Collection 4 - Kolya's Son Read online

  No, not forever. There must be a purpose in his being here, though they chose to keep it from him. Perhaps Alexander Waverly was undecided on whether he qualified for his organization and was keeping him until he had decided. Or he had information the man wished to obtain from him before permanently eliminating him. Or maybe Alexander Waverly did not want him, but thought he might be useful elsewhere and was keeping him in reserve. In limbo. Perhaps forever.

  They could do that. The KGB often did that, when they did not choose to eliminate their problems permanently. If they wanted someone, but wanted everyone else to believe him dead, they arranged a mock death. And Graham had told him everyone believed he had been killed. A dead person had no rights. No one would search for him. Alexander Waverly could do whatever he chose.

  He had never done anything to deserve this.

  He could feel the anger inside him begin to eat at the barriers he had encased it in. He owed Alexander Waverly for things in the past, but these people, he owed them nothing. He had cooperated up until now, but no longer. The red haze he had been fighting settled around him like a blanket. He rarely indulged himself with anger, but the flames licked at him enticingly. He had lost everything, anyway. What difference did it make if he lost his temper, too?

  *****

  At the knoll of the lawn, Graham could see the Russian, still perched on the edge of the dock, a tiny figure bent forward over the broad river. Graham swallowed, trying to calm himself down before approaching him.

  He had no idea how he was supposed to get the young man off the edge of that dock safely. The way he was leaning, it would be dangerous to startle him or he'd fall head-first into the current. Could Illya even swim? No one had thought to ask him. Graham was reasonably sure Illya was not armed -- there had been no indication of a weapon on him and no firearms were missing. He wasn't sure about knives, though. It had been one area they had not tested Kuryakin in, but Graham strongly suspected the young man was well-schooled with most weaponry.

  The floating dock creaked under the strain of the rushing water, despite the anchors holding it in place.

  *****

  Illya had forced back his anger, a discipline with which he was wearily familiar. Anger made one clumsy. Anger made one careless. It was a luxury, like all luxuries, that he could never afford. He blanked it deliberately, shivering against the emptiness he was left with.

  He hated this lack of feeling and yet for so long it had been his only escape. He turned the emotions off, stripped thought and reaction from his soul. His vision went slowly from three to two dimensions. The bird cries, the roar of the river, disappeared into an indistinct buzz. The lush verdant colors leached from the scene, leaving only black and white and shades of gray.

  He closed his eyes, escaping into numbness. The chill wind whipping at his back was the only annoying element keeping him from fully escaping. He burrowed his face harder into his knees, trying to push himself out of reality. To rest, for a little while, on a floating cloud of gray. Was it so much to ask?

  *****

  "Illya?" The young man didn't move and Graham tried again, his voice a little stronger. "Illya!"

  The blond head rose and turned. Blue eyes stared uncomprehendingly back at him.

  "Illya, come away from the edge of the dock."

  The Russian looked as if he had lost the capability to understand English. Graham frowned, a touch of impatience coloring his expression and his next words.

  "Do you remember what I told you about the river dock? You aren't supposed to be out here, Illya, without this." He held up the life jacket. "And you are too close to the edge of the dock. If you fall in, the current will take you away in a moment. Come here, Illya."

  The boy blinked at the last three words, those apparently reaching him, though as if from a great distance. He looked at the river and slowly panned back to Graham. "I like the water."

  Graham held on to the edge of his patience. "Maybe so, but you can like it from a little farther back. And wearing a life jacket. Now come here."

  The last command was unmistakable, and the Russian's nostrils flared in indignation, some of the aura of the KGB agent holding sway. He jerked his chin up, tacitly refusing the order. "I am not your child, to be ordered about. Nor your subordinate."

  Graham tried to be reasonable. He kept his shoulders relaxed, his body language open, not responding to the Russian's implicit challenge. "No, but you are my guest. We have rules in this house, and while you are here, you will follow them."

  "No."

  Graham stared at him, disbelievingly, the first faint stirrings of anger coloring his tone. Of all the stupid things to be stubborn about, this takes the cake. "Illya, this is not up for negotiation. I realize this is all very new to you, but this is a rule for your safety as well as the safety of my own family. You will do as I say."

  Kuryakin rose to his feet, graceful as the dancer that he was, and for a moment Graham thought he was capitulating. Then he saw the expression on the Russian's face. "Nyet." The refusal was tossed at his feet like a gauntlet. The young man's muscles were tense, clearly ready for a fight.

  Graham felt his expression harden, realizing he was slipping from host/father mode to agent, and he didn't bother to resist the move. The two of them were now squared off at each other like two combatants. But Graham had the land and the U.N.C.L.E. Safe House behind him. Illya had only the rushing river under him, his heels even with the edge of the dock. Graham put the whole force of his personality into the order, willing it to be enough. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, you come here."

  He knew as soon as the words left his mouth, they were at odds with his demeanor. The words of a parent, the body language of an agent. The two weren't compatible, and that disjointedness robbed the order of the weight it should have had. He had to resolve that issue, be one or the other to be valid. But he was neither, here, and his authority was compromised.

  Illya blinked at the name, the newness of it a momentary distraction, but his hesitation was only temporary and he clearly regarded it as a ploy. "That person does not exist. I am dead, da? And no one is looking for me. Therefore no one will miss me if I disappear, correct? What does it matter to you, then, what I do?"

  "Illya, you are my responsibility --"

  "That I am only too aware of. But if I should choose to die, it is my choice, not yours. A week ago, I was prepared to die. I still am. This here is not alive."

  "Illya, you are safe here. And if you don't choose to stay here, that can certainly be arranged."

  The young man said something to him in Russian, the words beyond Graham's ability to translate, but clearly an insult. Frustrated, Graham moved in, tired of this conversation. He would bring the kid in if he had to drag him in by the scruff of his neck. And after that? Well, he and Alexander were going to have a long talk about Kuryakin's new living arrangements. Kuryakin wasn't the only one having second thoughts.

  As he approached, the young man crouched on the narrow dock, looking around him wildly as if seeking a means of escape.

  Graham stopped a few feet away, just out of arm's reach. "Enough, Illya. Let's go in."

  "I will not go with you anywhere."

  Graham swore softly and reached for him. And ducked as his guest threw a wild punch at him. He stared at Kuryakin, who looked back at him, wide-eyed, clearly frightened now, his breathing harsh, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. "Illya, you don't want to do this; you've just backed yourself into a corner. No one is going to hurt you. Now come with me."

  Kuryakin started to rise from his half-crouch, his shoulders trembling. But as he rose, he pivoted. Graham reached for him too late as the boy dove into the river.

  "Son-of-a-bitch!" Graham swore loudly. "Illya!"

  The Russian had started swimming for the far bank, but he was not swimming strongly, and he hadn't gone but a few yards before the current caught him. Graham watched in horror as Kuryakin's head was knocked under the water; he kicked off his shoes, aiming his dive toward
the last place he had seen him.

  The water was piercingly cold. Dark and muddy. Graham gasped as he swam into the current, feeling it pull at him like a strong hand. He let it take him for a moment, and then dove beneath the surface, looking for anything he could see in the murky water. Nothing. He surfaced, gasping for breath, and saw a mud-stained edge of blue denim. He struck out for the boy and finally latched onto a sleeve and a handful of blond hair. Kuryakin was a dead weight in his arms. Fortunately he didn't weigh much, but Graham didn't think he was breathing.

  He worked his way over to the bank, landing just at the edge of the U.N.C.L.E. property. As he pulled Kuryakin out of the river far enough to start artificial respiration, he could see the guards running down the hill. The boy still wasn't breathing and, furious, Graham swore at himself between breaths, cursing at how stupid he had been to push what was essentially a scared kid into an impulsive irrational act.

  Great job of looking after Kuryakin, Graham. Waverly is going to be furious that the kid he worked so hard to acquire, drowns after you virtually drive him into the Potomac.

  Kuryakin gasped and choked, and Graham turned him on his side as he vomited up a flood of river water. Two guards lifted him further out of the water and up onto the lawn. Still panting himself, Graham stood back as Mercer, U.N.C.L.E.'s Washington physician, slid down onto the grass beside Kuryakin and checked him over.

  One of the guards peeled off his uniform shirt and handed it to Graham to use as a towel. "Are you all right, sir?"

  Graham wiped his face, pushing his sodden blond hair out of his eyes. "Yeah, I'm doing wonderful, Nate." Graham stared angrily down at Kuryakin being ministered to by the physician. Swearing, he flung the shirt onto the ground. "I did a great job of getting him off the dock, didn't I?"

  The startled guard stepped back at Graham's rare display of bad temper and retrieved his shirt as the Washington U.N.C.L.E. chief took a final glance at the unconscious young man lying on the bank of the river, shook his head, and strode up to his home.

  *****

  Showered, dry, and dressed in clean clothes, his family calmed and his temper back under control, Graham stepped into the Safe House infirmary room and watched as Mercer listened to Kuryakin's lungs.

  "How did you manage to be here?" Graham asked.

  "Came to check on Lee. Nate told me what was happening and as we were watching the monitors, we saw you both go in." Mercer looked up from his sleeping patient. "You were lucky, Norm. That river is nothing to fool with right now. Want me to check you over?"

  "I'm fine." Graham brushed the offer away with an impatient gesture. "What about Illya?"

  "His lungs are fairly clear at the moment. A rattle or two. I'd feel happier about his prognosis if he hadn't had a fever to start with."

  "What do you mean 'to start with'?"

  "You didn't know?" Mercer put the stethoscope down. "At least 102, I'd say. His dip in that freezing river probably brought it down a bit, but it's going to climb again now. I wondered why you would let a sick man go wandering around outside."

  "Sick?" Graham questioned, startled. "He never said anything."

  "I guess that's in character. Probably a touch of flu. He never showed any signs? Fever, chills, queasy stomach?"

  Graham looked thoughtful. "He didn't want breakfast this morning, but, hell, he's hardly eaten anything for days. We thought it was nerves."

  "Probably was. Moving and changing jobs are among the most stressful of events. I imagine being killed, defecting from your country, and being taken to live with strangers fit in those categories. The stress, the change in climate, food, and water just wore his immune system down. And if his blood chemistry from our tests two days ago is any clue, this man has obviously been under stress for some time. I just hope this illness, compounded by his river dive, doesn't lead him to pneumonia."

  Graham sighed. "Sick. Great. I not only push a scared kid into the river, I push a sick scared kid into the river. Waverly picked him a great caretaker."

  Mercer gave him a sidelong look as he packed up his equipment. "Sorry you took this on?"

  "I wouldn't be sorry if I felt like we were doing anything right. Or doing him any good. But I think he hates it here. He doesn't trust me. He doesn't even trust Trish. He's unhappy as hell. I know Trish wanted to give him every chance, but I honestly think he might be better off somewhere else."

  "Where?" Mercer asked with interest. "Where do you send an ex-KGB agent?"

  Graham shook his head wearily. "I wish I knew. I don't think the kid's dropped his guard since he got here. He sure hasn't given me any clues about what he wants -- except that he doesn't want to be here. I haven't figured him out at all. His resume reads like a Soviet spy novel, yet, he seems quiet enough, deferential, and not a sharp word or an offensive act, until today. The two don't match up at all."

  "Which do you believe is the true Kuryakin: the spy or, as you persist in calling him, the kid?"

  Graham studied the pale face resting on the infirmary pillow and shrugged. "Maybe neither. It doesn't matter anyway. I gave him the benefit of the doubt for a time, but we can't go on like this. Alexander is going to have to find a place for him where it won't matter if he plays a double game."

  "I can't say I blame you. I haven't seen his resume, but I wouldn't want to risk him with my family."

  "Yeah." Graham looked morose. "Trish is going to have a fit."

  "I'd think she'd be all for moving Kuryakin out. I can't see her risking her kids' safety to succor Waverly's KGB recruit."

  Graham looked over at Mercer, a little surprised at the disdain in the physician's voice as he spoke of Kuryakin. "She doesn't think of Illya that way. He's the same age as Tony. She thinks of him as just a kid."

  "Twenty-two-year-old Americans are usually kids. Twenty-two-year-old KGB agents aren't." Mercer shut his bag with a definitive snap.

  "I'm not sure that Trish would agree. Hell, I'm not sure I agree. If I knew what he was thinking, what his intentions were..." Graham stared at the sleeping features as if they held some sort of key. "But he hides behind that blank face and silence and monosyllables, and I don't have a clue." Graham shook his head. "I just wish I didn't feel so guilty."

  "No sense agonizing over it. You risk your life for this organization, but even Alexander Waverly can't expect you to risk your family's safety. Do you want him moved immediately?"

  Graham shook his head pensively. "No, he can stay in the Safe House while he recovers. That will give Alexander time to find somewhere else for him." He sighed and turned to follow Mercer out.

  ******

  Trish glanced up anxiously as Norm entered the kitchen. "We just got home and Tony told me what happened, then Nate came by and filled us in. How is he? What does Jack say?"

  Norm made an exasperated gesture. "As he was heading out the door, he said it will be a miracle if Illya doesn't come down with pneumonia. Apparently, our guest had a fever all morning. Jack thinks he might have had a touch of flu. Now, of course --" He shrugged, disgustedly.

  She looked thoughtful. "I thought he was paler than usual last night. I should have checked him this morning. Can I go look at him now? Who's there with him?"

  "He's sleeping. Nancy's keeping an eye on him. Trish, he's not your responsibility. Sick or well."

  "And I suppose you're going to tell me he's yours? Norm, you are a wonderful father, but remember last year, when Misha had the measles? You thought he'd been into your red fountain pen again."

  Graham scowled at the reminder. "Misha wasn't even hot. He was running around all day, playing with his toys, shrieking like a banshee. And don't try and distract me. Illya's not one of our kids, and we're both about to be relieved of any responsibility for him. I'm going to talk to Alexander this afternoon about getting him out of here."

  "You can't be serious."

  "He can stay in the Safe House until he recovers," Norm said flatly. "But then he goes. Alexander will have to find another place where he can get acclim
ated."

  Trish stared at him a moment and then turned back to her dinner preparations, her jaw set. "It's not like you to overreact, Norm."

  He poured himself a cup of coffee. "I don't think I am," he said quietly.

  "We made an agreement. A promise."

  "We didn't exactly make it with knowledge. Alexander very conveniently didn't put all our guest's cards on the table when we made that promise. We didn't get his dossier until later. Until we'd had him a few days. I don't particularly care for being manipulated that way."

  "That's hardly Ilyusha's fault. He had nothing to do with Alexander's arrangements."

  "Well, maybe it will make Alexander think twice about pulling the same stunt with Illya's next caretakers."

  "I can't believe you'd even consider sending that boy away. Now more than ever, he needs to belong somewhere, to be part of a family."

  "As Jack so amply reminded me, Trish, he is not a boy. When we look at him, we are interpreting the reactions we see as those appropriate to an American of that age. In some respects, Kuryakin might fit that mold. He's young and probably confused, but he's also -- and I stress also -- a KGB agent. A GRU assassin. A fully trained field operative. A double agent. We're going to have to keep reminding ourselves of this until we start to actually believe it. His success here up till now, if you can call it that, has a lot more to do with his agent skills, than with this idea you have that he's just a kid who needs a family. He is not another Tony. He is pulling one over on us, pretending to fit in, and it worked until that fever robbed him of his edge and his true colors came out."

  "Why are you so angry with him? What did he do? Besides taking a swing at you -- that, according to Nate, never came near connecting. Either he's not so highly trained as you claim him to be, or he was not very serious about trying to hit you. It seems the latter, because when you moved in, he jumped in the river."