Collection 4 - Kolya's Son Read online

  Mercer treated Kuryakin like a KGB agent, with suspicious reserve, and Kuryakin responded to him equally in return. Graham bad noticed that his guest seemed older, more in control and confident, when he was treated as an enemy agent. It was only when he was treated as a young man, with kindness and common decency, that he grew unsure of himself. Mercer, no psychologist himself, regarded such behavior as nothing more than a cover, a ploy, a ruse to get attention.

  His report read that, in his opinion, Kuryakin's background was not merely unfortunate, but it was a fatal flaw. That someone raised to be a tool of revolutionaries, then of the KGB, would have no morals, no basic values, and was very probably a conniving psychopath without a shred of conscience. Clever, manipulative, able to put a dozen different faces to as many situations, but without any real feeling. He had warned Graham once again not to be taken in by the young man.

  Irritated, Graham closed that folder. Waverly had scribbled Nonsense under Mercer's report, but Graham himself had been troubled by similar worries. Certainly, Kuryakin had at times, especially in public, tried to blend himself into their household, and he had generally been cooperative, even though withdrawn. Or had be? Wouldn't a psychopath be less troubled, less frightened? Or was that an act, too?

  Lawrence's report was entirely different. Since his arrival in D.C. on Monday, the U.N.C.L.E. head physician had seen Kuryakin twice, ostensibly in his role as chief physician. Examining the young Russian, he had taken a detailed medical history 'for when Kuryakin became a Section Two agent'. Lawrence hadn't taken any chances; he had brought a 'safe conduct' letter in Waverly's handwriting -- and Kuryakin was familiar enough with that hand to give his cooperation, albeit with some reluctance.

  Interspersed between physical exams and tests, and questions about his medical past and current condition, Lawrence had slipped in dozens of questions about Kuryakin himself. How he felt. What he thought. What his worries were.

  What Lawrence had laid out in his report was the dichotomy that most troubled Graham about Kuryakin. Unlike Mercer, even unlike Waverly, Lawrence believed Kuryakin was not just a KGB agent, he was also a confused kid. He had learned to be many things to many people, but he did have a conscience that not only troubled him, it had driven him to thoughts of suicide and then into a desperate plea for Waverly's assistance.

  In Lawrence's opinion, Kuryakin was eminently salvageable, but only with the proper handling. The boy clearly had reached the limit of his coping skills. He'd reached out, in a desperate gamble, one last time. Betrayed so many times, he was making a final effort to trust one of the few people he believed worthy of trust. Lawrence warned that if the boy was abused or failed again, there was every chance his ability to trust anyone would be irrevocably damaged.

  How typical of Alexander to send Kuryakin to him not at nine, not at sixteen, but at twenty-two, having been abused, twisted, and manipulated to a point where U.N.C.L.E.'s best psychologist felt he had one chance left.

  Nothing like having a margin for error.

  Graham closed that file and stared at the three folders lined up across his desk. One held an employer's assessment of a past and future tool. One echoed Graham's worst fears. And one touched his heart but filled him with foreboding.

  He had been willing to welcome the son of an old friend in his home. He had been willing to keep a young ballet dancer in his home. What he was getting was a far cry from that, but this young man needed him far more than any ex-ballet dancer would.

  Graham slid the folders into a neat stack, put them into Kuryakin's portfolio, and locked it in his desk drawer, his decision made. He might regret it. He might turn out to be wrong. But Kuryakin had been let down by every adult in his life so far. He deserved an advocate at last. And Graham had just elected himself to that role.

  *****

  Home from work, Norm made his way down to the rec room. Misha was playing on the floor, muttering and mumbling over his trucks and blocks. Illya was sitting on the couch, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, a blanket around him. As usual he had a book in his lap, but he looked tired and worn, and was clearly not paying attention to it. The Russian looked up as he entered the room, the slender body tensing. Graham looked him over unobtrusively while he dealt with Misha's enthusiastic welcome and admired the boy's latest creation.

  Well, first things first. Normally, he would have taken Misha aside and dealt with the problem Trish had handed him when he arrived home, but perhaps Lawrence was right. Illya needed to see this as well. He sat down on the other end of the couch from the young man.

  "Michael," he said quietly, and the boy looked up with round eyes at the sound of his given name. "Come here. Is there something you want to tell me?"

  Misha shook his head and bent over the truck.

  "Michael?" Norm repeated, with a touch of warning in his voice. "Come here. Your mother said something happened today that you should tell me about." He opened his arms in invitation. "Come on. Safe place. You know what I want. Come talk to me."

  The little boy reluctantly came into the circle of his father's arms, but leaned back as far away as he could, staring down at his feet.

  "Now, what happened? What did you do?"

  A long silence was broken by a sniff, then, "I broked the record."

  "Were you supposed to be touching the phonograph or the records?"

  "No, Daddy." Big tears welled up in the child's eyes.

  "What's going to happen now?"

  Another big sniff was followed by, "Spankin' ."

  "Do you know why you're going to get a spanking?"

  "Cause I didn't be listening to Mommy."

  "The rules we make for you are very important, Michael. You have to learn to obey us." The spanking was short and quickly administered, and the sobbing child was then turned around again to face his father. "I love you, Misha," Norm said, knowing there were tears in his own eyes. "You know that, don't you? Good. Now give Daddy a hug."

  Little arms went around his neck, the small face buried against him for comfort as the cries died down. "I love -- love you, Daddy. I—I -- sorry. I try not to -- to touch it again."

  "Try hard, Misha." Norm ruffled the child's hair until the boy pulled away. "And no TV tonight, either."

  Misha nodded sadly.

  "So, what were you building here?" Graham asked, diverting him back to the blocks. He praised Misha's efforts enough to spur the child into creating something 'bigger and better' and turned to his guest.

  Kuryakin was looking resolutely down at the book in his hands, clearly dreading the moment when Graham's attention would be trained on him.

  "Hello, Ilyusha. So you're out of bed and about already? How are you feeling this afternoon?"

  "Much better, thank you, sir."

  "Norm," Graham corrected mildly. "I wish I could tell you that you look better." Graham sat next to him and raised a hand to check Illya's forehead for fever.

  Kuryakin froze, his flinch from the hand aborted by main force of will, but communicated nonetheless. us eyes were wide as they followed the hand that brushed aside his bangs, rested briefly on his forehead, and tousled the bangs back to their usual shaggy state.

  Graham ignored his guest's suspicion. "Well, you seem cool enough, but you look tired. You don't want to overdo it and become ill again."

  Kuryakin looked down. "I will be fine."

  Graham glanced at the book his guest was hiding behind. "Two days ago you had a fever of 104 and couldn't even focus your eyes. Maybe you're up to one of Misha's picture books, but I think it's a little soon for Tony's virology text. That can't be making much sense to you."

  Illya closed the text, set it aside carefully within Graham's reach, and gave the older man an uncertain look. As if he expected him to take the book away. The almost-hidden fear at the back of his eyes melted Graham's heart. Trish wasn't the only one with a soft spot for this kid.

  His heart was particularly vulnerable to those wide eyes. Exactly the blue eyes of his own kids, except for t
hat damning emotion. The last thing he wanted was a kid of any age looking at him with fear like that. Especially in his own home. The home he'd rearranged his life to create.

  Lawrence had hit the nail right on the head when he'd asked the Washington U.N.C.L.E. chief about his own qualifications for family life.

  It had been a little over fourteen years ago, but the memory was as clear as yesterday. After years of intelligence and enforcement work, nearing forty years of age, he had found himself wanting a family. It has been such a gradual thing, at first he hadn't even noticed it. Standing in line at the supermarket, while shopping for his own meager bachelor dinners, he had caught himself smiling at the antics of kids in shopping carts stubbornly insisting they wanted thus and such treat, silently cheering them on as their harassed mothers gave in.

  He had found himself suddenly interested in the other agents' displays of baby pictures and their braggings of first steps and first teeth, caught between surprising jealousy and a sense of loss. He studied his colleagues at family picnics, watching them play ball with their sons, cheer the winners and console the losers, and realized he wanted the same thing.

  He wanted family pictures on his desk at work. He wanted to exchange quarters for teeth under pillows and brag about it the next day. He wanted to buy candy for crying kids in shopping carts, balloons at the zoo, and peanuts at baseball games.

  He wanted a family.

  The revelation was more than unexpected, it was a bit of a shock. He gave it time to go away, sure it was some bizarre reaction to too many missions. But it didn't. The ache only grew.

  It was a problem. And it wasn't that simple a problem.

  After twenty years of intelligence work, he didn't need to be told how dangerous his profession was. He enjoyed his job; he didn't want to leave it behind, but he didn't want to leave a family behind either. He'd been to too many funerals, awkwardly consoled too many widows, seen too many crying, or worse, uncomprehending kids start their new lives sans a father. He'd always thought it better not to have a family at all than to leave one torn apart, left to survive, God knew how. He didn't see how he could have both his profession and a family.

  New York City was no place to raise a family, either. Norm didn't mind it for himself, but he saw his potential family enjoying the post-war rush to the suburbs. Green lawns and good schools. A nice little house, a big kitchen, and a swing set in the backyard. It didn't seem possible that he could have that and U.N.C.L.E., too.

  U.N.C.L.E. was still relatively new in the late-forties. Waverly was struggling to build and fund his organization, create a stable of enforcement and intelligence agents. He wasn't pleased to hear one of his most senior agents had succumbed to delusions of suburbia.

  But somehow it had all worked out, in spite of the odds against it. He had met Trish and had fallen in love, not only with the beautiful woman, but with her curly headed, dark-haired son. Waverly had grudgingly allowed a gradual lessening of his enforcement duties and the switch to Intelligence Chief. They'd finally moved to Washington, D.C., set up the U.N.C.L.E. office there, and he'd had everything he'd ever wanted and more. A beautiful wife he adored. A son to play baseball with and take fishing. And later on, baby pictures to brag about, a little girl, a baby boy. His family. He'd never been happier in his life.

  Nikolai Kuryakin had made different choices. The result of those choices sat next to Graham now, the consequence of putting ideologies before his own child's well-being. Kolya had tried, grant it. It must have been an agonizing decision to take four-year-old Illya -- Misha's age! -- with him on an assignment to an occupied Netherlands during the war, to raise him in the company of desperate men in underground chambers trying to save their country any way they could. But he had also allowed Illya to be trained as a sniper, as a child saboteur, and Graham found that decision hard to stomach. Those were desperate times, but he found it hard to accept or forgive the use of children. War was the failure and the folly of men, and children had no place in it.

  Graham had only known Kolya during the last few months of his life, on his second trip to New York. They would invite him over for dinner and listen to him talk on and on about his work and what he was trying to accomplish. But even seeing Tony at the dinner table, and newborn Tanya in her crib, Kolya had never mentioned his own son, left behind in Rotterdam in the haphazard care of Resistance workers who were struggling to survive themselves in the post-war confusion. It was a war that had apparently scarred Kolya even more than the rest of them.

  But the young man opposite him, looking at him with barely-disguised fear in his eyes, his pale face registering the strain of an existence no child deserved, was equally a casualty. Who was he to argue that because of an accident of birth, because Illya had been snatched up by the KGB at an age when he'd been too young to have any say, that he didn't deserve a little happiness now?

  It wasn't fair.

  He understood how Trish felt. Had something different happened to her, Illya fate could have been Tony's. His son could have been at the mercy of those Soviet bastards. Could now be dependent on the kindness of strangers.

  And how kind could strangers be? Illya's experience with strangers caring for him had not been good.

  Graham slipped an arm around his shoulders. The young man froze under his arm, a strangled moan choked back in his throat. "It's all right, Ilyusha. You don't have to be scared here." Kuryakin's muscles were locked, his face averted. Graham held him lightly, willing him to relax.

  "What's Ilyusha scared of, Daddy?"

  They both jumped. Graham dropped his arm and Illya quickly escaped him, edging away from him without actually moving from the couch.

  Bright blue eyes, still red-rimmed from crying a few minutes earlier, stared at them, puzzled, one hand holding his Tonka truck. Misha climbed into Graham's lap, dropping the toy, his tiny arms wrapped again around his father, peering at Kuryakin.

  "Why is Ilyusha scared, Daddy? I don't want him to be scared. I don't want to be scared, either."

  Graham hugged the little boy. "You don't need to be scared, buddy. Ilyusha's scared because of something that happened to him before."

  "A bad dream?"

  Graham looked at Illya, thinking about the differences between his son and this boy, where the worst that the child could imagine was a bad dream. "Yeah, like a bad dream. But it's over now, Misha." Graham slid the little boy off his lap. "Mommy's going to call us in a minute for dinner. You go on and wash that dirt off your hands. And your face. And behind those ears." Graham tickled the child, and Misha giggled and squirmed.

  "Okay, Daddy." The boy sped off, his fears forgotten.

  Graham looked back at Illya, wishing he could work the same magic for the young Russian. But apparently, Lawrence was right. A few words, a gesture of affection, simply couldn't break through years of careful barriers. Illya waited for his next move, his hands clenched, his face downcast, and Graham took pity on him and stood up.

  Illya had asked to be rescued from the KGB and asked to come work as an enforcement agent. He hadn't asked to be delivered into an environment so foreign to him and to be expected to let down his guard among strangers he couldn't trust.

  "I'm sorry, Illya. I didn't mean to push you." He lowered his hand slowly and very deliberately tousled the blond hair. Except for a tightening in the shoulder muscles, Kuryakin didn't move. "But when you're ready, I want you to know we're here for you. All of us."

  He left the silent Russian to his own thoughts and went upstairs.

  "Did you talk to Michael?" Trish asked, taking the roast from the oven.

  "Yes. No TV tonight for him." Norm peered into the pots bubbling on the stove. "Want me to set the table?"

  "Tanya's supposed to be doing that. Did you find Ilyusha? He was in his room last I checked."

  "He was in the rec room reading." He nodded at her surprised look. "Yeah, he saw Misha get his spanking."

  "You spanked Misha in front of him? Norm, he'll think you were beating him!" />
  "I'm sure he saw Misha was in no way injured and it was more a matter of his pride being hurt, rather than his bottom. Besides, how many times have we told Misha he cannot climb up the cabinet and play with the phonograph? He would have cried a lot harder if he had fallen and hit his head. I know he is just being curious, but he also deliberately broke a rule we have made very clear to him."

  "But will Ilyusha interpret all of that correctly?"

  "Sam Lawrence said to start letting him see that our children know they can get yelled at, disciplined, and still know they are loved. Life continues without unreasonable consequences."

  "It would certainly be a new concept for him. Will he be coming up for dinner?"

  "I don't know. We can call him when it's ready and see if he's up to it. I didn't want to say too much just now. Want a hand with anything? You've got some meeting or other tonight, don't you?" Norm popped a pickle in his mouth.

  "Summer fund-raising parents' meeting at Tanya's school. If you can just stir the gravy for a minute, everything else is under control. I want to give Sylvia a call to see if she wants a ride."

  "Right. So what else is new around here?" Norm asked.

  "Not much. Ilyusha's feeling a lot better, as you saw. Tony called. He's working late at the hospital tonight and is staying with a friend so he can be there early tomorrow. Tanya's going to Karen's house for an overnight pajama party on Thursday. Both Misha and Tanya are signed up for swimming lessons beginning next week." She put a cover over the serving dish and picked it up. "Oh, right, I did find out that," she paused for a moment as she headed toward the dining room, adding as if it were an afterthought, "Ilyusha's married."