by LRH Balzer
"He nearly drowned in that river. He would have, if I hadn't pulled him out. Hell, I could have drowned in that river."
"It's not his fault you have to be a hero," Trish said dryly.
Norm shook his head and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, chuckling softly. "Don't flatter me, honey. Illya shouldn't have been out there in the first place. I told him that dock was off limits without the proper equipment."
"When you gave him the tour of the grounds?" Trish sat at the table, her fingers wrapped around a glass of tea, her face serious.
"Right."
"The same day you gave him the tour of the Safe House?"
"So?" Norm challenged, looking at her.
"Do you know for sure that he even understood you? That he was even translating your words? How do you know he didn't pull the same stunt he did with Alexander -- nod his head at the right spots and hope you wouldn't realize he'd lost you?"
Norm's eyes were wide with amazement, then he closed them briefly and opened them to meet his wife's knowing gaze. "Shit."
"Merde, darling. Remember the dangers of assuming he understands us. I think the rules that are important to us, we are going to have to give him in writing. In Russian. Not permanently, just until he settles down. We are hitting him with a great deal at once, Norm. We can't expect him to magically understand what we expect, or, for that matter, send him into exile when he makes a mistake."
"His mistakes could be dangerous for all of us."
She looked down at her tea. "I don't think so. I'm not disputing his past history, nor that his background has trained him to be dangerous, but I simply don't believe he would use those skills against us."
"Trish, I understand how you feel, but I have to take the steps I feel are necessary to protect our family."
Trish frowned. "You are not the only one who made a promise to Alexander, Norm. Nor the only one who took Ilyusha in. I made a commitment to him, too, and I have not given up on that commitment yet. He was sick and he made a mistake, that's all. You made a mistake, too, to push him as you did." She looked up at her husband. "He deserves another chance."
Norm shook his bead, staring down at the table. "I don't like this, Trish."
"Let him get well, and we will talk to him."
"We have talked to him. He is not talking to us." He rose from the table, declining the plea in his wife's eyes. "I've said he can stay in the Safe House for the present. I want to talk to Alexander before we make a final decision."
*****
In the privacy of his home office, Graham sat behind his oak desk, leaned back in his worn leather chair, and, taking a deep breath, dialed Alexander Waverly's home number. Number One of Section One wasn't frequently home, but Sunday afternoons were sacrosanct except for extreme emergencies, based on an agreement Alexander had worked out with Anilys Waverly years ago. Ordinarily, Graham would feel slightly guilty bothering his boss during that period. Today, he didn't have a qualm.
He exchanged largely formal pleasantries with Alexander's wife. Anilys didn't particularly care for agents who disturbed her husband's sacred time off.
Waverly came on the line. "I suppose it is superfluous to say good afternoon, Norman. Obviously, if such were the case, you would not be calling me."
"I'm afraid that's true, Alexander."
"Very well," Waverly said wearily. "Fill me in."
Graham described the events of the morning, not sparing his own mistakes.
Waverly sighed when he was done. "Well, all in all, an unpropitious incident. It's fortunate you weren't injured in that river. And pneumonia -- I hope the boy won't succumb to that."
Graham grimaced. "You don't seem to understand, Alexander. Your boy, who also happens to be a highly trained Soviet agent, squared off at me this morning. I'd hate to think what might happen if he lost his temper with a member of my family. Or even my staff."
"Come now, Norman. I grant that Illya Kuryakin may have a few rough edges. He is young and certainly unfamiliar with this new environment, but I refuse to believe he could be any danger to your own family."
"Why, Alexander? How well do you actually know him personally? The last time you saw him he was, what, sixteen? He's twenty-two now. Six years can make a big difference in the life of a Soviet agent. And this Soviet agent is living in my home. Sleeping just downstairs from my four-year-old son, and in a room next to my twenty-two-year-old son. Or he was -- I've moved him to the Safe House while he recuperates. I'd like a good reason why I shouldn't move him right off the compound."
Waverly was silent for a long moment before he answered, his voice as maddeningly calm as usual. "The fact that I have not seen Illya for six years does not mean we have been totally out of contact. Perhaps I was not completely forthright with you when I sent you the boy, but I feel confident in my estimation of his character. His behavior this morning is regrettable, but I firmly believe he had no intention of harming you -- even though, by your own admission, you left him very few options. It seems to me he had sought out a little breathing room and you encroached upon his efforts to find it."
Graham flushed with anger and embarrassment.
"But that is beside the point," Waverly continued regretfully. "I would prefer he would extend the same obedience that I would expect to you as well. Regardless, he certainly at least owes you the courtesies due a host. It seems he is somewhat deficient in that regard. Since you seem quite mistrustful of the boy, the situation appears hopeless; I must find another place for him. I'll arrange to have him transferred to headquarters' infirmary tomorrow. If that is soon enough?"
"I didn't say I wanted to get rid of him," Graham said tightly. "I'm asking for assurances on why I should risk keeping him."
"What is the point? If you and Trish no longer trust him around your children...?"
"Trish doesn't happen to share my views. She wants to give the boy another chance."
"Indeed." Waverly sounded thoughtful, a touch of hope in his tone.
"She didn't see him squared off on the boat dock, Alexander. Or on the firing range at our local office. And she hasn't read his complete dossier."
"I wrote his dossier, Norman. I was already familiar with his marksmanship and I was entirely conversant with his abilities as an agent. Yet I sent him to you, and I had absolutely no qualms about any danger to your family."
Graham sighed. "I'd like to believe that he isn't. Obviously you trust him and he apparently trusts you, but he certainly hasn't extended any trust to us. He hasn't let down his guard an inch, Alexander. There are times when I think he is actually frightened of us -- certainly he's shown some fear of me. And the assurances that I've given him might as well never have been uttered for all the weight he's given them."
Waverly sighed. "Perhaps I need to have a longer discussion with the boy." Waverly flipped several pages of his calendar. "Of course, he will need to have his senses about him, get over this illness. If you have no objection to keeping him in the Safe House while he recuperates, I can come down in a few days and discuss the situation with both of you. Would that be satisfactory?"
"I'd feel a lot better if you did."
"Very well. I assume the young man will be reasonably recuperated by Thursday. I will join you then."
"Thanks, Alexander."
7
In the white medical room they had put him in, Illya stared resolutely at a non-existent spot on the ceiling tile. He could feel the fevered cloud hovering over his body, obscuring the edges of his sight and his thoughts. His congested lungs drew air in carefully, wheezing in and out with reluctant regularity. The air conditioning hummed until the sound filled his head. Outside the window, the sky had darkened in the short time he had been awake.
The stranger was in his room and beside the bed before Illya had even registered his presence. "Hello, Mr. Kuryakin. I am Dr. Mercer. I met you briefly the other day at the U.N.C.L.E. office here in the city. I don't know if you remember what happened, but it appears you 'fell' into the
river and Mr. Graham pulled you out."
Illya's eyes remained fixed on the ceiling and he determined not to look at whomever this was. A slight inward gasp was all he allowed himself as the doctor pulled back the sheet and placed the cold metal disk of the stethoscope above his heart. A minute later, the sound receiver was moved around his chest and he was told to breathe normally.
He froze, uncertain of what he wanted to do. His head was buzzing and it was difficult to follow a thought through to completion. If he gave in at any point, he was lost.
The doctor did not seem surprised at his refusal to cooperate; instead, the graying man sat him up and slid the silver disk up under the back of his T-shirt. "Take a deep breath. Good. And another. Good. Another, please... Can you cough?'
Illya didn't want to cough, but the word triggered a reaction he was unprepared for, and he found he was unable to stop. The arm steadying him was strong, but impersonal, and Illya saw the dark eyes that scrutinized him so meticulously held nothing more than a professional indifference.
As he lay back, he quickly found the spot on the ceiling again and anchored his attention there. He tuned out the voice and the small talk and the instructions the doctor was giving. He shivered, his body aching from the fever and sickness that consumed him.
A thermometer was slipped under his tongue, the bulb shifting to one side, poking almost painfully into his fever-sensitive skin. He refused to acknowledge the questions or the needle that slid into his vein. A nurse sat him up and the doctor pulled down his jaw and put pills on his tongue; then the nurse gave him water and he swallowed automatically. He didn't have the energy to fight them, but he wasn't going to help them either.
And as he lay there, waiting for them to stop examining him and leave him alone in the tiny sterile room, he couldn't for the life of him figure out what Alexander Waverly wanted. What information would they take from him in this weakened condition? The thought occurred to him that maybe Alexander Waverly didn't know what was happening to him, that these people were acting on their own, perhaps enemies of.
Then he heard the screams from down the hail, and withdrew himself completely.
Norm Graham watched Jack Mercer close the door to the infirmary room at the Safe House. The doctor paused before turning, putting his thoughts in order before facing his impatient boss.
"Well?"
Mercer frowned, the look deepening as he spotted Trish Graham sitting nearby, also anxiously waiting. "It's a good thing Nancy called me. What do you want to know, Norm? Yes, he's worse. From a strictly physical diagnosis, he's got a fever, bronchial congestion, and he's borderline pneumonic. I've left some medications for him, along with instructions for their use. Nancy is quite capable of monitoring his vital signs and seeing to it that he gets the pills on schedule. I've got him on penicillin. I'll send Wanda Harrodsburg by to take the morning shift. If he were one of our agents, I'd say that if he gets any worse, he belongs in a hospital where he can get twenty-four hour care. But, of course, he's not one of our agents.
"My psychological diagnosis is that I think he wants to die. He has no reason, no incentive to stay alive. He's acting exactly like a captured KGB agent in enemy hands, much as I expected he would. Every time I touch him, he stiffens like I am going to torture him -- Which reminds me, I'll be right back. This is not the best time for Lee Okada to exercise that leg of his. Or at least he can do it without the primal yells he feels are so necessary to accompany each lift. I can imagine what Kuryakin thinks about them. I explained what was happening, but I don't think he was listening, nor would he believe me if he was. Please, go on upstairs. I'll meet you in the lunchroom."
He joined them after a few minutes, accepting the glass of iced tea they had poured for him. "Kuryakin hasn't said a word to me, won't answer my questions. According to his file, he was suicidal a week ago and from his viewpoint, even now, dying would solve a lot of problems. And that makes him a very dangerous character, made more so by desperation and this illness. We may have the medical facilities to care for him here, unless his situation deteriorates, but security is another matter. It's not fair to my staff to expose them to this danger. He's an enemy agent half out of his head with fever. In my opinion, he should have a guard on him at all times."
"An enemy agent?" Trish said in astonishment. "What are you thinking, Jack? He is Alexander's protege."
"He's a KGB agent, who hasn't been cleared by the CIA. I certainly wouldn't trust him for an instant, not with my staff, much less my family. Especially now that he doesn't have his senses about him. Hell, he's not even an U.N.C.L.E. agent, just a defector who --"
Trish rose to her feet, interrupting. "Jack Mercer! If I ever hear you refer to him as 'just a defector' again, I'll -- I'll --"
"Trust me, Jack, don't cross her. It's not worth it." Norm moved to sit between them, resting his hand over his wife's clenched fists.
"You want my recommendation, right? Okay, I'll give it to you. Defector or not, at the very least, I think he should be moved to Walter Reed. The military hospital will have all the necessary facilities, as well as the proper security. They're used to handling dangerous prisoners."
Trish folded her hands carefully, trying to be calm. "You don't know him, Jack, so I won't hold your words against you. But," she glared at both Mercer and her husband, "I refuse to accept that Illya is dangerous. However, you need not worry about the danger to your staff, because I want him moved back to our own home directly."
Mercer glanced from one to the other. "You can't be serious." He looked at his boss. "Norm, I know you can't be serious. You must understand what we're dealing with here."
"Whom we are dealing with," Trish said tightly. "Ilyusha is a person, not a thing."
Norm looked at his wife, saw her determination, and sighed. "Jack, what if we take care of him ourselves?"
Mercer scratched the back of his head, looking over the rim of his glasses from Norm to Trish. "Do you know what that entails? This isn't one of your kids. I don't know what line Waverly has fed you about him, but I've heard enough to guess. He may have his agenda, but you have to consider your own family."
"Just tell us what we would have to do if we decided to look after him ourselves, so we can make an informed decision," Norm said patiently. "Is it possible for us to care for him here, or is he too ill? What if this were Tony or Misha who was sick? What would you suggest then?"
"If he were one of your children, I'd say pamper him a little, make sure he takes the medicine I prescribed, and keep a close eye on that fever. I suppose I could come by tomorrow and check up on him. But may I stress again, that this is not your child or your problem. There are other factors to consider, primarily: the safety of your children."
"He's not contagious, is he?"
"I think you are quite aware of what I meant, Norm."
"Now that you have had your say, Jack, ifs my turn." Trish sipped on her iced tea, trying to find the words to explain what was on her heart. "During the war, when I was working in the hospital in Moscow, they would sometimes bring in lost children who were found wandering the streets or countryside. We had to check them out before they were sent to the orphanages. If you held them, they would go stiff in your arms, unable to be cuddled or shown kindness to. No one had ever held them, or rocked them to sleep, or sang to them. They were missing the most basic of human needs, the ability to love and be loved."
"This is exactly what I was afraid of," Mercer exclaimed, shaking his head. "You are romanticizing the situation, making this man into a child who just needs a hug from you to turn into a new person. He's not a child. I just examined a young man who is -- or was yesterday -- in excellent physical condition. Judging from the marks on his back and other odd scars he's got, life hasn't exactly been easy for him. He's been a professional agent for years, and he has the scars to prove it. And a whole collection of older ones that prove his KGB trainers, or someone else in his past, didn't spare the rod. Don't push the mothering scenario too far. He won't take
it, and if the fever continues to rise as it has been for the last few hours, I wouldn't trust his actions. His training will undoubtedly step in and he could put you all in a considerably more dangerous position."
Norm glanced from his wife to the doctor, then shrugged and pushed his glass away from him, standing. "You two are not making this easy for me. I understand what you're saying, Trish, but Jack makes equal sense to me." He paced the room, remembering the sight of Illya lying in the infirmary room, his flushed face staring blearily upward, arms crossed over his chest, fists clenched. "You're right. At times like this, it is easy to forget how dangerous he is. I can't get his file dossier out of my mind this last hour, sitting here trying to decide which road we should go with him. We have brought a man into our home, into the comfort and heart of our family, letting him eat with our children, to watch television with Misha, to dance with Tanya, to jog with Tony. A man to whom killing and deception may very well have no moral meaning. Are we crazy? Are we begging for trouble? What have I let Alexander con me into now?"
Trish had listened to him rant with a thoughtful reflective look on her face, but she finally interrupted him. "We have done what Alexander wanted, Norm. We have modeled a family for Ilyusha to watch. But it has gone beyond that and I don't think it was planned -- not even Alexander would have anticipated our reaction to this boy. You said yourself that he seems like another child of ours that we never knew we had."
Norm shrugged. "Maybe he's just a very smart young man. He has learned how to become unnoticeable, how to not stand out as a foreigner. He has probably just played the role of what he figured was intended. If he fit in, it was only because he's a quick study and he copied our own children's moves."
"That's not a reason for me to send him away. Or you, if you're honest. It's not enough for me that he can pretend to be happy. That he can pretend to be loved and to blend into our family. Norm, there's a reason why he feels like he belongs to us. He does, damn it. If not us, then who claims him? Who has ever claimed him?"