Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair Read online

  THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.

  THE DEFECTOR FROM LENINGRAD AFFAIR

  by

  L.R.H. Balzer

  Artwork by Warren Oddsson

  Dedication

  To my sister and friend, Marianne Mendgen, and my friend, Cathy Mayo. Thanks so much for your time, your ideas, and your proofing.

  And, as always, to Warren Oddsson. It's nice to have a friend to fight with about Napoleon Solo.

  Chapter One

  "No."

  Solo choked on the hot coffee he was drinking and stared at his partner, unable to believe what he had just heard. An agent simply did not say "no" to the Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America.

  "No," Illya Kuryakin repeated quietly, standing up from the round conference table and facing Waverly. "No," he said, shaking his head slowly, his intense eyes icy beneath the fringe of hair on his brow.

  "Mr. Kuryakin, I was not asking your opinion. You will accompany Mr. Solo to Washington, D.C., tomorrow morning and--"

  "No."

  Still coughing, Solo tugged at Kuryakin's arm, pulling him back down. "Come on, Illya. What are you doing?" Waverly was just beginning a routine briefing on a new case when suddenly Illya had shut the file, stared at the table surface for a moment, then interrupted Waverly and refused the assignment.

  Without looking at Solo, Kuryakin shrugged out of his grip and handed the file back to Waverly, his voice cold with repressed emotion. "Do not ask me to." The eyes, no less intense, were pleading. The jaw was stubborn, set.

  Alexander Waverly was silent. The room was silent. The building was silent. The whole world stood silent while Solo held his breath and waited. He felt totally helpless and he was not a man who liked to feel helpless.

  Twenty seconds passed. Long tension-filled seconds. Waverly at last lifted the file from the table. And handed it back to Kuryakin. "On the first page there is a telegram--"

  "No." Kuryakin let the file fall back on the table, turned his back on Waverly, and left the room. The door hissed shut behind him.

  Two heartbeats. Heart thumps, more like it.

  Solo got to his feet. "I'll go talk with him, sir. I don't know what the--"

  "You will do no such thing, Mr. Solo." Waverly reached for one of his pipes. "Please sit down." He carefully emptied the ash from the bowl, methodically filled the pipe with tobacco, and lit it without a word. He glanced at the clock on his desk. Puffed on the pipe. A white cloud of smoke trailed around his head. His eyes, beneath the bushy wild eyebrows, stared at nothing. No emotion showed on the leathery wrinkled face.

  Solo sat on the edge of his chair, uncertain of what to do. This had never happened before. Especially without warning. Without discussion. One minute they were casually reviewing the final details of the case they had just wrapped up, a normal conversation over morning coffee, then Waverly had spun the next assignment folder around to them and Kuryakin had picked it up, opened it, closed it, and flatly refused it. Now he was gone and Solo had not even seen the file.

  The phone rang, shattering the silence. Waverly picked it up, listened, and returned the receiver to its cradle. He exhaled, the smoke escaping from the corner of his mouth. He scratched his neck absently. He glanced over at the clock again. He stared at nothing.

  Then he reached for another file.

  "There is a report here from... " he began, and they discussed several cases being dealt with by other agents under Solo's supervision in the Enforcement Section. It would have been a routine conversation, except Waverly glanced at his clock every few minutes, as though waiting for something, and Solo felt curiously disoriented by his partner's absence.

  At last, Waverly reached for the file. Across the table from him, Solo watched warily as the disputed assignment folder was opened. All he could see were two thin sheets of paper--but whatever was on the top one, Illya had only read the first line before he had reacted.

  "Mr. Solo, you and Mr. Kuryakin will drive to Washington, D.C., tomorrow morning and meet with Grigory Mikhaylovich Zadkine. He has information for us. You will then accompany him back to New York on Saturday."

  "Zadkine? I'm not familiar with the name," Solo said, keeping his voice casual as he reached for the file Waverly handed him. "Was Illya?"

  "Yes."

  Solo glanced up, waiting for Waverly to continue, but the older man was sucking on his pipe, staring at the clock. Waiting.

  Solo scanned the file, seeing nothing to upset his partner. The top sheet was a transcription of a coded telegram from the U.N.C.L.E. Washington Office. The second page consisted of a short biography, only two paragraphs long. He looked at the name again carefully. He read the telegram.

  "WASHINGTON D.C. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 03, 1964. AT A PRESS CONFERENCE AT 9:30 A.M. TODAY, GRIGORY MIKHAYLOVICH ZADKINE, AGE 29, A PRINCIPAL DANCER WITH THE KIROV THEATER, FORMALLY REQUESTED POLITICAL ASYLUM IN THE UNITED STATES. THE SOVIET BALLET COMPANY IS CURRENTLY IN NEW YORK CITY UNTIL TUESDAY, DECEMBER 8TH. THE STATE DEPARTMENT HAS REQUESTED OUR ASSISTANCE IN DEBRIEFING MR. ZADKINE AS HE HAS PROVIDED SOME INITIAL INFORMATION CONCERNING A TOP SECRET U.N.C.L.E. PROJECT. WE REQUEST A SOVIET NATIONAL AS TRANSLATOR: ILLYA N. KURYAKIN, NEW YORK HQ, IF AVAILABLE. PROJECT CIPHER OR PROJECT SLIPPER TIE-IN? SIGNED, NORMAN GRAHAM, U.N.C.L.E. WASHINGTON."

  Solo read the first line again. Zadkine. It must be the name Zadkine that set Illya off.

  The second page biography was skimpy. Date of birth. Parents' names and occupations. Mother, deceased, 1943. Date of acceptance into Vaganova School. Date of first performance with the Kirov. Brother, deceased, 1961. Father, deceased, 1961, ranking member of Communist Party.

  The phone rang again.

  Waverly lifted the receiver, nodded at the message, and hung up.

  A moment later, the door to Waverly's office slid open and Illya Kuryakin stood framed in the doorway. He swallowed, took a hesitant step inside, and stopped--reluctant to move further. The small thin Russian looked harried, breathing with difficulty, as though returning to this room had cost him much. His hands were crammed into the pockets of his suit jacket, the lapels were turned up, and from his slightly reddened face, it was likely he had been walking outside in the unusually-cold December air.

  Waverly put down the pipe. Without looking up from his desk, he said quietly, "Go home, Mr. Kuryakin. Be back here at 9:00 tomorrow morning." He opened another file and began reading, making notes.

  Illya stared across the room at the Head of Section One, his face changing from hopefulness to resignation, the blue eyes finally breaking away from Waverly to look toward the table where Solo sat. The Russian was not quite able to meet his partner's questioning face.

  Waverly continued to ignore him and he finally turned and disappeared back into the hallway, the door shutting him from sight.

  "Sir?" Solo had read the file several times and still could see nothing that explained the scene just played out before him.

  "Oh, Mr. Solo...Yes, yes... I haven't forgotten you." Waverly sat for another minute staring at the closed door. "You may go now. As I said to Mr. Kuryakin, I will see you both here tomorrow morning at 9:00."

  Solo gathered the file and retreated to his private office. He was taller and slightly heavier than his blond partner, a well-built man of average height, with dark hair and intent brown eyes that regarded the world around him with a silent challenge and a ready smile. His carefully groomed image of a young executive businessman in expensive tailored suits was one he wore with ease. Not so obvious was the power behind his build, the sharp mind behind the casual grin, the manicured hand capable of a killing jab or a warm handshake.

  He was Number One of Section Two-
-Operations and Enforcement. For two years he had served as the Chief Enforcement Agent: answerable to Alexander Waverly for the actions of the men in his department, available to the enforcement agents for consultation, case endorsement, intelligence concentration, and liaison with Waverly's Policy and Operations Department.

  In reality, he was rarely available, for he was also an active field agent, half of a partnership Waverly had fostered a year before when Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin had been assigned as Number Two of Section Two, a move highly criticized by the other four members of U.N.C.LE. Worldwide Policy Section.

  Napoleon Solo glanced over the growing backlog of paperwork on his desk, cleared most of it to one side, and called to Files to order some additional dossiers. While waiting for them to arrive, he went down the hall to the Enforcement Office, held a brief meeting with the other agents of his department, and prepared his desk to be away for a few days.

  The information he had requested was on his desk by the time he returned to his office, but the U.N.C.L.E. dossier files had little on Grigory Zadkine, himself, other than confirming his occupation and status within the Kirov Ballet. His father checked out as a KGB agent and there were some indications of Mikhail Zadkine's activities over the past thirty years. Solo could see a possible pattern where Illya or his father could have crossed paths with the man, especially immediately before World War Two when both Mikhail Zadkine and Nikolai Kuryakin had worked for the same organization in the USSR.

  Late afternoon, he packed up his briefcase and headed home, stopping only to pick up grocery supplies for his dinner. He paused and knocked at Illya's apartment on the way to his own, but there was no answer and no light showed under the door.

  ***

  Just before midnight, Vladimir Konstantinovich Petrov stepped off the plane at Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C. He was tired; it had been a long boring flight, and he had had too much alcohol and not enough food. Or sleep.

  A typical flight.

  A tall broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, Petrov possessed a certain aura about him that sent his fellow travelers scurrying from his path. His long heavy coat, its pockets crammed with notes, gloves, American coins, and chewing gum, lay over his left arm, and his massive briefcase dragged at his right. He walked steadily through the corridors, following the route without having to check the numerous signs that directed the new arrivals to their luggage and to the various customs and immigration services.

  His diplomatic passport was produced and he was hurried through the formalities and outside into a waiting black limousine. By 1:00 a.m., he was in the Soviet embassy and a new round of meetings had begun. They were waiting for him at the dark oak table, the KGB and GRU rezidents, a few members of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The others: Flaherty, Sayers, Wolsey.

  They were all tired, fearing another crisis dropped on them. Only six weeks before, they had been forced to explain Khrushchev's removal from the Presidium of the Central Committee, from his post as First Secretary, and from the Chairmanship of the Council of Ministers. The United States government had to be assured that the change in leadership did not imply a change in policy. They hoped.

  It was the official position, anyway.

  Petrov brought welcome news of the Party and the realignment of the power structure within the tiers of the government. He also brought sealed documents with new assignments and special orders. Each member present who received such a package sat wearily until the end of the meeting, waiting for the moment when they could open the documents in private and see what fate awaited them.

  It was five-thirty in the morning before they tackled the last item on the initial agenda: the official Soviet reaction to Zadkine's defection. Petrov had saved this revelation until the end. They all needed a good laugh.

  ***

  Friday. It was overcast, icy, and cold as Napoleon Solo drove out of New York and headed toward the capital, his partner a silent rigid figure beside him in the car, lost in whatever was occupying that closed mind. Once they were on Interstate 95, he tried to break the tension. "So, who is Zadkine?"

  As was his habit when he disliked a question, Kuryakin stared closed-mouth out the window and ignored it.

  "Waverly said you knew him."

  No response.

  "Can you tell me if he is a friend or enemy?"

  Kuryakin's face hardened, the eyes intently focused on the road in front of them, but he didn't answer.

  Not one to give up easily, Solo tried something different. "Still trust me?"

  As he had hoped, this brought a fleeting response. Kuryakin turned away from him and looked out the side window, but after a moment, he nodded vacantly.

  "Anything I should know about?" Solo tried again, but still received no answer. The day was progressing much the same as it had begun. They had met with Waverly at 9:00 that morning and went over the disputed file, Kuryakin keeping a polite, dispassionate, ultra- professional facade. Solo had not been convinced, but sitting around Waverly's desk, they all three pretended nothing was wrong. The Chief Enforcement Agent had paid special attention to the unspoken dialogue between Kuryakin and Waverly, but neither party seemed willing to address the problem--or let him in on it. The silences were tedious. The answers were too careful. Too vague.

  Solo had walked out of the U.N.C.L.E. building feeling underprepared and, with Washington and Zadkine only hours away, he was determined to get some answers. "Waverly briefed us on Project Cipher. How would a ballet dancer get information on a computerized cipher program? That seems a bit ridiculous."

  The car swerved to avoid a stalled car partly blocking the right-hand lane of traffic, then skidded slightly on the icy surface while he fought for control.

  That got a result. Kuryakin glanced back at him disdainfully. "Watch the road."

  "Oh, you can speak. Good. Any comments on how Zadkine is offering information on an U.N.C.L.E. cipher program that hasn't even been completed yet? Or why Thrush is involved with the Russians? A related file I looked at last night said a Soviet-made mechanical cipher machine was recently found during a raid on an East European Thrush Satrap."

  For a minute Solo thought his partner was going to remain tight-lipped, but at last Kuryakin shifted in the seat. "I read that file a month ago," he answered tersely. "But, Napoleon, remember Project Cipher is a computerized program, not a mechanical or simple electronic one... Just because the words Russia and cipher end up in two separate files, there is no need to immediately assume they are connected. And why must you see Thrush involved in every crisis we face?'

  "Because they usually are."

  "Well, maybe not this time." Kuryakin turned back to the window.

  "What about Project Slipper? I see nothing in our files about it."

  Kuryakin said nothing, a slight shake of his head closing the conversation.

  They arrived in Washington by late afternoon. Kuryakin followed Solo into the hotel and maintained his silence up the elevator, outwardly appearing calm although his ever- increasing apprehension was apparent to his partner. They showed their identification to the CIA agents guarding the suite and were let into the hotel room where Grigory Zadkine was closeted away.

  Responding to the sound of newcomers at the entrance, a slim man in his late twenties emerged from the adjoining master bedroom and stopped abruptly in the doorway. He was around six feet in height, light brown hair, with the build of an athlete and the sure body knowledge of a dancer. Unlike the more flamboyant attire Solo had expected, Zadkine's nondescript white shirt and dark slacks gave no indication as to who he was or where he was from.

  Solo had entered the suite first, with Kuryakin trailing behind him, but the man scarcely glanced at the Chief Enforcement Agent; his eyes fixed on Kuryakin instantly, utterly shocked. Zadkine's face faded to a sickly white and he grabbed the doorframe with one hand. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

  Solo glanced quickly to Kuryakin but the pale face was empty of expression, the blue ey
es hidden as he stared at a spot on the carpet, not meeting Zadkine's continued astonished stare.

  "Ilyusha? Is it you, milochka?" the dancer whispered, eyes wide, still bracing himself.

  "Grigory Mikhaylovich." Illya's voice was quiet. Carefully neutral. Wary.

  Solo swore silently. Damn you, Illya. What haven't you told me? He felt himself tensing as the Russian ballet dancer approached them.

  "Illya Mikhaylovich?" Zadkine's startling blue eyes were fixed only on Kuryakin, unable to believe what he was seeing. "Illya Mikhaylovich, I saw you die. I saw you die. I saw you die and you are standing here. And they told me you were dead, too," he whispered in Russian, reaching out to touch the blond agent.

  "They say many things, Grigory Mikhaylovich. They tell me he is dead." Illya stood immobile, arms at his side, still no expression on his deliberately blank face.

  Zadkine nodded slowly, looking down at the younger man as understanding set in. "He is dead, Illya Mikhaylovich, and you did not kill him." Zadkine took Kuryakin's face in his hands and kissed each cheek three times, slowly and deliberately. "Ilyusha, Ilyusha, Ilyusha... You did not kill him. He killed himself." He stared at Kuryakin, shaking his head at him. "You think you killed him. I see. And you are afraid of me, Illya Mikhaylovich?"

  Illya said nothing but closed his eyes, unable to meet Zadkine's scrutiny. There seemed to be no fight left in him; he was drained of life and energy.

  Solo could feel his own gut tighten, bracing himself physically and mentally for whatever would happen next. He had never seen Illya back down from anyone. Was this the same young man who had said 'no' to Waverly only the morning before?

  He cleared his throat. "Hello. My name is Napoleon Solo. I am with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. I am the Head of the Enforcement Section and I have been assigned to this case. I see you already have met my partner." He held out his hand.

  Zadkine glanced at him but did not release Illya's face locked between his hands. "Your Russian is not bad, Solo. Can you disappear for a few minutes? I must talk to Ilyusha."