony isn't allowed to smoke? I thought you said to treat Ilyusha like he was one of the family?"
It was times like this, with five pairs of eyes trained on you, waiting for your verdict on a dicey issue that was bound to cause problems later, no matter what answer you gave, that Norm Graham sincerely wished he had the ability to become invisible.
Maybe changing the topic will work Introductions.
"Illya, I don't think you have been formally introduced, but this starving young man is our son Tony. He'll be in first year medical school at Boston University this fall," Norm said, the touch of pride evident in his voice.
"Hi. I knew your old man," Tony offered politely, then concentrated on his dinner.
The blue eyes glanced from Norm to Tony. "You knew my --?"
"Your old man. Your father. I knew him."
Illya nodded slowly and looked back at his plate. "Oh. Nico."
"He was nice. He taught me how to ice skate."
Illya didn't look up until Trish's gentle clearing of her throat prompted him to make some response. "I don't remember him well."
"Dad said you have quite a few science courses under your belt. Do you have a degree?"
The question took Illya a moment to grasp and Norm realized he was probably stumbling over the "under my belt" of the first sentence. "I don't know. I don't think so."
Norm broke in quickly. "That's one of the things we'll have to do with Illya: have his academic credentials validated. Tony, I think Illya took classes in every university in the Soviet Union and in half a dozen other countries! Including the Sorbonne in Paris," he added, knowing the what the reaction would be.
It predictably grabbed Tony's attention. "Cool! You were at the Sorbonne? I toured the college their a few years back when we visited France. I would have loved to have gone there. How long ago did you attend?"
"In... in 1959. The... spring semester."
"What did you take there?"
Again the question seemed to have a time lag before the answer. It was as if Illya had to dredge the memory from a file of forgotten information. "Physics, mainly. And two pharmaceutics classes. I think."
"Really? Pharmaceutics? Wasn't that rather odd, considering your line of work?"
"No. It came in handy on many occasions. I specialized in poisons," he added calmly.
There was an uncomfortable silence that followed as the adults at the table mulled over the implications of his words.
With an under-the-table prod from Norm, Tony jumped into the conversation again. "Like Dad said, I just got accepted to med school. I'm doing some volunteer work at a local hospital for the next few weeks, just to give me a head start -- I hear the first year in med school is brutal -- but I'm doing squat from mid-July on, just resting up."
"Squat? What is squat?"
"Oh, sorry. It means nothing."
Illya spent exactly two seconds trying to figure that out before he gave up and let the rest of the dinner conversation continue on without him.
*****
Later that evening, Illya answered a knock on his bedroom door.
Tony Graham, his arms laden, walked into the room. "Stuff for you." He dumped the clothes on the bed and gave Kuryakin a cheerful grin. "Hang on, I've got another load."
Kuryakin's eyes moved from the bed to the door as Tony walked through and dumped another double armful on the blue quilt.
"What is this?" Kuryakin asked suspiciously.
"Stuff that doesn't fit me. Mom asked me to bring over anything I'd outgrown."
"I do not need all of this."
Tony shrugged indifferently. "Whatever doesn't fit, or you don't want, set it aside, and Mom will take it to the Goodwill -- you know, give it to charity. It's all good stuff. I already gave her the worn-out stuff to make into rags. Lots of rags." He grinned. "I have a sneaking suspicion that Dad is suddenly going to see this as an opportunity to get all the cars washed and waxed. If I were you, I would make plans to be elsewhere tomorrow."
Illya didn't understand the connection, but he wanted to make it clear that the gesture was unnecessary, and the items could be taken away. "I have enough clothes, thank you. I have no need for more."
"Hey, I'm only doing what Mom asked. You'll have to take the rest of it up with her." Tony glanced at the bed and shook his head. "If you think that looks bad, you ought to see my room. I've got the whole place torn apart in there and if I want to go anywhere this weekend, I've got to get it back together. See you later. Maybe we can shoot some baskets tomorrow." He disappeared out the door, closing it after himself.
Illya stared from the door to his bed, struggling to puzzle through the conversation. Some things, however, had come through abundantly clear. Obviously, this was a directive from the woman, from Trish Graham. He didn't see what he was supposed to do with all these things or where he was supposed to wear them. They weren't just summer clothes either, but sweaters, pants, long-sleeved shirts, even two jackets, and what looked like a suit. He didn't want to touch the items, but he couldn't get to his book, or sleep on his bed that night, until he moved them. And he was to put them away. The first time she had given him clothes, she had put them on the bed, and her first directive had been to put them into the bureau.
Sighing a little, Kuryakin reluctantly approached the bed, and began folding and sorting the items. He knew how to do what he was told, even when the words were unspoken. But the pile of clothes filled him with foreboding.
And what were 'baskets'? The word must have another meaning besides the one he knew. They must be some sort of hunting game, maybe a pest like a crow or a small rodent. He had never been interested in shooting for pleasure, as some did. Perhaps shooting the baskets was a chore that Tony was requesting help in.
But hadn't he come to the United States to be an U.N.C.L.E. agent? How long was he to stay in this place? Would he never go to work for Alexander Waverly?
*****
He screamed, fighting to breathe against the cloth pressed over his nose and mouth, cursing the men pinning him down, fighting them as they dropped him through a hole into the darkness. Then the horrible explosion above him, blinding him, and he screamed again at the sound of metal ripping --
With a gasp, he was awake. He was awake and he was not there.
He sat up and pushed the quilt back, breathing harshly. One hand rose shakily to push the damp hair from his forehead. Damn.
If he was not there, then where was he?
Oh. The room in the house. He was dead. Someone or some organization had killed him. Who? The KGB? GRU? But why? And if not them, then who would bother going through the ruse? MI5? IRA? What purpose was there in faking his death?
One minute he had been walking down the London street talking with Grisha and Sasha, opening his soul to them in a rare moment of trust, and the next minute --
Would he always feel the rough hands on his arms, forcing him away from his stepbrother and his friend? Would he always feel the eyes of the crowd staring at him? The dancers of the Kirov watching in horror as he was pulled across the street? The painful grip wrenching his arms behind his back, half-carrying him across the road to the waiting van?
Sorting nightmare from reality was tricky. His reality was his nightmare. His head had hit the rear door of the vehicle as they pushed him in. Even now, the spot was tender, but the swelling had gone down. His nightmares left scars.
He was dead. But there were still nights to sleep through.
The unexplained pain in his chest deepened, with nowhere to go. He rested his hand on his heart and felt it pound. Why did his heart keep beating? Why did it bother? He was dead. They, whoever they were, had killed him. It was over. Everything was over. His life h
ad not been much, but it had been all he had. His family: his stepfather, Mikhail Zadkine, and his brother Grigory. A few friends occasionally seen like Sasha and Rodya. He would never see them again. He would never be able to go back again.
He was dead. But there were still days he had to live through. The world continued. U.N.C.L.E. had rescued him and brought him here but he was already dead. What use was there for a dead man? Even Alexander Waverly could not find a use for a dead man.
The bedroom door creaked as it was slowly pushed open. "Illya?"
Tony, his brain supplied. Answer him. "Yes."
"Did you have a bad dream or something? I heard a scream..." The shadow at the door stood uncertainly, his hand on the door knob. "Should I go get Mom or Dad?"
"No," Illya said quickly. "No, I am fine. Thank you."
"Sure thing. No problem." The shadow stood a moment longer, then the door creaked shut again. Illya got up and went into the bathroom, not bothering to turn the light on to wash his face. He opened the window above his bed and let the night air into the room, then sat in the semi-darkness, listening to the sounds of the river and envisioning the icy water rushing over his mind. His body shivered, taking its time reacting to the dream-that-was-real.
At one point, sleep finally claimed victory and he sank back into the twisted sheets.
5
Saturday, June 24
Tony poked his head into the room where their guest was sleeping. The room was dark; the sun didn't make it to this side of the house this early in the morning and the heavy blinds blocked any light. Illya's blond head was turned away from the door.
"Ilyusha!" he whispered.
With a quick startled movement, the young man rolled over and faced the door, furiously blinking sleep from his eyes and trying to focus.
"Want to go jogging?"
"What?"
"Jogging. Running. You know, exercise. I was on track; I run a few miles every morning. Want to?"
"Outside?"
"Well, I don't see a treadmill in the house. Yes, outside."
"Yes, but out of property? Past guards?"
"Of course," Tony said, puzzled, then his brow cleared as he realized what the problem probably was. He had forgotten what it was like, fourteen years ago, to be in a new country. "You'll be safe, Ilyusha. No one is after you."
"No. I am not -- I do not think --"
"Ilyusha," Tony said, smiling, "it's all right."
"I cannot go running. It is not acceptable." The Russian's face was a blank mask, but Tony could see his clenched hands. "Please do not ask me again."
Tony stared at him, then shut the door and walked up the stairs. Norm Graham was in the kitchen, standing before the percolator like a horse before a feed trough, patiently waiting for it to finish perking. "Dad --"
"No, you can't have the sports page. I never get it once I give it to you, and I haven't read it yet. God help me, I must have some rights in this house."
"Dad, is Illya a prisoner here?"
Graham raised his head out of the Washington Post. "Of course not. What makes you ask that?"
"Well, you better tell him. I just asked him to go jogging with me and he was afraid to go past the guards." Tony sighed in relief at Norm's puzzled expression. "I know you wouldn't do that, Dad. It just shocked me that he didn't understand. You'll talk to him, right? I'll wait until he knows what's happening, and then ask him again."
"Sure, son." Norm was still staring after him, scratching his head, when Trish came downstairs.
"You're up early. What was all that about?"
"You heard?"
"Yes. I don't understand how Ilyusha could think such a thing. Surely Alexander --"
"I don't know. I'm sure he was briefed, but he certainly hasn't been acting like it and this is just one more example. I'm going to be in my study, Trish. I have to talk to Alexander. Maybe Illya was too overwhelmed to take in what the Old Man told him. But before I do anything, I need to find out what he was told." He sighed and put down the paper. "When Illya comes up for breakfast, send him in to me. We're going to straighten this out."
By the time Graham hung up the phone, there was a faint knock at the study door and Illya entered the room, Trish following behind him and closing the door. Graham couldn't help but frown at how reluctantly his guest moved, as if only Trish's presence behind him drove him across the room.
Graham gestured him to a chair while Trish perched on his desk. Illya sat on the edge of the offered chair, his hands clenching and unclenching -- a nervous habit they had noticed as being one of the few human traits he had -- his head lowered so that his features were shadowed under the spill of blond hair.
That wouldn't do. He needed to see the young man's eyes, to be sure he was understood.
"Illya." He said the name quietly, but the command was unmistakable. When the blue eyes raised to his, they were filled with the same haunted emptiness Graham had hoped the past three days had dispelled. "Trish is going to translate for me, because I want to make sure you understand."
The Russian's head dropped again, and Graham sighed softly. "Illya, look at me. It's very important that you listen to what I am going to tell you." The head snapped up again, but the features had been schooled to rigid impassivity, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
"First of all, I want you to understand that the circumstances of your defection were completely successful. Your government is convinced that you are dead. Even the British government believes that -- there are only a few people in our British U.N.C.L.E. branch who know otherwise. You are safe here, Illya. No one is looking for you. Do you understand? Do you have any questions about that?"
He waited for Trish to translate, but Illya had obviously understood his words. He blinked as Trish finished but his expression did not change. "May I ask one question?"
"As many as you wish."
"Who took me from the street?"
"In London? I don't know their names. Why?"
"No." His eyes swept the desk-top as though looking for a way of asking his question. "Do you know... what group took me?"
Norm glanced at Trish, hoping he was mistaking the question. "Illya... U.N.C.L.E. took you."
"Yes, yes. U.N.C.L.E. rescued me from them. You came on the airplane and took me off. But who took me from the street?"
"Illya," Norm repeated slowly, his heart thumping, "it was an U.N.C.L.E. operation. U.N.C.L.E. arranged the entire thing, even with the van."
There was open shock on the white face. "U.N.C.L.E. killed me?"
Good Lord. Appalled, Norm Graham stared back at the young man. He really didn't know. Alexander --
"You did ask Mr. Waverly's help to defect, didn't you?" Graham asked, carefully.
The young man seemed uncertain. "I asked... to work for him. For U.N.C.L.E., not for GRU or KGB."
Did you think they would just let you go? Graham wondered. Turn you over to Alexander with their secrets in your head? You are young. "I'm sure Mr. Waverly felt he had no other choice." And now, neither do you.
"I thought..." the quiet voice trailed off. "I understand. I have no questions."
"I'm sorry, Illya. We thought you knew all of this. We thought Alexander Waverly had explained it all. That somewhere along the line, someone had told you what was happening."
The stoic look was answer enough. No one had thought to fill him in. And he had been taught not to ask.
"I'll talk to Mr. Waverly about this, I promise you. Now, about your status here --" Graham noted Kuryakin's uneasy shifting. "Have you seen an embassy before, Illya?"
The young man stared at him in confusion. "An embassy? Yes, I know embassy."
"Embassies have guards, right? And security?"
Kuryakin nodded, his expression wary, waiting to be maneuvered into the wrong answer.
"This house -- well, not so much this house, but the building it's attached to, the U.N.C.L.E. Safe House -- it's like an embassy. Sometimes we have guests whose countries have no emb
assies in America and those guests stay there. Sometimes we have people stay there who need special protection, important visitors, people whom U.N.C.L.E. has been detailed to keep safe. U.N.C.L.E. also has its own enemies -- Thrush for one -- and so we have to keep our own installations protected. That's why there were guards at the New York Headquarters, at our local office that you were at yesterday, and guards here. The reason my own home is attached is because it convenient. We entertain our guests in the Safe House and we need to be available to them and still ensure their privacy. Also, this environment is more secure to host dinner parties and receptions."
Graham waited for Trish to translate, and then continued. "As for you, Illya, you are not under a protective guard. For one thing, no one knows you are here, so we don't have to protect you from others. Also, no one suspects you of any potential wrongdoing, so we are not guarding you, yourself. If you had come into this country under another means, there might have been some concerns. But Alexander Waverly signed your papers himself, pledged his name to your trustworthiness. While various agencies are interested in your background, and they must conduct certain investigations before you can join U.N.C.L.E. as an enforcement agent, your freedom is not being restricted during this investigation period, because you were brought into this country under Alexander Waverly's auspices. Because he is trusted, you are presumed to be trustworthy. You will continue to be considered so, unless you do something to contradict that presumption, which, of course, we don't expect. You are quite free, Illya. The guards at the gates know who you are. You can come and go as you please. Do you understand?"
Kuryakin was listening hard to both Norm's words and Trish's translation, obviously comparing the two, but he finally nodded. "Yes. I did not understand before." He shrugged, as if to try to explain further, but he couldn't find the words to express his misgivings.
"It's not your fault, Illya, it's ours. You're our guest, the responsibility is ours. But it would help, too, if you asked us some questions when you're uncertain."
Illya did not look up, and Norm sighed, "Well --"
"Sir --?" The word came quickly, shooting from the young man's mouth but the rest of the question faltered in sudden indecision. They waited for him patiently and he tried again. "Sir, will I go to court, too?"