Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair Page 2

  Solo grimaced. "Uh... No. I'll stay right here for the time being. But I would like to speak with Mr. Kuryakin myself. Illya? Talk to me, partner." He stressed the last word distinctly.

  Illya spoke then, but to Zadkine, and still did not open his eyes. "He is my friend, Grigory Mikhaylovich. He is... zadushevny." His voice was so faint and tenuous that Solo barely caught the last word. He had no idea what it meant, but Zadkine was surprised.

  "This man? Solo?--Today is full of surprises. An American? But you are also an American now." Zadkine laughed heartily. "And I will one day be an American. What would our father say, Illya Mikhaylovich?" He shook Illya's face gently. "Open your eyes and look at me, Illya Mikhaylovich. There. I do not hold you responsible for our father's death. Believe me. You must have done what you had to."

  "I did not think. I thought only of myself. I did not think of him, Grigory Mikhaylovich."

  "Perhaps. We will talk of this another time, I think, Ilyusha," Zadkine glanced over at Solo, "when we are alone. To see you alive... I cannot believe you are standing here in front of me. How could you be alive, little brother? I saw you die. What did you do?" Zadkine stared hard at the pale face in his hands as though hoping to see an answer written across Kuryakin's forehead. "My world is spinning and you have landed in my arms, Ilyusha. It is a time to celebrate."

  "I do not feel like celebrating, Grisha." Illya stood quietly, resting his hands on top of Zadkine's, finally meeting his eyes.

  Zadkine nodded thoughtfully. "Then we will deal with that, Ilyusha." He released Kuryakin, holding open his arms to him. "Now, how do you greet your brother, malchik?"

  Kuryakin looked to Solo wordlessly and the senior U.N.C.L.E. agent wondered briefly if he was asking for permission. The whole scene made no sense and Solo shrugged noncommittally. You're on your own on this one, buddy, he thought.

  The blond agent looked back at Zadkine and took a step toward him, allowing himself to be pulled into a firm embrace, responding tentatively at first, then with more conviction.

  Zadkine seemed happy, satisfied, and--with a great deal of shoulder slapping and hair mussing--drew Kuryakin across the room. "Kak nashchot vodochki?" Zadkine pulled out a chair for him at the dining table. Pointedly turning his back on Solo, he opened a bottle of Russian vodka and poured glasses for the two of them, glancing over his shoulder to ask Solo if he should bring him a glass "over there."

  In other words, I'm not invited to this party, Napoleon understood. He suddenly didn't want to stay. "I have to check a few things. Illya, are you okay here?"

  Kuryakin nodded without looking at him, tilted his head back and drained his glass in one gulp, letting it hit the table with a thump. Zadkine leaned over and refilled it. Kuryakin downed it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Whether Illya was despondent or heartsick, genuine or faking it, Solo wasn't sure. He frowned slightly, uncertain of whether to leave his partner alone with this man in this state of mind. It wasn't a side of Illya he had really ever seen before.

  He didn't like it very much.

  Chapter Two

  In a building near the Soviet embassy, third floor, Solo knocked on the door, gave a password, and entered the U.N.C.L.E. surveillance room concerned with monitoring everyone going in or out of the Soviet embassy in Washington, D.C. MI5 had a man there at the moment, comparing photographs and information with the U.N.C.L.E. agents, when Solo entered the room.

  "Napoleon! Come on in. I heard they had you on the Zadkine defection." Bob Turley came forward holding out a welcoming hand. "Good to see you again. We don't get up your way much any more." Turley had worked in New York for many years before transferring to his present position as supervisor of the U.N.C.L.E. Washington, D.C., surveillance groups, commonly called Watchers, set up around each embassy and gathering area in the city.

  From an adjoining room came another familiar voice. "Napoleon? Over here!" Norman Graham was head of the U.N.C.L.E. Washington offices. Among his other responsibilities, he handled the different electronic surveillance activities of the embassies. U.N.C.L.E., the CIA, FBI, MI5--every other security organization it seemed--all had bugging devices in the different government offices and embassies, and U.N.C.L.E. had been called upon to help coordinate the devices so they didn't feed back on themselves, and to save one group the trouble of bugging a room another group already had bugged. Trouble was, half the time the different organizations neglected to tell U.N.C.LE. about putting them in or taking them out, so Graham's job was a constant headache.

  "Your partner's pretty quiet." Graham handed Solo a pair of headphones and had him listen to the conversation continuing at the hotel. When the New York agent handed them back a few minutes later, Graham laughed at his curious expression. "Never heard of vranyo, Napoleon? The Russian art of socially acceptable lying. They are masters of the tall-tale, leg-pulling, whatever you want to call it. Neither side believes the story, but there are rules to be followed. Your partner is doing what he is supposed to: listening seriously and politely, and encouraging the storyteller to continue."

  Solo accepted the coffee handed to him. "But what's the point?"

  Graham shrugged. "No idea. It's another crazy mystery of the Russians. But they'll sit and tell stories and drink for hours on end, even here in the restaurants and coffee houses. Especially if they know there's a hidden microphone; then the stories are truly wild."

  "What happened before we got here?" Solo asked, changing the topic as they moved back into the larger room.

  "Not much. Zadkine talked to a few reporters, made and took some calls from the big ballet companies in New York. It sounds like he does as much choreography as dance these days and they all want him to work with them. He tells them all the same thing, that he is coming to New York and will talk to them again."

  "He talked to no one else?"

  "No one. Not even to the intelligence officers sent over to collect the information he said he had about Project Cipher."

  "Our agents?"

  "No."

  "But it's our project. Why are the local boys involved?"

  "Because the U.S. Government is handling the defection."

  Another U.N.C.L.E. agent, unfamiliar to Solo, came from the listening room, a clipboard and pen in his hand. "How is Mikhail Zadkine related to your partner? Zadkine says my father part of the time and our father the rest of the time. Are your partner and this guy half-brothers or something?'

  Solo smiled wryly. "I haven't confirmed it yet, but from what I can gather--piecing together things Illya's mentioned in the past--I assume Zadkine Senior was the man who either officially or unofficially adopted Illya when he was a child, after Nikolai Kuryakin's death. Zadkine must have worked with Illya's father before and during World War Two."

  "In what? The Comintern?" the man asked.

  "Initially. But according to his dossier, Zadkine was in the NKVD, which was absorbed by the MGB, which became the KGB. Nikolai Kuryakin backed out of the NKVD just before the war and was working for another socialist group, but utilizing the old Comintern network. He was also on the fringe of the Rote Kapelle, but he broke away from them. He spent the war setting up Nazi resistance groups."

  The other agent, Benton, was flipping through pages on his clipboard. "Okay... so how does Kuryakin--your partner--fit in? They were talking for a while about the secret police. Was he a member?"

  The room grew cold and silent. Solo swallowed, uncomfortable with the noticeable shift of feelings in the room. "Illya worked for the KGB and the secret police when he was in Russia. He defected, though," he reminded them, quickly.

  "I know. June 1961. It's all here." Again the pages flipped back and forth. "Nothing was said about the KGB then. His occupation was listed--"

  "Look," Solo interrupted, "Waverly handled the defection. He also knew Illya from before. If I know Illya was in the KGB, Waverly knows as well! He's accepted Illya. If my partner hasn't proven his worth to the Command by now--"

  "I'm not questi
oning Kuryakin's loyalty to U.N.C.L.E. and Waverly--"

  "Then just what are you questioning?" The words shot from Solo's lips.

  Graham stepped in between them as the tension rose in the room. "Sit down, Napoleon. Finish your coffee. Sam, we'll handle the rest of this later. You don't know Kuryakin, anyway. Just write up the reports and we'll let Waverly do what he wants with the information. There are obviously more levels of activity going on than we have been briefed on."

  Benton stood in the doorway a moment longer, staring at Solo, then shrugged and returned to the listening room.

  Norm Graham sat on the couch next to Solo. "Look, Napoleon, Sam didn't mean anything. We're not after your partner. Illya Kuryakin is a good man, and a good agent, too. But, still, he is young. And right now, he's with someone who is Russian, who speaks the same language as him, who understands his fears and pressures, who knows the same people he knows and traveled in the same circles. Someone who tells vranyo. Who pours him vodka and probably intends to get him roaringly drunk. It's reasonable to assume he's feeling a little homesick for Russia. And there was something on the tape about whether or not he had been responsible for Mikhail Zadkine's death--now this has obviously been hanging over his head for quite some time, since Zadkine died in September of '61. That's a lot of guilt to carry around."

  "Get to your point."

  Graham hesitated a moment. "You're not a family man, are you, Napoleon? I have a wife and kids at home. I run a big office here in Washington with more than its share of problems. But these guys are my family, too. Sometimes family have to look the other way a bit. I must admit I was surprised hearing Illya call you zadushevny on the tape. That means he trusts you. Give him some rope."

  "What does that mean? Zadushevny?"

  "Oh... it doesn't translate very well literally. He called you a behind-the-soul friend. Basically, he told Zadkine that you were a particularly close friend. That Zadkine could talk freely in front of you. In other words, he was forbidding Zadkine to say anything negative about you. If he insulted you, he insulted Illya."

  "So are you telling me to look the other way a bit? Let Illya mope about being Russian and acting irresponsibly? I absolutely refuse. Illya Kuryakin is, first, a member of my staff who I am responsible for and who is responsible to me. Second, he also happens to be my partner, with all the obligations that go along with that, the utmost being communication. Third, he is my friend, true, but that comes only after the first two things. He and I work together, Norman, or I send him back to New York. I can't work with someone who is not functioning as my right hand. I have no idea what my right hand is doing at the moment, which makes for a potentially deadly situation. He is pushing it."

  "Napoleon, this isn't Thrush we're dealing with. This is a personal thing between your partner and this guy--someone who he sees as his big brother. It looks like Zadkine won't give us his information until he feels safe here, and the paperwork won't go through for a few more days. I'm told this is strictly a non-political, ideological case. Washington is not what you are used to. We have to go about everything a little differently."

  The MI5 agent had been sitting shamelessly listening in on the conversation. Now he spoke up. "Solo, I'm Jack Spinner. Norm is right. We are observing a phenomenal shakedown in the Soviet system at this time. Not even two months ago Khrushchev was deposed as premier of the Soviet Union and as head of the Communist Party. Brezhnev and Kosygin are at the helm and we are still sorting out the ramifications. We have all been studying the Soviet Union and Russians for years now. Leave them to us. You are more than welcome to Thrush, who I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole." He tossed a photograph over to Solo. "Speaking of which, recognize this guy?"

  Solo glanced at it and nodded. "Head of Thrush London."

  "Well, he just walked out of the Soviet Embassy an hour ago. We followed him and he's staying at the same hotel you are."

  "Any idea why?"

  Graham shrugged, "Not yet. We're working on it."

  Solo stared at the photograph. "Norm, are you aware of the Khabarovsk incident?"

  "Our agent that was caught by the Soviet officials in Siberia?"

  "Yes. Among the photographs he did manage to get out of the country were a series taken near a radar installation and this guy, Jonathan Heatherly, figures in several of them. We don't know what he was doing there, but it's interesting that he's shown up here--and in the Soviet embassy."

  Spinner chuckled. "I don't know if 'interesting' is a word I would have chosen. British Thrush and the KGB hatching a plot together?" He lost his smile, staring across at the Soviet embassy. "Why? The only thing we have in common with the KGB is our hatred of Thrush. Why would they switch now?"

  ***

  Colonel Vladimir Petrov stared down at the paper before him and huffed into his mustache, a full, bushy, iron-gray mustache that set him apart from the bare-faced Americans. His hand came up and tugged at the bristly hairs, then smoothed them down fastidiously as his eyes met those of his dinner companion. The Englishman stared back at him coolly, impatient to leave.

  Petrov looked back at the paper again, making the other man wait until he was ready. "So, what have you learned, then, comrade? This says nothing."

  "We know from our sources that Zadkine has told the Americans nothing of what he promised them," the other man said in a clipped, British accent.

  "Your sources? And what do these sources say now?" Petrov crumbled the paper into a small ball and tossed it mockingly at Heatherly. The time difference was catching up with him. It was nine in the evening in Washington, but just before dawn in Moscow. It had been almost two days since Petrov had slept and his patience with this Englishman had evaporated.

  Thirty-seven years old, aristocracy raised, and Oxford educated, Jonathan Heatherly was the head of the London Thrush Satrapy. Through rimless glasses, he peered down his pointed nose at the Soviet agent. "Approximately one hour ago, we intercepted a room service delivery and one of our men completed the call. He was able to leave behind a bug in the floral arrangement he tended while in the room. From the monitored conversation in the hotel room, we are assuming that Zadkine is speaking with a younger brother that obviously came to America a few years earlier. We are checking into this. There must be some record of him. The only name we caught was Ilyusha."

  Petrov looked up sharply and stroked his mustache with great care, his other hand playing with the empty whiskey glass on the table before him. "Find out. There was brother, but he is supposed to be dead. I had hoped he was dead. If it is who I suspect, then we may be faced with different and larger problem. I should have killed him myself, before he grew into greater threat. I have most probably underestimated him."

  Another Thrush agent entered the lounge and quickly approached them, handed Heatherly a message, then turned and disappeared the way he had come. Heatherly unfolded the piece of paper and read it quickly, then passed it to the other man.

  Petrov glanced at the written document and handed it back. "So, both our organizations have decided to wait for Zadkine's next move. He will be watched now."

  "We'll handle it. We will wait and see where they take him; it has already been established that they will leave in the morning." Heatherly paused, nervously clearing his throat. "What if he says something about our operation?"

  "What could he possibly know? He probably just overheard the name somewhere and is using it to make the Americans accept him."

  "I hope so. I need to get back to London. I cannot believe this happened at this time. We have too much at stake."

  Petrov smiled then, a large toothy smile that he knew Heatherly despised. "I will drink to that, comrade."

  ***

  When Solo returned to the hotel suite later that evening, the two Russians were still at the table drinking vodka, and Zadkine was talking about a new piece he had choreographed. Illya's suit jacket and tie were off, his sleeves rolled up. It seemed to Solo that Graham was right, Zadkine was purposefully trying to get Illya dru
nk, and even more remarkable, Illya was letting him, dutifully draining each glass set before him.

  "Illya, that's enough." Solo hung up his heavy winter coat, went over to the table and took the glass out of his partner's unsteady hand. He had seen Kuryakin put away large amounts of alcohol if necessary while on assignment, but never had he seen him drink for no apparent reason. And the blond agent's reddened eyes staring vacantly at the empty glass on the table showed it was more than just an act.

  "I think you've had enough," Solo repeated, taking the cigarette from his partner's other hand before he set the tablecloth on fire.

  Zadkine looked over at Solo, then back to Kuryakin. "What are you doing with such a man, this durak, this fool?"

  Kuryakin roused himself to shake his head wearily. "He is not durak, only durachok."

  Solo frowned. Durachok... It was not unlike the small Russian to be impertinent, but to call his partner and superior "a bit of an ass" was preposterous. To make it worse, it somehow seemed to raise Zadkine's opinion of him, and the defector slapped Solo good-naturedly across the back.

  Then they ignored him again and continued drinking. Solo slipped the gun from Kuryakin's holster, tucked it in his own jacket pocket, and retreated to read the evening newspaper by the fireplace, trying hard to keep Graham and Spinner's words in mind. At least they were quiet drunks, Solo allowed, but once he had read the newspaper from front to back and watched the evening news summary on the television, he had used the last of his reserve patience and he was quite ready to break up the party.

  The slender agent had also had enough, sinking comatose to the floor as he approached.

  Zadkine hissed as Solo angrily moved to retrieve his partner. "I will handle this," the dancer said speaking for the first time in English. His emotions switched suddenly. Chuckling, with the bearing of a father proud of something his offspring has accomplished, he picked up Kuryakin easily and carried him to his own room, laying him on the bed and loosening his clothes, then covering him gently with a blanket. Kuryakin stirred, disoriented, and Zadkine talked quietly to him until he lay motionless again.