by LRH Balzer
This, as the doctor so crudely pointed out, was what he had created.
He stood at the doorway, stubbornly unwilling to cross into the room. With that action would come a commitment to carry his shaky plan through. He had given too much time to the situation already. And with the world's safety as his responsibility, what did he owe one man, a man who had placed himself as a tool for U.N.C.L.E.'s––and his––use?
He had dealt with this one as a ten-year-old, bandaging wounds, drawing him out of his shell, and holding his hand in the first moments after the boy watched his father assassinated. Waverly had found the killer and done the paperwork. He had used the power at his disposal to help the child. He hadn't gotten personally involved though; the child was sent back to the Soviet Union, for others to care for.
Waverly had dealt with this one as a teenager, shielding him from the authorities, even taking the somber young man along on an inspection of Survival Island and then allowing him to stay and take the course. But he hadn't taken him into his home. He hadn't gotten personally involved. When the course was over––and many of the youngster's scores were still unmatched––he sent him back to the Soviet Union for others to care for.
And then the terrified twenty-two year old defector. Again, he had calmed him down and talked with him. He had done the paperwork and made the phone calls. He hadn't taken him in. He hadn't gotten emotionally involved. For that, Illya was sent to Norm and Trish Graham, for them to care for him and love him and absorb him into their family.
When permission finally came through for Kuryakin to work as a field agent, Waverly had patiently waited for the right time and finally teamed him with his own heir-apparent, with the future of U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon Solo. He had found a place––carved a place––for this extraordinary young man, unwilling for Kuryakin to slip through his fingers and give his talents to any other group but U.N.C.L.E.
He hadn't gotten personally involved, but Waverly had watched with interest as he brought them together, wailing for the long-suspected union of abilities to focus them, and then he had nodded as the two men he most highly valued became partners, then friends. And now what––brothers of a sort?
This then was what he had created. This man, working calmly and efficiently during the day, dealing adroitly with the pressures of his job, but not knowing how to deal with the pain of his partner's unexplained absence. Because Waverly had taught him that he shouldn't care. That U.N.C.L.E. agents had no personal lives.
This man. Alone now.
He is my personal responsibility. Not U.N.C.L.E.'s. It hurt Waverly to admit it. It angered him. To realize that he cared; somewhere deep within himself, it mattered that this one was hurting.
And now I must teach him a new lesson. Push him from the nest, so to speak. Best do it quickly. Waverly cleared his throat and the blond head raised with a snap.
Kuryakin's hand brushed over his face, wiping away any trace of unprofessionalism. "Yes, sir?" He glanced at his desk, half-rising to shuffle papers nervously, stacking the disposable coffee cups. "May I help you with anything?"
"Come with me." Waverly turned and left the room, hearing behind him the unmistakable scramble for jacket and tie and crutches, and for the report due the next morning.
Kuryakin slid into a chair at the round conference table, dropping the crutches to the ground, his shaking hands trying to loop the tie properly. Bloodshot eyes blinked back the grittiness of the captured sleep his body had taken.
Instead of joining him at the table, Waverly sat apart at his desk, ignoring the startled glance of the other man. Methodically taking solace in his preparations, he filled his pipe and wondered what his next move should be. Illya needed to be pushed, not shoved. Encouraged, yet not hand-held.
New territory here; he needed time to evaluate and set a course of action. But how different was this from the other times? Strange that fate would place him in this role again, guiding this man over another hurdle in his life. Alexander Waverly had taken a man who no longer thought independently and taught him to think––or rather, Solo had. Waverly had taken a man who no longer trusted anyone, and taught him to trust. But, no, that had been Norm Graham.
The U.N.C.L.E. chief exhaled slowly, tapping his pipe on the desk. It would be a necessary sacrifice, but one that would benefit the Network in the long run. He turned to Kuryakin. "You have been busy."
Kuryakin nodded curtly, his eyes disappearing behind dark-rimmed glasses. "Yes, sir. I have the follow up report here on Agent Sully's activities, as well as the information you requested on the La Stella Mining Corporation. I am prepared to leave for Chicago tomorrow morning if the Brighton case continues to pose a problem for––" He stopped abruptly, silenced by a wave of Waverly's hand.
The old man scratched at the night bristles on his chin and stared at the young man with an intensity that made Kuryakin squirm. When he stood finally, Kuryakin's eyes followed him warily as he moved to the south wall and touched a panel. A wall slid back into the recessed groove revealing the cot Waverly used while on twenty-four hour call, when even the small apartment he kept within the headquarters was too far from the telephone lines.
Kuryakin had slept in it before, as a fifteen year old and five years ago. "Sir?" he asked now, an unexplained new fear simmering beneath the impassive face.
"Please get some rest, Mr. Kuryakin. Consider it an order. We will talk in the morning." Waverly turned down the office lights that burned night and day, and left the room.
*****
Illya lay down on the cot, shivering. He would be sent away again. It always happened after this. Each time he slept on this cot, Alexander Waverly had sent him away in the morning.
He reached for the blanket, pulling it over his shoulders, his head trying to find a resting place in the pillow. His heart was thumping in his chest. What had he done? He tried to think back over the past few assignments, but couldn't find anything. And Alexander Waverly had given no explanation, not that he would be required to. Did Norm and Trish know what he had done? Would Alexander Waverly tell them why he was sent away?
In the morning, he would be told where he was going this time. He would find out soon enough.
He rolled on his side, drawing the blanket closer. The questions kept bouncing in his head. If he had made a mistake, would he not be in confinement? Why would Alexander Waverly quarantine him in his own office? Perhaps because he had no real charges against him; he was just unsatisfied with his agent's progress.
Where to this time? There was nowhere left to go. If he was of no use here, he was of no use anywhere. Returned as damaged goods? Illya had no doubt that Alexander Waverly had the ability to send him back to the Soviet Union, to find a way around the mountain of paperwork and the label of defector the Section One Head had previously placed on him.
Maybe to another office. London. Or Berlin. Maybe switching him with Dunn. There had been many conferences between Paddy Dunn and Alexander Waverly over the last few days. Maybe he would be sent to Rotterdam.
What did it really matter?
Napoleon was most certainly dead.
Maybe it would be best to leave then, to start fresh elsewhere. He had made it a rule not to get involved in the lives of those he worked with, and he had failed that here in New York. Just as he had made friends with Rodya in Moscow and Sasha in Leningrad, he had thought of Napoleon as his friend.
If it was friends he wanted, he was in the wrong business. He should be a––a––
What job could you do and still have friends? He couldn't think of one.
His foster father had taught him that a friend was one who could betray you, one who could hurt you as no one else could. It was certainly true. Napoleon could hurt him with a glance, with a single word.
But Napoleon was gone. Probably dead.
He would be more careful next time, if he was ever assigned to another partner.
Illya rolled over, feeling the dizziness that swept him into sleep, but it did not last long. T
he clock showed that only ten minutes had passed when he woke from the nightmare.
No. He would not stay here. If sleep was what Waverly had ordered, he would go somewhere where he could sleep. This building held nothing but nightmares.
*****
It was almost one-thirty in the morning when Alexander Travkov[14] opened his apartment door and stared down at the young man standing before him, the slender body propped by crutches. "Lyusha?" he whispered, his eyes glancing automatically up and down the empty corridor. Kuryakin could see the old familiar fear on his friend's face and wondered how many years it would be before it faded. Or if it ever would.
Travkov shut the door quickly after his guest, and locked it. "Bratik." He held open his arms.
Kuryakin dropped his crutches, his weight resting against Travkov's chest as the man caught him in a massive hug. He tried to relax, to accept the contact but he was too tight, too wound up.
Travkov held Kuryakin away for a moment, the deep blue eyes registering the tense weariness in his childhood friend. "Bratik. Little brother..." He kissed the left cheek, then the right, and then the left. "Little brother, it is good to see you."
Illya closed his eyes suddenly, embarrassed at the brimming tears captive beneath his damp lashes. His throat felt sore; it was hard to swallow. He turned his back to Sasha, wishing desperately he had never come. But he had felt alone and he needed to sleep. And, as he had as a teenager, he had run to Sasha, knowing Sasha would take him in and care for him and not ask questions. Illya blinked the tears away, anger at himself replacing the overwhelming loneliness. He would simply offer his apologies and go back home. He bent awkwardly, trying to retrieve his crutches.
Strong arms set him upright, allowing no discussion. Kuryakin gave a short gasp, the trapped emotions now too close to the surface. Travkov ignored the crutches and scooped him up, carrying him to the couch and depositing him gently.
Illya turned to complain, but then saw the tears running down Sasha's face and he knew his pain was shared, without words or explanations. Sasha knew only that he was hurting. Both Russians were from a time and place where words were dangerous, knowing too much could kill you, and you learned how to offer your silence. Sasha also offered a shoulder to bury your face in and try to forget for a while.
He leaned against the solid strength, and surrendered to the darkness that had been creeping in on him for too long.
"I was worried when you didn't come back to bed, darling. Who was at the door so late? ... Who—? Sasha, who is this?"
"His name is Lyusha. I have known him since he was a child, Anika."
"Is he sleeping?"
"Almost. Maybe."
"He has a lot of bandages. Was he in a fight? He looks like someone has really hurt him."
"Outside—yes. Inside—most definitely."
"I'll get you a blanket for him... There. Will he be okay?"
"He is here."
"Why?"
"Because he needs to be here. Go back to bed, Anika. I will stay and watch him sleep. He needs to know I am here."
"Has he been drinking?"
"No, he is not drunk"
"Has he told you what happened to him?"
"He has not said a word."
"You know… you're a pretty special guy."
"I am his brother."
7:00 a.m.
From his place on the couch, Alexander Travkov turned his head slowly, the danseur's white blond hair illuminated in the soft light from the lamp as he stared down at the awakening man beside him. He smiled to himself but said nothing, raising his glass to his lips and draining it, then replacing it by the bottle.
"Lyusha... Wake up. It is time for you to go."
Illya sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He peered at his watch. Seven o'clock. He had slept for over five uninterrupted hours. It felt wonderful. He felt almost human. "Thank you," he murmured, yawning.
"Any time, Lyusha. I have called you a cab. It will be here soon. I wanted you to sleep as long as possible." Travkov stood up and stretched. "For me, today is a day off. I will go back to bed. You must go to work. Go home first, though. Clean up. Be sure to eat something. Anika left a sweet roll for you, but it is not enough." Travkov moved through the apartment, shutting off the phonograph and bringing the crutches. "You have not met Anika. She said you must come for dinner sometime... It would be safe, Lyusha. She does not know who you were."
At the doorway, Illya pulled Sasha into a hug, for a moment resting his forehead on the other's chest. Just as there had been no words to express his pain, there were no words to express his gratitude. He drew away, hooked the crutches under his arms, and left, the sweet roll in his pocket to eat in the taxi.
He would face whatever Alexander Waverly decreed. This was not the Soviet Union, and he was no longer a child. He was the Number Two enforcement agent in North America. Surely that accounted for something.
*****
1:30 p.m.
Kuryakin was in the labs, the security section informed Waverly, and after a brief conference with Patrick Dunn, the Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America summoned the Russian into his office once more.
"Yes, sir?" Kuryakin stood before his superior, arms casually at his side, a cane half hidden. He certainly appeared better rested, Waverly noted, although the dark circles under his eyes had hardly eased.
"There's been a change of plans, Mr. Kuryakin. Have a seat." Waverly paused and peered across at the young man. "Hmmm. You no longer have your crutches?"
"No sir. Not since this morning. Dr. Lawrence has cleared me for light field duty, on the condition I use the cane," Kuryakin said quietly.
"Yes... I have the report. There seems to be some necessity to limit footwork for a few weeks more, which would incapacitate you significantly at your work, undermining your efficiency and the smooth continuance of our operation."
Kuryakin gave absolutely no response to that statement, other than sitting immobile in his chair. Waiting.
"Since Mr. Dunn is fully capable of handling matters until Mr. Solo's return, I think it best that you take a few weeks away from this office. I believe that a schedule can be worked out for you to comply with Dr. Lawrence's specifications."
A slight pause. Kuryakin opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. There was another pause before he answered, "Yes, sir. When do I leave, sir?" Cool. Resigned.
"Immediately."
"Yes, sir." Kuryakin stood to leave, reaching for the cane.
Waverly frowned, irritated that the young man offered no defense for himself. "I have not finished briefing you." He waited until the agent fell back into his chair, Kuryakin's restlessness under tight control. Empty eyes stared at him, the careful blankness of the Soviet training once again revealing much to Waverly. And echoing Lawrence's words. Whatever hope Kuryakin had held coming into his office today, it had gone. "You have two weeks. I suggest you find something to occupy your time." He paused, but Kuryakin asked no questions, waiting patiently for the rest of the information. No interest in what he was expected to do during this time away, or why it was happening. He would accept what was being dealt him without question. And then it would only be filed indifferently away.
"This is not an assignment." Waverly picked up a small piece of paper. "In two weeks, there is a foot specialist that we wish you to see. There has already been an appointment made for you."
"Yes, sir." Kuryakin reached for the paper, putting it in his pocket without looking at it.
Waverly glanced at the telephone on his desk, the signal glowing that there was a call waiting for him. He had done what he could; it was up to Kuryakin to put the pieces together. Lawrence would be off his back.
Kuryakin stood again and Waverly frowned. The blankness was still there. Perhaps a slight push in the right direction... "You may wish to go earlier. It is entirely up to you what you do with your time. We have no use for you here." He waited for a reaction, but there was none. Another telephone was ringing. "That will
be all," he said, and reached for it.
"Yes, sir."
Chapter 10
Late October 1950
Seoul, South Korea
The National Museum was a large stonework building showing little outward sign of the previous besiegement of the city. Inside, however, the hollow emptiness and echo of his footsteps as he walked through the deserted halls was enough to put Sub-Lieutenant Solo on edge, expecting to see a North Korean machine gun around every corner.
But he saw no one. The museum was closed. The windows were boarded up. The workers were with their families, patching up their homes and trying to put food in their children's mouths. Today's necessities and tomorrow's preparations came before the relics of yesterday.
At last, he found the right stairway and made his way past the signs of previous enemy occupation. He propped the door open at the top to ventilate it; the stairwell had been used as a latrine and it stank.
At the end of the hallway was Room 201. The office from the day before. The door had been broken down and he stepped over it as he had on his previous visit. Seoul was a broken mass of twisted metal, wood planks, and bodies. One got in the habit of stepping carefully.
"Excuse me?" He looked about for the assistant, but the room was deserted except for a woman, her short hair pulled back and tied in a kerchief.
She turned and looked at him and he was surprised at how young she was. And beautiful.
"Hello, "she moved from the map on the wall, through a maze of boxes, over to stand before him. "Mr. Solo, I'm glad you are here. My father said to expect you." She paused, waiting for him to reply. "You are Lee Solo, aren't you?"
He felt himself redden with embarrassment, silently cursing his shyness. Shyness, or was it fear? Of a female who barely came to his chin?
Of a stunningly beautiful female with perfect deep brown almond-shaped eyes set in a face that belonged to a queen, with a complexion of silken peaches and lips brushed with the hint of rose.