Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper Page 15

  "No, tomorrow is fine. Would you like to meet with the Chaplain? I'm sorry, but I don't think he speaks English. Do you speak French? I think he speaks French."

  "No. Thank you. May— May I use your phone? I would like to call my supervisor."

  They knew he was a spy. The staff skirted out of his way, afraid of the gun they knew he carried and the danger that hung about him. They watched him as he limped down the hall, word carrying from worker to worker about whom he was and that his partner had died. They all knew it.

  That his partner had died.

  They watched him, wondering what he was feeling. Wondering what it was like to be a spy and have your partner die in your arms.

  Waverly was quiet on the phone. He knew what it was like. "Why was he there?" he asked. "Was there a change of plans? I was under the impression you were checking out the warehouse alone."

  "I had asked him to stay at our Brussels office, sir, as we discussed. I'm not sure why he was there. Jim—He felt I shouldn't go alone, but I had told him to stay. I told—"

  "He made his decision, Mr. Solo. I will make arrangements for someone from the Belgium Headquarters to see to the body. I would like you to return to New York and make an official report. It isn't necessary for you to be there. According to your initial report, the affair has been concluded."

  "Yes, sir. It's over." Napoleon hung up the receiver and left the hospital. Alone.

  Monday, May 10, 1965

  Washington, D.C.

  Illya Kuryakin shook the cobwebs from his brain and sat up. Hard bed. Infirmary. White rectangular ceiling tiles. The Washington Safe House. It had been a long time since he had been left on this side of the building.

  Norman Graham, the Head of the U.N.C.L.E. offices in the capital city, lived on the sprawling U.N.C.L.E. estate that housed not only the celebrated Safe House, but also his attached personal residence. Illya had called it home ever since he came to America to live four years previous, but if the Grahams weren't there, it was just a building. He usually made a point of not going to Washington if they were out of town.

  He concentrated on the scattered memories of why he was there. The images came swiftly: Long drive. Napoleon. Tommy. Drugs. Carter. Throbbing feet.

  It was still daylight. A quick glance at the clock on the wall confirmed that it was only four in the afternoon. The last time he had looked, it had been two o'clock. The sleep had been adequate––enough for his body to replace some of his energy. He had no memory of being moved from the car to the room. Damn medication.

  Illya swung his bandaged legs over the edge of the bed and tested them on the hard surface of the floor. No... not a good idea, he admitted reluctantly to himself. He wouldn't be walking on them for a while. He looked around the room for crutches, but couldn't see any. Dropped carefully to his hands and knees, he crawled over to the half-open door and peered around the corner to the black man watching television in the adjoining room.

  Now came the problem of how he could appear dignified, functional, and competent, while at the same time crawling into a room. Well, dignified was never something he had aimed for in the past, and the rest...

  "Where is Napoleon?" Illya asked, casually, coming into the room upright on his knees and enjoying the startled reaction of the other man.

  Scotty leaped to his feet and helped the Russian to the couch in the sitting room, making certain he was comfortable with pillows elevating his abused feet. Only when he was satisfied the younger man was reclining properly, did he answer, "Napoleon and Kelly are trying to get some information on Carter from the State Office."

  "Why are you still here?"

  "Just waiting for a few phone calls to be returned. The doctor came by and told me to listen for you while he stepped out for a few minutes."

  Illya nodded, glancing around the room. He hated it. He hated being in the infirmary. Dr. Mercer had never made any pretense of approving his involvement with U.N.C.L.E., and, while the doctor was polite and professional, they both knew what he really thought about Russians. And negroes, for that matter.

  Well, he wouldn't be staying here long. He'd be going back to New York soon. Napoleon was not going to 'protect' him, not as long as he had anything to say about it. He wasn't this kid from Napoleon's past. He was an agent. He was Number Two, Section Two. He was––

  This was where it bogged down. He was the Chief Enforcement Agent's partner. Napoleon had the final word on these matters. And, whether he liked it or not, he would have to do what Napoleon decreed.

  Scotty flicked off the television and sat back in his armchair. He was wearing darker colors than he had worn before. Instead of the white jeans, now he bad on gray suit pants with a white short-sleeved shirt. A powder blue suit jacket, with a tie crammed in one pocket, sat draped over a chair back. He had been watching a television show about animals in South America, but now Illya could feel the CIA agent studying him as thoughtfully as he had watched the documentary. As though he were seeing him for the first time.

  We're on my turf now. Illya stared back, his eyes guarded, wondering what the other wanted The man did not seem in the least embarrassed at being observed with such overt scrutiny. Alexander Scott had seemed trustworthy, but... well... he was CIA, after all.

  Finally Scotty said, "I wondered about you over the years. You've changed, though." He chuckled at Illya's puzzled look. "You've lost that 'little boy' look."

  "Ah." That brought a smile, tentative at first, but nevertheless a smile, as Illya nodded in weary agreement. "Finally." Scotty appeared to be waiting for him to continue. "I thought I'd never be taken seriously as an agent in New York. I spent most of my time impersonating children before and they began to think that was the truth and treated me as such. One can only hear 'child genius' so many times before it becomes tedious."

  Scott leaned back, sprawled in the chair, relaxed even in this unfamiliar environment. "I figured you for sixteen or so in Paris. How old were you really? What were you doing there?"

  "Paris? In 1959, I would have been around twenty." Illya smiled again at the open interested face and tried to rearrange the pillows behind him, to at least pretend to be as comfortable as Scotty seemed. "I was studying at the Sorbonne in exchange for duties they required."

  "They being…"

  Illya returned the stare. They. It had been a foolish thing to say and now he was faced with how to undo the damage done. Scotty wasn't typical CIA, not in Illya's experience, but the man certainly asked the same questions. Was it some course they took? It was one thing to talk freely with him about jazz or their current situation. It was another to discuss the past, a past he had never fully divulged, even to his own partner. But, from the talk the previous night, it was obvious Scott and his partner, Robinson, already knew much about his life. And despite being CIA, trust had to start somewhere. "They being the KGB," he said lightly.

  "What sort of duties?" Alexander Scott prompted, his voice carefully neutral and without pressure.

  "Such as taking a girl out for dinner or gaining entrance to a student organization or painting a sailboat on the Seine when I was told to––Do you still have my painting?" Illya asked, suddenly curious. And then embarrassed at his forthright question.

  "Your painting? I bought it; it's my painting now. It's on the wall in the spare bedroom in my mother's apartment."

  Illya shifted uncomfortably. It was odd to think of the picture he had painted hanging on a stranger's wall. On a stranger's mother's wall.

  Scotty got up and poured them each a glass of water, gave one to Illya, then returned to his armchair. "What else did you do there? Besides painting."

  "Studied. Watched. Listened."

  "Killed a few people..." Scott raised his hand before Kuryakin could react. "Don't bother responding–– I was out of line on that one. We saw you in Belgrade a year later...?"

  "Another typical job. I spoke several languages, so it was useful to send me along on out-of-country trips as a monitor of sorts. Sometimes, as a
n excuse for having an extra member added to the delegation, it was easy enough to say I was so-and-so's son. I was often sent with science groups, as I could also gauge what it was they spoke about with the foreigners."

  "The same with the ballet companies, I guess."

  Illya faltered this time, uncertain of the reference. "Yes, occasionally... Did you see me––?"

  "Last winter. Here in Washington," Scott supplied.

  "Was anyone not there?" Illya groaned.

  "I saw a scar, on your right upper chest. Was that it?"

  He glanced down at the memento beneath his T-shirt. "The bullet went through my lung."

  "I bet you scared Napoleon good on that one," Scotty laughed, his grin slowly fading and a more serious look replacing it. "No offense, but it's hard to imagine anyone else as Lee's partner. He and Brownie were close. There was one week in... Buenos Aires, I guess, that the four of us went out on the town. Once we had exhausted all the clubs Lee knew about, we started on the ones Brownie knew. They were two of a kind. A voracious appetite for wine and women. Ouch. Four days it took me to recover from that hangover—and a few penicillin shots... I was sorry to hear about Brownie. I can't believe Lee didn't try to notify us... Did you know him at all?"

  Illya schooled the frown from showing on his face. This was treading on ground he would just as soon not cover. "If you mean Jim Brown, no, I never actually met him."

  Scott seemed determined to follow his line of questioning. "So if you're Lee's partner, why does he treat you like he does?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "He treats you like property. Like responsibility. He doesn't fill you in on what's happening unless he has to. Like you're his assistant or junior agent or personal slave, rather than his partner."

  The anger was unexpected, submerged before he knew what had set it off. Illya met the dark eyes steadily. "In a short time you have seen all this? You are wrong, Alexander Scott. He is a good partner. Perhaps we do not act as you do, but he listens to what I have to say and often takes my advice." At Scotty's continued look of doubt, Illya continued, well aware that he was trying to explain something he didn't understand himself. "We divide the tasks equally, according to the skills of each one. I am better at impersonation. He is better with dumb American women. I am better at sciences. He is better with politics. I am better with machines. He is better with people. Ultimately, he is the senior partner, so when there are two paths that we must choose from, he makes the choice. Perhaps it is the same for you and Kelly. One must be the senior agent."

  "Why?"

  Illya frowned. "Someone must be responsible for making the decisions, otherwise there would be discord. Which of you is the senior agent?"

  "Neither. We are partners. We're equal in status. We work out the differences."

  The blond agent said nothing, staring instead at his bandaged feet. He blinked his eyes a few times as he thought it over. "It's not like that at U.N.C.L.E. We each have different responsibilities."

  "So that's why Napoleon treats you like his assistant?"

  Illya started to deny the question, then stopped, thought a moment, and gave a little shrug. "I think I know what you are speaking of. It is a difficult balance to maintain, a partnership between unequals." And I have already misjudged the situation. I had thought we were...

  He took a deep breath, surprised at how much he wanted to talk, needed to talk, about this. Napoleon said I could trust you. I need a good listener. And someone I can trust. There were few people he could trust, fewer yet he could trust with his thoughts. Trish and Norm Graham. Tony Graham—

  The list stopped abruptly. Was that it? Just three? What of Napoleon? No, this was a personal problem and Napoleon had made it clear that he was no longer interested in personal problems.

  And it suddenly became important that Alexander Scott understand the situation. Why? Why is it so important? Why does Scotty appear to be interested? Perhaps because he is Napoleon's friend. He is wondering why Napoleon has been partnered with one such as I. "My training, before coming to U.N.C.L.E., did not encourage questions, or comments, or opinions. I learned to sit and wait for instructions, and when they were given me, to act on them exactly as they were told to me. To become a nonperson and not get involved in what I did. With U.N.C.L.E., I began in the science labs and was free to work at my own pace. When... our supervisor gained permission to place me as an enforcement agent, he did so in an unusual manner, not following normal protocol. He placed me as the permanent partner of Napoleon Solo, who was the Chief Enforcement Agent."

  "Why? Why not work your way up?"

  "I did not ask why... I suppose that because of my previous occupation, I was already trained as an agent." Illya looked carefully at the other man. Alexander Scott was, for all intents and purposes, a man of discretion. "Scotty, do you know the circumstances of Jim Brown's death?"

  "Kelly told me Friday night that he had died, but not how."

  "They were in Belgium on assignment. Napoleon was senior agent and went on his own to investigate a Thrush infiltration. Jim Brown wasn't happy with him going alone and followed him, without his knowledge and against his instructions, and got caught by Thrush at a warehouse in Brussels. Napoleon found out and went in after him, but they were both gunned down trying to escape. Napoleon got hit in the leg, a minor crease, but Jim Brown was fatally wounded. By the time backup arrived, the man had died, despite Napoleon's effort to save him." Illya glanced up to see the pain on Scott's face and knew the man was imagining himself with his own partner.

  "Exactly. He would only work alone for a year. Then I was placed with him. You see, I was not a threat, that situation could not occur again, precisely because I know how to follow orders. Napoleon knows that if he tells me to do something, I will. I am not a— a––wild card thrown into the game to upset his plan. For him to act freely and with confidence, he must know where I am. As senior agent, I am his responsibility and I am equally responsible for honoring that. You saw only one part of our working relationship that first night. Napoleon was trying to quickly ascertain the nature of my impediment. He took full control because I was not able to. I gave him the right to make the decisions for me. Is this not necessary when you are in an unknown situation? What did you expect him to do? How was he supposed to act? If your partner was injured, would you not be worried?"

  Scott nodded. "I see your point. But answer this for me, if you can. You've been together for almost two years now; are you just partners or have you become friends?"

  Illya took a deep breath, trying to shake off his annoyance at that personal question. One that he had no answer for. "We are partners. It is the nature of our job. The luxury of friendship for those in our occupation is rare and is discouraged by our supervisor. Yet, I have considered Napoleon my friend and I have given that word to few others. But we are different. We do not see eye to eye on many matters of the world. I have left friends behind. I have had friends betray me. My friends have been killed because of knowing me. It is not safe to have friends."

  He paused and caught his breath. This was more than he usually said in a day. A week. Napoleon was not one to carry on long conversations. But Scotty sat staring at him, waiting for him to continue, silent and patient. Encouraging. The man's head was tilted to one side, listening to what he was saying––really trying to understand. As if it mattered to him. Why do you care? I am nothing to you.

  Still, Scotty waited, and Illya tried again to answer the question. "Yes, on one level, I consider him my friend. We were made partners in one quick decision, but now we are also friends, if that means I am usually comfortable in his presence. I tease him, perhaps as a younger brother would, but that is what he is comfortable with now and it is what I am comfortable with. It is all I can be. I hope he will soon be comfortable knowing that I will not betray him, then perhaps the... partnership will grow. I have learned much since becoming his partner. I'm more confident of my social actions in America. I've watched him and while I have not cop
ied his movements, I have found my own proficiency through him."

  Scott let him talk, watching him search for words, watching his hands trace patterns in the air as he spoke. With his own arms comfortably crossed, he asked, "Illya, why do you say that it isn't safe to have friends?"

  "It has been my experience that this is true."

  "But is it always true? Would you walk away from friendship because you might be hurt?"

  "It is more likely that I would be the cause of hurt. One does not know what is harmful. Caution is best."

  "What if the other person is hurting and needs help? What do you do? Wait for an invitation to assist them?"

  He was talking of Napoleon now. Illya understood the shift of the conversation, but did not know how to respond. There were things one kept to oneself. Scotty and Kelly did not have the restrictions between them that he did with Napoleon. It was different for them. They were equal. They were the same. It was different with the CIA. He had always had a difficult time sorting out the roles of the various CIA agents he had encountered. If there were two questioning him, one would be nice to him, the other, harsh. The next time it would change, for no particular reason. Norm Graham had called it "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" and had explained the strategy.

  Napoleon had employed the same technique, casting Illya in the role of Hyde. Even recently, Solo had threatened a woman that his partner would hurt her if she did not help them and there was little he could do to stop Illya once he got started. He had done that several times, and Illya had gone along with the charade, knowing he would not have to carry out the threats. It was even amusing at times. It would be interesting to try it the other way around, with Napoleon as Hyde, but he feared he was already typecast.

  Scott grew tired of waiting for his answer and spoke again. "Bet you ten bucks on one thing."

  "Which is?" Illya asked coolly.

  Scotty leaned forward. "You have worked with him for almost two years. He says you are the best partner he has ever had. I am not denying that you two are in sync for your job, instinctively blending your skills. But I bet that Napoleon knows way more about your past––hidden though it may be––than you know about his. I bet he has let you into his circle up to that point, but he hasn't told you about his family, his war experiences, his college years, or anything. Napoleon Solo and Kelly Robinson are two of the most outgoing, gregarious, sociable men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, but their private lives are just that. Private. You do not get into that inner circle. And until it breaks, that barrier will be as unyielding as the Berlin Wall."