Collection 9 - The Changeling Read online

  The Changeling

  Collection Volume 9

  written by LRH Balzer

  illustrated by Warren Oddsson

  Author's Notes

  This story is one that is a long time coming.

  I've always loved the character of Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, and in the 70's and 80's I put together in my mind what his history might have been, based on my limited reference material at the time (my hazy memories of the series I watched in the 1960's, reruns of the show I was able to catch, and the U.N.C.L.E. pocketbooks and the U.N.C.L.E. digest magazines). All of this was shaped by my own reading and studies of the Cold War and the history I knew of the Soviet Union and Europe during that time. In the 90's, I've had the opportunity to tell some of these stories. And in 2000 and 2001, I'll have the chance to complete the ten volume series.

  "The Changeling" was meant to show the progression in Kuryakin's life, and the influence, in his later years, of Napoleon Solo in his life. And how past, present, and future collide and conspire to shape who we are as individuals and what we might become.

  Thank you for sharing this journey with me. Thank you also to Warren Oddsson for his spectacular artwork, and for Cathy Mayo Conley for her hours of editing these volumes.

  Lois

  - 1 -

  November 1961

  Illya stared at his reflection in the window. Too thin. Too short. Too young.

  Not needed.

  Not wanted.

  Not good enough.

  He closed his eyes, then reopened them. Nothing had changed. He looked the same. America the Beautiful had not changed him. He was still who he was: the outsider, the one who was different. The one without a soul.

  Untrustworthy.

  Unreliable.

  Unstable.

  It wasn't going to work. There was no way U.N.C.L.E. was going to accept him. He was tainted. He was corrupt. He was Soviet and he was a defector. They would not wipe their shoes on him. Why bother going through this useless charade? What did he have that they might need or want? Nothing.

  With each day that he waited, his grave was dug deeper. Perhaps now was the time to take control and choose his inevitable path down into death's cold embrace. Why drag out the inevitable? Why wait for someone else's bullet to pierce his brain?

  There was no longer any reason to continue.

  Except for one.

  Behind him, the elevator pinged softly, and he turned and watched as the doors slid open.

  Damn her.

  She had made him care.

  He squared his narrow shoulders and stepped into the elevator, waiting silently while it slowly made its way to the third floor of the Washington, DC, hospital. It stopped with a jerk, and he slipped out between the doors and down the hall, unerringly making his way to the room where she lay, still recuperating two days after the birth of the child.

  There was an anxiousness clutching at his heart that he had not expected, a feeling of foreboding that he wanted to attribute, as many did, to his Russian melancholy, a moodiness that had descended on him many times in the last few months. Often when it came, it was simply a darkness that settled over him, and at other times, a seduction that called to him to take the knife, to stroke it across his bared wrists, to lay back and let his heart pump out his blood until he no longer cared to take another breath.

  But that could wait. There was something he needed to do now, one thing entrusted to him, and he was determined to show them—to show himself—that he could do this.

  Frankly, he admitted as he stood outside her door, he was terrified. This was not what he had wanted, yet he was responsible, and he would fulfill his obligations. But the injustice was stinging, his own guilt paraded back and forth each time he looked into her eyes. A father should be there at the birth of his child, should at least be in the hospital, offering moral support. He should be there to hold the child, to speak gentle words to the mother, to praise her for her beauty and admire her for her strength of character, to endure such suffering.

  Instead, there had been no father present. Again, as with much in life, Illya knew he was to blame. Life had consequences, and the consequences of his desire to come to America had been harsh, as life was harsh. And so the child—a boy—was dying, and there had been no father to hold him, no father to pace back and forth while waiting for news, no father to hold the mother's hand and wait for the next diagnosis.

  With a quick intake of air into his clenched lungs, he pushed open the door and stepped into her room.

  The room was darkened, the blinds shutting out the sun and the vibrant autumn day. She looked across to him, her eyes ringed in dark circles, not at all well. She was battling pneumonia, her breathing was labored, and the baby had been born early. Too early, the doctors were saying. Too early.

  She reached out her hand in his direction. "Ilyusha," she murmured, her eyes closing as he drew close to her side. "Any news?" she asked softly, in Russian.

  "None," he said, bending to kiss her forehead. Five months he had known this woman, but she was already within his heart, entwined about his soul. "I'm sorry, my love. I wish I—"

  "What will happen, will happen. We did not plan this. We could not have foreseen this. God will take care of little Pasha. If he lives, we will cherish him. If he does not live, we will grieve, and we will remember his few days with us."

  "How can you say this?" Illya whispered, his forehead pressed against the railing of her bed, one hand clutching the cold metal. "I feel such... such anger."

  "Anger? Why? Who are you angry with, Ilyusha? God?"

  "Yes. If He exists, I am angry at Him. But I am angry at myself It was my greed, my selfishness, that caused this, my —"

  She laughed at him, and he raised his head to stare at her, worried that she was delirious or affected by the medication somehow. He was twenty-three years old, a man who had lived too many lives, had killed without a second thought, yet when she laughed at him, he felt as though he were a foolish child who knew nothing.

  "My dear Ilyusha," she said, her fingers trailing over his high forehead. "Please tell me how you figure you are responsible for this situation? You have been a rock to me. Your logic, dear one, escapes me."

  "Norman would have been here, had it not been for me. Norman would have—"

  "What? How could my dear husband have protected me from catching pneumonia? I was being very careful. How could he have stopped the baby choosing to be born so early? How could he have changed the events of the last two days?" Trish Graham bunched the pillow under her head with one hand, not releasing her grip on Illya's hand with her other. "Tell me."

  "If not for me, he would have been here," Illya insisted. "It would have made a difference."

  "He will come soon," Trish murmured. She smiled and patted his bowed head. "Tell me, Ilyusha, have they let you hold my little one?"

  He nodded, startled at the tears on his face. He raised one arm and dried his eyes, looking away as he spoke. "I put on a mask and gown, and they let me hold him. He is so small, so tiny. Seven months to his life, plus two days with us." His voice trailed off. Illya cleared his throat and tried again. "He had wires everywhere, monitoring his heartbeat, listening to his lungs strain for air. His fingers are so small... " He broke off, holding his breath for a moment and willing himself not to cry. "It should not have been me there. It should have been Norman, but instead he is on a plane from England, because he endeavored to help me."

  "He wanted to do that," she insisted, then coughed again, the deep rattling sound shaking her body. She took a settling breath when it was over, then looked back at him, trying to sound reasonable and calm. "We had no way of knowing this would happen. Alexander and Norm decided this wa
s the best way to handle the situation with Oxford, that one of them should go in person to see if you could be accredited with a degree, based on your previous studies."

  "Then, Alexander Waverly should have gone. He should not have sent Norman, so close to your time." He could hear the ice in his tone, clattering around the room.

  "Two months is not close, but I don't want to argue with you right now, Ilyusha. I want to hear more about my son."

  Illya nodded, blinking back the tears which persisted despite his efforts.

  *****

  The baby had died.

  Two days later, Illya stood beside Tony Graham as the tiny casket was lowered into the ground. Despite the death he had known throughout his years, it was the first funeral he had ever attended. Part of him felt an irrational wave of paranoia strike his conscious, washing away as his mind provided reassuring answers, then overwhelming him all over again. He wanted to believe the child had been murdered, or poisoned, or the doctors had not been careful enough; that way he could exact revenge on the death.

  Instead, he was left to cope with sorrow, with his own grief

  He hated this family. He loved this family. The word 'love' was tentative, a bit unsure, but he used it now because he had no other, and it was as close to love as his experiences had led him. Norm and Trish Graham had taken him into their home, and their lives, just days after his arranged 'defection' to the United Network Command, and so to the United States of America. Alexander Waverly had placed him with them, hoping the Head of U.N.C.L.E's large Washington, D.C., office, Norman Graham, and his Russian born wife, Trish, would be able to connect with him.

  Illya surprised himself, and, he suspected, surprised them as well. He had found himself drawn in and had let himself become swept away in their lives. It had helped, of course, that Trish had known Nikolai Kuryakin, Illya's father, prior to meeting Norm Graham. In many ways, she knew more of Nikolai than Illya did. But even if that connection had not existed, he felt he would still have been absorbed by them and their three children. Tony was the same age as Illya, studying to be a doctor and hoping to one day work with U.N.C.L.E. as a physician. Tanya was thirteen, a typical American teenage (as far as Illya could tell) who was quite caught up with boys and hit singles and ballet and horses. Misha—Michael—was five. And while he was still a little boy, they had decided to have another child to complete their family.

  But the baby had died.

  He watched, horrified, as both Norman and Trish Graham bent low and picked up a handful of dirt scattering it over the white casket, crushing the rose petals. Tony's eyes were closed, his hands clenched together before him. Beyond him were Tanya and Misha, standing together with a neighbor woman and her child, frequent guests at the Graham home.

  He struggled to keep himself under control. His head pounded from the effort. His throat was tight, making it impossible to swallow.

  Illya's gaze traveled to Trish, seeing her still suffering the lingering effects of her illness, marveling at her strength of character to endure a funeral, to smile from behind her tears. All he wanted to do was go home, throw himself on his bed, and cry. How entirely out of character. If my Soviet keepers could only see me now, they would laugh at what I have become. My emotions are too close to the surface, and ruling my thoughts. But he couldn't stop them. They crowded at his mind, sorrow and pain clutching at his throat, pressing against his heart, compressing his lungs.

  While he struggled to breathe, he saw at last that the cemetery workers had stepped forward, shovels in hand and had begun to fill in the grave. He lifted his head; the mourners had all walked away. He alone stood rooted where he was, too shaken to do anything else.

  "Ilyusha, come with us." The voice was gentle, compassionate.

  He watched because he was unable to look away. The coffin disappeared beneath the dirt. "Norman, I not understand. Why did this thing happen?"

  "I don't know, son." Graham put his arm around Illya, but the Russian pulled away, not willing for this man to console him. "Maybe he'll be happier where he is now, then he would have been with us."

  "What do you mean? What is to be happy? I cannot believe you joke. Is serious."

  "I'm not making light of it," Norman said softly, replacing his arm on Illya's shoulders and drawing his charge away from the graveside. "I've lost a child, a son I will never know beyond the softness of his cheek and the gasping of his last breath." Illya felt the hand on his shoulder tighten as Graham's voice caught.

  They walked in silence over the neatly mowed lawn, stepping around headstones as they made their way back to the road. The sky was overcast and dark with the promise of rain. It was cold, late fall embracing the frosty breath of winter. It had snowed the day the child died, but the snow had vanished as it touched the ground, not wanting to make a commitment to stay.

  And like the snow, Illya was ready to leave. These were good people, and his presence had contaminated their home. So how he felt was not important. Feelings were useless barometers to what occurred in life.

  Best ignored, buried, or eradicated.

  He was still wrestling with his thoughts when they reached the row of limousines, scarcely noticed being passed from father to son, and totally missed the silent words between them. Tony took him by the elbow and steered him toward the second black hired car in the long line, while Norm Graham joined his wife in the first limousine of the procession.

  Illya ducked his head and entered the limo, sliding across the seat to stare out the far window. Tony got in behind him, and the door was closed. The car started, following the one before it, and Illya was peripherally aware of the others speaking as they wound through the cemetery grounds.

  "Tony, now what happens?" Misha asked suddenly, changing the course of the conversation, and Illya jerked his eyes from the passing headstones to the young child sitting across from him.

  "Now we go home, and there will be lots of people coming over," Tony answered, sounding weary.

  "I don't get why Mom and Dad are having a party when their baby died," Tanya said, scrubbing one eye with the back of her hand.

  "It's not really a party," Tony tried to explain, knowing he had three sets of ears listening to him. "Think of it as a celebration."

  "What? How can they be celebrating—"

  "Tanya, let me finish. We celebrate friendships and family, people who share the difficult times with us. And we celebrate the memory of the baby, the—"

  "I never saw him," Misha interrupted, frowning. "How can I 'member him, when I never saw him?"

  "You saw him, Tony, and Ilyusha saw him." Tanya stared over at him, and Illya ducked his eyes from her intense gaze, guilt again growing.

  "That's right," Tony responded. "But even if you didn't see Pasha, you had made a place for him in your hearts, hadn't you?" he asked, using the expression his mother used.

  A place in my heart.

  Misha nodded solemnly, and Tanya found a smile. "Yeah," she whispered, nodding. "Okay, I get what you're saying."

  "Me, too. I think," Misha piped up, then settled back into the car seat. "Tony, how come the seat is backwards like our old station wagon? Huh? How come?"

  Illya let the voices fade again, as the ever patient Tony answered yet another question of his young brother, and the car drifted though the streets of the city, never stopping for stop signs or traffic lights as the motorcade was escorted toward the U.N.C.L.E. compound.

  *****

  In the days after the funeral, things spun from bad to worse. Trish was ill, recuperating at the hospital. There was a woman in the house, an employee who cared for the children and despised Russians, it seemed.

  Or at least, despised him. Tony had gone back to university. Norman Graham busied himself at the Washington U.N.C.L.E. office, visiting his wife after hours, whenever he had a chance. Tanya and Michael were at school during the day, then strictly supervised by the woman in the evenings.

  Illya stayed in his room, the door shut.

  And now this
. These papers Graham had given him to fill out.

  He stared at them lying untouched on his desk, U.N.C.L.E.'s stylized logo smeared across the top of the first sheet. Five pages of questions prying into his life, asking about his past, asking about things he did not want to answer. Standard forms, Norm had said. Standard questions.

  They were to go in the next day's courier package to Alexander Waverly, and then be forwarded to the London office. The London office would give them to Oxford. Norm had smiled at him, absently touching his shoulder, his eyes still sad, still echoing a pain that would resound for weeks and months ahead. "Just do your best to fill them out, son. Most of the questions are easy, straightforward. If you have any problems, just come up to my office and we'll straighten it out."

  Illya stared at the sheets now, wondering if he should just crumple them up and throw them in the trash. Why bother dreaming about this? Why bother pushing himself any longer? What right did he have to dream? Was there any point to it? Would it, too, blow up in his face?

  Yet the thought of the disapproving frown on Alexander Waverly's face when he opened the courier packet and could not find the completed forms sent Illya to find a pen and then sit at his desk and ready himself for the first question.

  Name?

  Illya put down the pen after five minutes. I cannot even answer the first question; how can I expect them to let me into their organization, let alone sponsor me to the university?

  His birth name was Illya Nikolayovetch Kuryakin. A man at the CIA office had told him that a month before. He had not known his real name. If he had thought of it, it would have made sense. His father was Nikolai Kuryakin, so his patronymic middle name, of course, would be Nikolayovetch. But he had not thought about it. There had been so many other names, that any idea about a 'real' name was lost. What was 'real' anyway? Perhaps it could only be listed as his 'original' name.

  As a young child, he had been called Nickovetch Kuryakin. No first name, just the shortened patronymic and last name. His father had been known in Holland by his code name "Nico", so as his son, Illya had simply been called "Nickovetch" or "Nico's son". A small version of their leader, not a person in his own right.