by LRH Balzer
Kuryakin shrugged. "A translator cannot give me words I do not have. My training has been in sciences. I am not expert in politics or government. I have been in this country, where these things are freely discussed, only a few days. I am very ignorant in such matters."
"Are you saying you have no political views whatsoever?"
Illya stared at his laced fingers. It was hard to keep his hands quiet -- always a problem for him -- translate the questions, think of answers in his best English, and simultaneously keep the thread of the hidden agenda running through this. He would have preferred the question left at that, but it seemed he had to make some sort of answer. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "If I understand the principles of representative democracy, it seems to serve the general populace better than the practice of socialism I have been familiar with in my own country."
"In your own country."
He clenched his teeth to keep from biting his lip at the betraying slip. Of course the CIA would pounce on that. "The Soviet Union has been my country. I have not yet been accepted by this country. I suppose is more correct to say that, presently, I have no country."
"Do you want this to be your country?"
"I wanted to work for Alexander Waverly at United Network Command. I no longer wished to be a tool of KGB or GRU."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"I trust Alexander Waverly to make the best decisions for me. If that means my defection from Soviet Union, I am prepared to accept that."
The CIA officers looked around at each other. "Are you saying you did not intend to defect?"
Illya sighed and said doggedly, "I wanted to work for Alexander Waverly and United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."
"Did you intend to defect?"
"The details of my abduction were arranged by Alexander Waverly."
"Did you intend to defect?"
Illya was silent, staring at the table. 'Tell the truth,' they had told him. "I wanted to be rescued. I did not think beyond that."
"What, exactly, did you want to be rescued from?"
"I did not believe in what I was doing. What I was required to do." He stumbled, looking for words. "I wanted to work for organization in whose… ideals I could believe. With men of... of integrity."
"You are saying that the organization in which your father and your adopted father worked, the organization that employed you for ten years, suddenly became repulsive to you?"
"My father did not work for KGB," Kuryakin said, his eyes suddenly raised to stare challengingly at the CIA officer.
"A forerunner, perhaps. The question remains."
Kuryakin fought back his anger, the blank mask sliding over his features again. After a moment he said, "Was not sudden. I have been working for Alexander Waverly for some time."
"You've been playing a double game."
"I have been working for Alexander Waverly," Kuryakin maintained.
"Why should we believe you have had this sudden change of heart? Isn't it possible that you did a few jobs for Waverly to gain his trust, and now intend to play a double game for the KGB with U.N.C.L.E. as the target? Wasn't this all a ploy for the KGB to get a foothold in U.N.C.L.E.?"
"No."
"No? Just no?"
"What do you wish me to say? Your assumptions are untrue. The answer is no."
"Why should we believe you?"
"I do not know."
"What?"
"Why should either of us believe the other? You do not know me. I do not know you." Kuryakin shrugged again. "Alexander Waverly and I have been acquainted for many years. I have trusted him. He has trusted me. The situation is different with U.N.C.L.E."
"Are you saying that Waverly is the only one you will tell the truth to?"
"You are twisting my words. Is not what I said. I have no reason to lie to you. Whether you choose to believe my words is not my problem."
"Wrong, Kuryakin. It is your problem."
Kuryakin sat back, studying the CIA officer with narrowed blue eyes.
"Well?"
"What is your question?"
"Weren't you instructed by the KGB to pass secrets to U.N.C.L.E. to gain Waverly's confidence?"
Kuryakin looked faintly amused. "No."
"Isn't this supposed defection just a ploy by the KGB to get a double agent into an American based U.N.C.L.E. office?"
"No," Kuryakin said flatly, no longer amused.
The CIA agent questioning him sat back. "Sooner or later, you're going to tell us the truth. If you want it to go easier on you, you'll start telling the truth now."
*****
Graham picked up the phone. "Yes?"
"We aren't finished debriefing Kuryakin."
"I wouldn't expect you to be," the U.N.C.L.E. chief said reasonably. "You can set up another appointment. Just give us twenty-four hours notice."
"We'd like to continue the debriefing now."
Graham frowned, his pencil tapping on his desk top. "That wasn't the agreement."
"Nevertheless, we'd like to continue."
"Out of the question."
"Look, Graham, we're trying to do you a favor here. Get the truth, for you and U.N.C.L.E. I would think you especially would want us to get the scoop on Kuryakin. After all, he's staying with your family, and he's not exactly your average ballet dancer. We can set him up in a secure location where he'll be no risk to anyone."
Graham leaned into the phone, his anger carrying clearly even without the benefit of physical stature. "Let me make this clear. Illya Kuryakin has broken no laws in this country. He has the necessary documents authorizing his stay. You have no legal right to detain him. If you attempt to do so, you'll have charges of illegal detention and kidnapping brought before the close of business today. My first call will be to the FBI. My second will be to Waverly. My third will be to the State Department." He took a deep breath, forcing his voice back to an even tone. "Now, why don't we avoid running up U.N.C.L.E.'s phone bill, and be reasonable. Tell me when you want Kuryakin back and I'll try to accommodate you."
"Maybe you just can't make this decision. Why don't I talk directly to Waverly?"
"You drugged him, didn't you?" Graham said suddenly, his voice deadly. "I should have known. You don't have to talk to Waverly. That'll be my next call. Let me make this very clear. You will have Kuryakin, drugged or not, available on schedule. My son will be at your gate at four o'clock. If he doesn't call me by four fifteen, outside CIA gates, with Kuryakin in tow, you are going to be very sorry."
The CIA officer swore and hung up the phone.
*****
Tony Graham turned off the new extension of the George Washington Memorial Parkway and followed the large green and white signs that clearly pointed the way to the Central Intelligence Agency. According to his father, the signs had been put up for the construction workers, to guide them to the site, but it seemed to him like a silly way to keep a clandestine organization hidden. A few departments had already moved in, with the official opening to be in the fall. He had heard about the building, but hadn't yet had a chance to take a look at it, unlike the rest of the city, it seemed. Everyone was curious as to what was going on in Langley, and it made a good excuse for a weekend drive.
"Tony, how come you got white stuff on your face?"
Beside him, little Misha stared at the Noxema he had smeared across his sun-burned nose. The canoeing had been great, but exhausting, and while on one hand, he would rather be snoozing at home than running errands, it wasn't often his father let him use the new '61 Thunderbird that the U.N.C.L.E. office had appropriated. The red vision was fab, with its swing-away steering wheel and 390 Special V-8, automatic transmission, power steering, and power brakes.
Yes, to drive this wonder, he would gladly go pick up Misha from his day camp and then cruise over to the CIA complex. Besides, it would get him good in both Mom and Dad's books and just maybe he could wrangle the car for Saturday night.
"Tony? How come?"
>
"I burned my nose a bit today and I want it to calm down by my date tomorrow night," he said, wiping the white cream into his sun-dried pores and glancing into the rear view mirror to make sure he hadn't missed a spot. No use looking like a stupid kid with these guys. Dad's message had said that if he ran into any difficulties to phone. Tony straightened his tie, and smiled at his reflection. "How do I look, sport?"
"Like a growed-up person but goofy, sort of. I gots to go to the bathroom."
"Well, let's see if the spies have a potty for you. Okay, there's the last sign. Ouch." Tony peered up at the ten-foot-high wire-mesh fence that surrounded the entire site. "'U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY FOR OFFICIAL BUSINESS ONLY.' That's us, sport. Official business. Collecting Russian Spies Incorporated. How does it feel to be a four-year-old on official business?"
"I gots to go to the bathroom."
"Right. We'll just look for a door that says 'Spy Potty'." He swung into the driveway and showed his U.N.C.L.E. pass to the guard at the gate, who looked over at Michael a bit puzzled.
"Who's the kid?"
"My brother."
"Kids aren't allowed here."
"We aren't staying. We are just picking up someone."
Misha arched his head forward and announced in a loud voice, "We are collecting our Russian spy."
Tony cleared his throat. "We won't be long. He's supposed to be waiting at the front entrance at four o'clock and it's already five past."
"Visitors' parking lot is clearly marked. Don't park in front of the building. Turn to your left." The guard handed him a newly-printed map indicating the parking lot and entrance they were to use. He didn't seem too concerned. After all, the building wasn't officially open yet and was virtually deserted. Only the guards and dogs seemed ready for business.
Tony carefully parked in the designated lot, in between a delivery truck and a telephone company van. He grabbed Misha hand firmly and walked quickly toward the main entrance wishing Michael didn't have grass stains all over his knees and what looked like mustard spots on his T-shirt. They got about two feet inside the entrance when they were stopped by a guard and Tony was required to pull out his I.D. again.
"U.N.C.L.E.," the guard read, with a little laugh.
"That's what it says."
"I know that's what it says. Don't be smart, kid."
"Listen, do you guys have a bathroom around here anywhere? My little brother could use one."
"Sure, why not? That's what I'm here for, right? Escorting babies to the can. That's what it says in my contract. Kids aren't allowed in here, you know."
Michael had escaped Tony's hand and was jumping up and down on top of an inlaid eagle's head set in the middle of the marble floor of the huge lobby.
"No, I didn't know. Come on, Misha. I thought you had to go to the bathroom?" Embarrassingly, the word 'bathroom' echoed in the empty foyer, but since the place was deserted, he shrugged it off. "Misha?"
"I don't have to go no more." Michael seemed more interested in walking circles around the mammoth official CIA seal around the eagle head.
Another guard appeared. "You here for the Russian?"
"I'm here for Mr. Illya Kuryakin," Tony said, frowning.
"Right this way, then." The guard looked across the lobby to Michael. "The child can remain here."
Tony started to object, but the first guard waved him off. "It's okay, son. I was just giving you a rough time. I'll keep an eye on him. I've got a kid his age at home."
After a few quiet threatening words to Misha to behave himself, Tony followed the escort into the building. "I was supposed to meet Mr. Kuryakin in the lobby."
"I was told to bring you to him." The guard didn't seem inclined to say anything else, so Tony stayed close behind him as they wound through the building. Most of the doors were shut, and those that were open had electricians or telephone workers busily installing wires and cables. Boxes were stacked everywhere, most elaborately labeled.
They exited an elevator, turned another corner, and then the escort paused, looking at three men who were at the far end of the long hallway. Illya Kuryakin was leaning forward against a wall, his head resting against his arm, while the two men with him seemed to be arguing about something. As they approached the trio, the men turned and glared at them, stepping between them and Kuryakin, who hadn't moved.
"Who's this?" one CIA agent asked.
The escort didn't seem fazed by the bruskness. "ID. says his name is Anton Graham. U.N.C.L.E., D.C., clearance."
"You're Norman Graham's son, I take it?" the man asked, sizing him up quickly. "What do you want?"
Tony squared his shoulders and looked back calmly. "Yes, I am Norman Graham's son. I'm here to pick up Mr. Kuryakin. I believe the arrangements were confirmed approximately one hour ago, so it should not come as any big surprise to you."
The agent ignored him and turned to the escort. "Take him back to the entrance. We'll bring Kuryakin there shortly."
"Why can't he come with me now? He's standing right there. Illya?" Tony called, trying to glimpse him behind the hulk shielding him.
His only answer was a slight moan.
"What's wrong with him?" Tony demanded.
"Nothing you need to worry yourself over. He'll be down in a few minutes. Go with the guard and we'll bring Kuryakin soon."
"My father said very specifically that if there was any delay --" Tony stopped short as Kuryakin slid down the wall, the agent next to him moving quickly to catch him. "What wrong with him?" Tony repeated. "Let me take a look; I have medical training."
"Stay right where you are, boy. We'll handle this. Ben, send for Brighton. I don't know why the Russian isn't reacting to the shot yet."
"What shot?" Tony asked. "What did you do to him?"
He started to push his way closer when Illya turned his head slightly and vomited all over the agent who was haphazardly supporting him. The agent swore and let go of him, allowing the young man fall to his hands and knees.
Tony made it to his side then, trying not to look at the mess or breathe too much. He would have to get used to the smell eventually if he was going to get his medical degree, but he wasn't about to lose his lunch today in front of these guys. He helped Illya sit up and lean against the wall, noting the dilated pupils and light sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Kuryakin said nothing, closing his eyes, his head lolling to one side. Tony pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, but there was little he needed to do; Illya had managed to keep himself spotless. In fact, it had almost looked like he had purposefully aimed directly at the agent.
The CIA agent that had been targeted was not so quiet and was pulling off his expensive suit jacket and cursing loudly. Very loudly.
"You okay?" Tony asked Illya anxiously, trying to get a better look at the drugged man struggling to orient himself.
Illya's eyes opened at the almost-familiar voice. He turned to stare blearily at the angry counterintelligence officer, then looked back to Tony, studying him for a moment as though trying to identify who this new person was. A slight nod, then a smile touched his pale face. "Got him," he muttered, almost noiselessly. Kuryakin added a few more effective Russian swear words that Tony had heard only a handful of times in his life -- and none that he dared to even think in his mother's presence, lest she somehow hear them -- but he had to admit that they quite adequately described the CIA agents.
Fortunately, the agents didn't hear them. At the far end of the hail, a door opened to admit the doctor, and the one agent, Billingsly, left to get cleaned up.
"What's the problem here?" Brighton asked.
"They drugged --" Tony was cut off with an angry wave.
The second CIA agent took the doctor aside a few steps. "One of your boys gave the Russian the Sodium Pentothal and within ten minutes, he was out of it. Totally unresponsive. We called Graham to get more time, but he insisted on having the Russian back today. Your intern tried to give him something to counteract the Pentothal, but -- well, you see wha
t he's like. Can you suggest anything?"
Dr. Brighton crouched down and examined the young man quickly, feeling the rapid pulse and noting the other symptoms, then rose to again converse with his co-worker. "I don't know, Rolf. It does appear to be some kind of allergic reaction. You could try a different amount next time. Or, what about that new mixture the British are using now? We could try that and see how he reacts."
"How effective is it?"
"I've got some paperwork in my office -- Oh, I don't know if it's been transferred over here yet. I'll have it by next week, anyway. I'll get the results of the tests to you. I wouldn't worry about this, if I were you. It happens now and again. Some people just have a sensitivity to Sodium Pentothal. We'll find something that works." Brighton crossed his arms, a smile on his face. "He got Jack dead-on, didn't he?"
"Little bastard did it on purpose." The CIA agent glared down at Kuryakin.
Tony Graham pulled himself up to his full six foot one height, his eyes blazing, and tried to keep from yelling at them. "Now that you've had your little talk about what you're going to drug him with next time, wouldn't it be wise to check him out a little more carefully and see if there is anything you can do to make him feel better?!! What kind of doctor are you?!!"
Brighton frowned, but made no attempt to approach them. "Calm down, kid. He'll be fine. The Russian will have a good sleep and will never know what hit him."
"The Russian is a human being, dammit! He has a name! He's not some experiment or number or prisoner to be interrogated! This was supposed to be an interview! Can't you guys ask questions without resorting to drugs? What's wrong with you? I've seen my father spend the last ten days trying to convince this man that he is safe in this country, that he will be treated fairly, with dignity, and now you bozos pull this shit. What's he supposed to think about Americans now?"
"We are following standard questioning procedures. Ask your daddy when you get home, kid." Rolf Brighton turned away from him. "I can't believe he's letting a GRU killer live with his family. Graham must be crazy." The two men walked back down the hallway, talking about drugs and proportions and new items on the espionage "truth serum" shopping list.