by LRH Balzer
He watched Norm Graham mingle and laugh at jokes, hand out cold beer and pop, and organize the events. The people who worked with him seemed to like him. His eyes, when they talked to him, crinkled as he listened, and he nodded or smiled so they would continue talking. They didn't seem to be afraid of him. At one point in the afternoon, Illya had felt someone watching him and had glanced up to see Graham standing on the veranda, talking on the telephone, and looking at him.
Where would they send him? Was Graham reporting to Alexander Waverly about what he had done? Would they send him to New York? Alexander Waverly had gone to a lot of work to bring him to America, but now he would know that Illya was not trustworthy and not worth fighting to keep. Maybe the CIA would take him and slowly extract everything he knew. And then what would they do with him?
Children played and swam in the pool. Tony acted as lifeguard and broke up the fights and tried to impress his girlfriend. At three o'clock, a whistle blew and sides were chosen for a baseball game. Almost everyone gathered around and watched, cheering and waving. Illya sat next to Tanya and Karen for a while and heard a rather confusing version of the rules, then slipped away when the girls jumped to the feet yelling, "Kill the Ump," when Norm Graham gave a point to the "other" team.
Food was plentiful and free for the taking. By late afternoon hotdogs and hamburgers were ready, with the adults waiting until six for the barbecued chickens, turning on spits. The air was heavy with the smell of food cooking and the smoke from the grills. Baked potatoes were individually wrapped in tin foil. Corn on the cob sat in big pots on the ovens, ready to be drenched in butter.
Illya stole into his room and took one of his oranges. There was too much out there and his mind couldn't choose. He walked around to the tennis courts and ate his orange, watching Trish play the game with the others. She wasn't very good, but she was enjoying herself. She seemed happy. She stopped and waved to him in between sets.
The day went on and on. He felt battered by the noise and smells and tastes and colors. The sun dried his skin and made his head pound. There was no place to go. Norm Graham had told him he must stay outside during the baseball game and barbecue and celebration. Eventually, he knew Norm Graham would come and find him and he would find out what was going to happen to him.
Twilight offered some obscurity, and Illya wandered aimlessly through the crowd, a dead leaf tossed about in the wind, changing direction frequently to avoid the clusters of partiers. Curious eyes fastened on him, people waved and motioned him over, but be kept his gaze averted and pretended not to see them.
He felt a strange anger at these trespassers, wishing them far away with their laughter and jokes and merriment, wanting everything back the way it was before. Before they had come. Before he had taken the gun. He turned his head to look at the lights of the house and the group of people standing on the wide patio that overlooked the grounds, and his eyes dropped to see the darkened windows of his bedroom.
He desperately wanted to know what was going to happen. What were they going to do with him now? It would be decided when everyone had gone and there was time to take action. There was nowhere he could go now, anyway. The place had guards and agents everywhere. And children running around where they could easily be injured.
A small hand slipped into his and he jerked away until he saw it was the child. The child he could have killed. Misha didn't look up at him, just walked along beside him companionably, swinging their joined arms, momentarily sated with the excitement of the celebration. Illya glanced down at the happy, content face and the wind-swept blond curls and swallowed back a sudden ache in his throat. He held the hand lightly, not wanting to ever hurt this sweet child who offered love so easily, who prayed for angels to stop his nightmares, who smiled up at him now with such innocence it hurt to look at him.
A few minutes later, something caught the boy's attention and he flitted off, without ever saying a word and totally unaware of the churning emotions he had unleashed in his friend.
A father to such a child would surely kill someone who tried to harm him. He would be a fool not to.
I didn't mean to do it. I do not belong with people such as these.
As the sky darkened, Chinese lanterns were turned on, their brightly colored lights gently swaying in the breeze coming up from the water. On blankets scattered about the grassy slope, young children slept, exhausted from their activities, while their parents still chatted with each other in small clumps.
Music came from speakers mounted on the balcony railing and several of the young people started dancing by the swimming pool. He could see Tony and Tanya among them. Tony waved at him to come over and he approached them reluctantly.
"Sandy's going to teach a new dance. Want to learn it? It's new to all of us." Tony looked down at him, smiling reassuringly. "With your background, you'll probably be great at it."
Illya shook his head and eased away back into the shadows. What background? Killing people? Pulling guns on innocent children? He had nothing in common with these people. He had no right being at their special celebration. He was not a member of this country. He had no country.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the red-haired girl who had followed him around earlier, always trying to talk to him, moving in his direction, so he darted away up the stairs. He found himself in front of the bar again, and the man asked him what he would like to drink. They gave him another vodka and he drank it quickly, depositing the empty glass on a table that had been placed on the veranda for such things. At least in the darkness it was easier to move.
He slipped down the other stairs to the side of the house. No one was there any longer. The baseball diamond was empty, the lines smudged. A folding fence had been set up, keeping everyone to the back of the property. He didn't see any guards watching to make sure no one violated it, but they were there somewhere. He thought of trying to get into the house through the doors on the veranda, but when he went to go back up the stairs, there was a crowd of people blocking the bottom. He circled around to the other side, but it was also blocked, and there were people standing in front of the patio doors in the courtyard watching the dancing.
The charcoal in the grills had all died down to a rosy glow. A few hired workers stood scraping the grates that the hamburgers and chicken had been cooked on. They watched him carefully and asked him if he was hungry. He shook his head and left the tent area. Someone yelled in a loud voice that something would start in half an hour, but he couldn't make out what exactly they had said.
He stood in the middle of the yard as he had earlier that day, and slowly turned in circles, staring at all the activity crowding against his senses. And in the midst of it all, one thought echoed over and over. What is going to happen to me?
*****
"Dad?" Tony moved next to his father at the crowded veranda railing.
Norm turned and gave a brief smile. "I see him. I've been watching him." They stood side by side for a few minutes and observed Illya standing in the middle of the lawn, his blond hair shining in the shadows.
"He's not doing very well," Tony sighed. "I tried to get him interested in the dancing, but I ended up scaring him off. Melinda is on the prowl after him. I've been lining up guys to keep her dancing and occupied so he doesn't have to ward her off constantly."
Norm shook his head and laughed softly, then leaned over and said in a quiet voice in Tony's ear, "Melinda's father, John Thurmond from Accounting, wanted to know who Illya was, so I told him what I've been telling everyone, that he's a nephew of Trish's just over from Russia. So John says, 'Then it's okay for my daughter to invite him over? She's quite taken with him.' I started to tell him to go ahead and invite him, when I realized what exactly I was doing. Would I want my daughter to be dating an assassin? It kind of puts me in an awkward bind." Graham downed the last of his beer, holding the bottle loosely in his hands as he leaned over the rail and scrutinized the seventy or eighty partiers who were still present.
Tony pulled
away and frowned at his father, puzzled and a little irritated. "Is that how you look at him, Dad? I don't get it. How do you expect him to adapt to life here and put all that behind him when you can't put it behind you? Make up your mind. Which is he? A deadly KGB agent or a potential U.N.C.L.E. agent? The unsalvageable enemy or the abandoned son of an old friend?" Tony's eyes sought out Illya's slender frame moving aimlessly in and out of the blankets on the lawn. "The other night, when we went out for a drink, he told me he feels like he's trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle but he only has ten pieces and he doesn't know what the picture is supposed to look like. Maybe he's not ready to go out dating Melinda yet, but that doesn't mean he won't be able to in a couple of months, when he settles down. It all comes down to, is he worth rescuing or not?"
Graham leaned on the railing and let the initial anger wash over him, then took a deep breath and glanced over to his son. "When did you suddenly get to be so smart? Did all those college courses start paying off?"
Tony shook his head, trying not to smile. "I'm serious, Dad. For tonight at least, I think you should look past the trained spy. That's one scared kid out there."
"I know he is, and you're right... I better tell Sam Lawrence to watch out; he has competition in the psych department." Graham sighed as Illya stepped over the low fence that had been set up to mark the edge of the lawn, and disappeared out of sight down the slope to the river. "Well, that does it. I better go talk to him. Wish me luck."
"Luck. I'll be close by, if you need help."
Norm watched Tony move into the darkness, astonished -- and yet proud -- of his son's words, then he pushed off the railing and worked his way through the crowd on the veranda, down the stairs, and out into the shadows of the lawn. It was hard to see where the blankets were, the lanterns slowly being dimmed for the fireworks display, and he stepped around them carefully, trying not to tramp on any sleeping bodies.
Illya was standing about four feet from the edge of the bank, probably as close as he dared to go without the regulation life jacket. His back was to the house, and with all the noise going on, it was unlikely he could hear Graham step over the low fence and approach.
Norm stopped half-way down the slope and crouched down, taking time to calm himself and watch the distraught young man, his silhouette against the moon-lit river showing hands clenching and unclenching. They were both walking a fine line here.
*****
Illya shivered in the cooler breeze. The river raced by, black and ominous in the darkness. And inviting. It had almost taken him once. A few steps forward and he would be on the dock. Another step and he could let the icy water carry him away. He had overheard that two CIA agents had committed suicide in this very river a few months previous. They had just stepped off the bank and let the river drown them.
It would be over then.
He was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of life and its endless circles, teasing him with thoughts of home and family and acceptance, and then ripping them away. Tired of hope being dangled before him, then vanishing into ashes as he reached for it. Tired of pushing his integrity back further and further until what remained was in danger of disappearing altogether. He intimately knew the emptiness of living without hope.
He was tired of... of being afraid. That was it. He was afraid. Had been for years. It had been so long with him that he could no longer recognize it. But it had motivated his every move in life. Afraid to refuse an assignment. Afraid of not completing an assignment correctly. Afraid of not being the top in his class. Afraid of becoming the same as his overseers. He simply did as he was told because he was too afraid to stop. Fear had consumed him and called itself dedication.
Over the last ten days, Graham had said many times that he didn't want Illya to be afraid. He had known. Graham had been concerned at how the CIA was treating him. Graham had defended him to the CIA. They said they wanted him to stay with them. Tony said Graham was trustworthy and wanted him to be part of their family. Graham was fair. The punishment fit the crime. The punishment would happen, and then it would be over and life would go on. If what they said was true. If.
He had no way of knowing.
Maybe it was time to stop being afraid and cling to hope with the same determination and ruthlessness he had put into the rest of his life. To hold on with both hands and look hope in the eye and demand... beg... to be heard. Could he do it?
Or maybe it was time to stop being afraid by putting an end to it all. The river was right in front of him. Five steps. It would be over.
Was he too afraid to die or too afraid to live?
*****
"Illya
Kuryakin spun, again the agent's training pulling him into a defensive crouch.
"It's Norm, Ilyusha. What are you doing out here? The fireworks are going to start soon." Graham was counting on the reflection from the river to illuminate enough of his face for Kuryakin to see he was not angry. As soon as the young man had turned, his features had disappeared into shadows so there was no guarantee he understood.
"I did not go to the dock."
"That's right. You didn't. It's off limits tonight. Thank you for honoring that."
There was no response and he stood up slowly, opening his arms so that Kuryakin would see he had nothing in his hands, no gun or weapon to threaten him. It was important to keep in mind this was a trained agent he was dealing with. "Come here."
Two quick steps forward, then Illya ground to a halt, his body wavering with indecision. But it was the look on his face that commanded Graham's attention. In the burst of light from a test flare, he had seen on Illya's face a look of hope, then overwhelming hopelessness.
Norm quickly took stock of what he had just said, and how he was standing. There was a spark there; he had seen it. Illya had heard or viewed something that had given him hope. What had he done? He had only held out his arms showing that he was safe...
Is that it? Have you latched on to how I deal with my kids? That in my arms is the Safe Place where they do not ever need to feel afraid?
There was one way of finding out. He took a step closer to the young man, his arms still held out in the same manner he held them out to his children. "Come here, Ilyusha. Tell me what happened."
Kuryakin stumbled, his hands on his face, but he walked right up to within three feet of Graham. And stopped.
Norm carefully stepped forward and placed his hands lightly on Illya's shoulders, feeling the tremors. "You're safe now. Tell me what's wrong. What did you do?"
Illya looked at his feet, then took a deep breath and jerked his head up to stare Graham right in the eyes. "I did not obey you last week when you told me to leave the dock. I was sick when I should not have been and inconvenienced your family. I --" he choked on the word, then kept going, "I almost killed your child today. I am sorry for all of it. If there is more, I am sorry for that, too. I understand that you will now be required to punish me as you see fit. It is your right."
Norm looked down into the hopeless eyes. That's what you've been upset about all day. You know you made a mistake and you've been waiting for your punishment. You think I just postponed it until after the party, and I bet the imagined penalty has gotten bigger and bigger as each hour went by.
He closed his arms around the boy, enfolding him gently, feeling the tension in the rigid body. "There is no punishment, Illya." He repeated it several times until he was certain he had been heard. The tremors were becoming more pronounced. "There will never be a punishment for what happened. Being sick is never something you have to ask forgiveness for. As for the rest, we all make mistakes, and all I ask is that you try not to repeat them. Ilyusha, we care about you, and we are here to help you, if you'll let us. But you have to let us."
Graham stood, his knees shaking, as he then listened to a stream of choked confessions tumble from the boy's mouth in a mixture of Russian and English as though Norm were a Catholic priest hearing a long-delayed shrift. Things he had done for the KGB or GRU or whatever group
had controlled him.
"Enough," Graham said, finally, pulling him away to look at him. "Shhh. I don't need to hear any more." He sat down on the slope and Illya crumpled and knelt before him, his forehead low to the ground, much the same way he had been earlier that day in his room.
"Illya, listen to me. Alexander Waverly does not hold you responsible for what happened there. You were a tool. Illya Zadkine did all those things and he is dead now, isn't he? How can a dead man be held responsible for deeds he committed? Alexander Waverly has exonerated you and in accepting you into this country, with full knowledge of your previous activities, the United States Government has also absolved you. Do you know what those words mean? Exonerated and absolved? They mean you are not held responsible for those things. You will never be punished for them as long as you are in this country. You do not have to worry about when someone will come for you. I have papers in my safe that say you have been pardoned and have been accepted here as Illya Kuryakin. You will only be held responsible for what you do from this moment on. Do you understand?"
The blond head raised to look at him and Graham could see that Illya had understood what he had said, but didn't have the strength to believe that it could be true. Norm reached down and pulled the exhausted body into his arms, holding him and rocking him as he would Misha. The tears rolled unhindered, the face against his chest twisted in grief as Illya silently, hopelessly, wept. For someone who had done all the things he had done, the Russian was a small package, Graham realized, probably not weighing much more than Tanya. Deadly, yes, but still young, still needy. And probably at this moment feeling more vulnerable and frightened than he had since he was her age. Maybe since he was Misha's age. Illya's experience with feeling safe was obviously negligible.
Norm looked up as Trish slipped beside him. Illya opened his eyes to see her, shuddering as her fingers touched the tears streaming down his cheeks. She didn't say anything, trusting that whatever had happened, whatever was happening, would work itself out.