Collection 4 - Kolya's Son Page 21

  What will happen to me if I say the wrong thing to the CIA? Alexander Waverly was not all-powerful in this country. He was not as powerful as the CIA, because he would not have allowed the questioning otherwise. The CIA could make decisions about his future, it appeared. To the CIA, he was a defector and the enemy.

  What will I say when they ask for my country's secrets? If I say that I don't know anything, would they believe me? What do I know that would be of value to them? Too much.

  I didn't want to defect. I wanted to work for Alexander Waverly and the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

  I don't think the CIA will accept that as an answer.

  He lay back in the bed and pulled the covers up around his neck again, waiting for the clock to move forward another hour.

  For years, he had been given tasks, duties, and responsibilities. He had become a cog in the Soviet machine, sent here, sent there, but always with a mission and usually with not enough time to complete it, always on the run, always short of facts. He rarely had the luxury of thinking about what he had to do. Or even to think about what he had just done.

  That was the problem. He had too much time to think here.

  Alexander Waverly had made it quite clear: the U.N.C.L.E. chief could not be bothered with him and had sent him here until he could finally be useful. And other than cooperating with the agencies who would eventually authorize him to be useful, Alexander Waverly had given him no duties. He had handed him over to others, to hold until his usefulness could begin.

  He was very familiar with being handed over to various groups. It was never a comfortable feeling, to change superiors so frequently. He had become expert at reading eyes and gauging temperaments. Expert at learning quickly what others expected of him. His expertise had been born of necessity. The repercussions of failure could be extreme.

  But those groups had always had a mission for him to do or a task to accomplish. Here, Alexander Waverly had given him nothing, other than an implied warning that he expected Illya to regard orders from the Grahams as being the same as from himself.

  That thought made Illya's stomach clench.

  He knew why Alexander Waverly had sent him from New York, to get him out of the way, but what the Grahams wanted was more baffling. Why did they wish him to stay? Were they just seeking favor in Alexander Waverly's eyes? Why did Alexander Waverly choose this family to put him with? Simply out of necessity? It seemed to everyone else that there was something he was supposed to accomplish while with them, but no one had yet made that clear. It was as if they were trying to absorb him into their existence. But for what purpose? What could they possibly gain? Why had they given him so many things? Clothes and... the picture album. Was there something he was to do in return?

  Graham was powerful; at the very least, he commanded a large sector of the U.N.C.L.E. network. He had tested him. Perhaps he had even interrogated him, Illya was not sure of all that had happened when he was ill. Yet, the man appeared to be more concerned about Illya's personal life and health than his abilities as an agent, which made no sense. It was as though Graham expected him to play the role of the "cousin from Russia" twenty-four hours a day, rather than just in public. Was his performance in this area a prelude to some assignment he would be sent on? Was Graham still choosing how best to use him?

  The woman was more confusing. He had little experience with such as her. He no longer doubted that she had known his father, and that fact troubled him more than he should allow. Her manner toward him so far had been uniformly kind. Still, she had her own air of command, and Graham clearly delegated a fair bit of authority in the household to her. So far, her requests had been innocuous and mild, and compliance had been his rule. The woman, especially, treated him as though he were truly this fictitious long-lost relative, taking great delight in giving him gifts and conversing with him, and he could as yet determine no motive for this.

  Nothing was clear here.

  Well, perhaps some things. Until Alexander Waverly said otherwise, Graham had to be obeyed and this obedience extended past any assignment, but into his personal life and actions.

  Resigned to his lack of answers, he pushed himself on to his immediate problem. The CIA interview. What would they do if he didn't give them the information they wanted? Would they detain him longer than a few days or weeks? Or imprison him?

  Could they send him back to the Soviet Union? The thought hadn't occurred to him. If they did, he would be in a worse position than before. His loyalties would be in question. His life would be investigated. They would discover the discrepancies in his past -- the months in 1955 when the KGB thought he was controlled by the GRU and the GRU thought the KGB had him. When in actuality, he had slipped both leashes and met up again with Alexander Waverly in New York. The time discrepancy would be damning enough. Even if they did not uncover his information passing -- and he had been careful -- they would have their suspicions. And suspicion was as good as a sentence.

  He had no doubts about what would happen. The long questioning. Eventually, he would confess under torture and be executed -- or he would die under torture. Either way, the end was inevitable, and suicide obviously the cleanest quickest route. Less incriminating to the few friends he had made, to his family, who would suffer for his betrayal, to the work he had done in the past -- and less painful to himself. No. He would not go back to the Soviet Union. He had to stay here, in this identity, to preserve anything of his past. As for his future...

  It sounded so simplistic to say, I am here in the West because I wanted to work for Alexander Waverly and the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

  No, I don't think the CIA will accept that as an answer.

  *****

  The sign on Dolley Madison Boulevard said CIA NEXT RIGHT. Graham smiled a little, shaking his head. The signs went up and down -- the CIA apparently couldn't decide if they should pretend to conceal the new installation whose mission was secrecy but whose location was public knowledge. Another indication of the institution's split personality. Graham made the turn and glanced over at his silent passenger.

  Illya's eyes were riveted on the double-chain link fences, topped with barbed wire. Each section of the fence had a metal plaque in the exact center, with the symbol of an American Eagle, and the words U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING. In addition to the plaque, each held a black sensor box, sensitive to vibration, wired to an alarm system.

  Even though the building was not slated to open officially for a few more months, Graham had already been here for occasional meetings, often enough to be familiar with the routine. He pulled into the right lane even before the sign ALL NON-BADGED VISITORS MUST KEEP RIGHT. Illya read the sign and his eyes flicked to Graham, making the Washington chief feel absurdly guilty about his prior knowledge. One more reason for you not to trust me.

  Graham pulled up to the checkpoint, stated their business into the microphone, and received clearance to drive to the main gate. He surrendered their identification cards, while Illya looked around, his keen eyes discerning the machine guns at ready in the checkpost, and the German Shepherd guard dogs sniffing the air. The guard returned the documents after a moment and Graham handed Illya back his identification.

  The young Russian took it numbly, still staring straight ahead. Any trace of expression had been wiped from his face.

  Graham drove to the visitor's parking lot, turned off the ignition, and turned toward his charge. "I'll go in with you, Illya."

  Kuryakin nodded, as if he had expected nothing less than to be escorted, and Graham realized that his intended support was being interpreted merely as another level of security. He sighed slightly, but tried to reach the boy, buried somewhere under layers of self-control. "Is there anything you want to ask me before we go in?"

  Illya shook his head, staring, unseeing, at the building before them. He was still, his restless hands silent. His shoulders straightened, tense and resigned to what was about to happen. There was a certain
ty about him, an expectancy of what was to occur within the walls of the building, that disturbed Graham.

  "They're only going to ask you questions, Ilyusha. Nothing more than that. Alexander has already given them your dossier, so they are familiar with your background. Just answer them as truthfully -- well, maybe that not a good word," he amended, as the Russian's eyes turned to skewer him accusingly, "as precisely as you can. I know it can get confusing, remembering dates and names. They should have a translator there for anything you don't understand. Ask them to translate anything you're unsure about. If they don't give you a translator, ask for one."

  Graham studied the young man, thinking that since he had been in his home, Illya had asked for almost nothing. He seemed incapable of revealing any need, apparently regarding making requests as a manifestation of weakness. The CIA would be quick to exploit that, certainly not offering him anything. The two together could be disastrous.

  "Don't be shy about asking for anything you need. If you want a glass of water, or to visit a rest room, or any reasonable request, tell them. Don't let them intimidate you, though they'll probably try. Just take each question as it comes, ask for a translation if you need one, and don't let them fluster you. Remember, this won't last forever."

  Kuryakin raised his eyes, a touch of regret marring them, and held out his hand formally. "Thank you, sir. You and your family have been very kind."

  Graham took the hand, but frowned in confusion and surprise as the young man pulled his rucksack out from under the seat. "Illya, you aren't going to be staying. Tony will be here to pick you up this afternoon."

  The blue eyes studied him, but there was no indication he was being believed.

  Graham tried again. "I promise you, Illya, you'll be home by dinnertime tonight. Believe me, Alexander is not giving you to the CIA."

  A furrow crossed the Russian's brow as he tried to evaluate the truth of the words, a trace of hope flickering briefly, and then dying as he refused to allow himself the luxury of hope.

  Graham sighed again, realizing that his charge simply had no experience trusting people blindly. Perhaps Alexander didn't even want him to; it was rather incompatible with an enforcement agent's work.

  "Ilyusha, whether you believe me or not, you will not be staying here. However, if you do take that in with you, they'll search it. I don't know what you have in there, but I doubt that you want the CIA pawing through your personal treasures. Why don't you let me keep it for you?"

  Kuryakin stared back at him, his hands clutching the rucksack firmly.

  "I can't take it back to the house right now, but I'll keep it safe for you during the day. You'll get it back as soon as I get home from work." He waited for a moment and sighed. "Son, you can take it with you if you want. But I can tell you, they will search it. And if I wanted to look through your little bag, I've had nearly two weeks to do it -- when you were sleeping, when you were ill, even when you were at our local office. I'm not interested in your things, but I guarantee you that they will be. I would hate to see the few things you have left accidentally get 'lost' or 'damaged'."

  The expression on his face and in his pale eyes didn't change, but after a moment, Kuryakin handed over the bag. Graham stowed it back under the seat. "I'll lock it up in my office during the day and return it to you this evening. And now we should go, Ilyusha. We mustn't be late."

  They walked to the entrance through air fragrant with the scent of newly-planted flowers and the blooming trees that surrounded the building, once part of a huge estate. Graham presented their visitor forms to the guards, and again to the receptionist. No one passed this point without a CIA escort.

  Graham looked Kuryakin over as they waited for the CIA officer. The young Russian looked different in his neatly pressed black suit, older and -- something else. There was a rebellious fury smoldering deep within the slender frame, outrage warring with resignation, ferocity battling obedience. The blue eyes were deliberately blank, yet narrowed in suspicion, and his neutral mask looked more like the tool of a professional agent than the guise of a worried kid.

  Hmm... You look like a trained killer now. Would they treat you differently if I brought you up here in Tony's old jeans and team T-shirts?

  'Which is the real Kuryakin?' Graham remembered Mercer asking, and he felt frustration that he still did not know.

  And I don't think the CIA is capable of finding out either. No KGB agent trained as well as you've been is going to give anything up here. You'll answer all their questions, but they still won't know who you are. Just like I don't know.

  Look at the company you make me keep, Ilyusha.

  The escort arrived, his eyes raking over Graham. "I don't have clearance for anyone but the Russian."

  "I'm aware of that," Graham said tersely, and stepped up to rest his hand on Illya's shoulder, awarding the CIA officer a scornful glance as he subtly straightened to his full height. The CIA man took an involuntary step back, and Graham felt a childish moment of gratification. I may have been out of the field a few years, but no desk-bound bureaucrat is going to push me around.

  He smiled at Illya, trying to communicate that confidence to him. The young man hadn't missed a nuance of the encounter. This sort of non-verbal jockeying for position didn't need a translator, being as old as man. Illya's eyes flicked from the discomfited CIA officer to Graham. The hint of a wry smile lasted only the briefest instant before sliding behind the mask again, but there was a new light in the blue eyes that met his.

  You liked that, did you? And are you aware that my hand is on your shoulder and you haven't pulled away?

  Graham handed him a card with his office number on it. "If you need me, Ilyusha, if anything confuses or upsets you, feel free to give me a call." He gave the shoulder a gentle squeeze, but any trace of the young man he had glimpsed a moment before was gone. The face he looked into was firmly locked in the protected blank mien of a professional agent. In this environment, you need your barriers, and you appear to be well-armed. Or well-armored, at least. "Tony will be by to pick you up this afternoon. I'll see you tonight at dinner."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Norm, Graham thought wearily, not bothering to make the correction as the Russian was taken away. For someone as smart as you are, you would think you could learn my name.

  *****

  The CIA officer gestured curtly and Illya moved ahead, feeling more confident than he had expected. He had not missed Graham's intimidation of the CIA officer, and while he did not have the physical stature to pull off the same trick, he had learned to get much the same effect with a bold front and a scornful glance. Bullies, of whatever size, were usually cowards at heart.

  But, of course, he had tacitly promised Alexander Waverly his cooperation. And while it was entirely possible he would never see him, or Graham, again, still he was committed to giving this process every chance -- by lack of other options, if nothing else.

  The room they took him to was furnished with a long rectangular table with ten chairs grouped around it. A blackboard ran along one wall and the single window had venetian blinds covering it, blocking the view. Overhead, a series of fluorescent panels lit the room overly bright, reflecting off the freshly-painted white walls. Two ceiling panels were pushed aside, with numerous wires and cords hanging from the dark open spaces, waiting for some additional fixtures to be placed.

  He sat alone on one side of the table. Across from him, three CIA officers took their place. He could not see any microphones on the table, but had no doubt that the conversation would be recorded. There were several ashtrays on the table and each agent immediately claimed one, lighting cigarettes. No one offered him a cigarette or an ashtray, but he had not expected them to.

  They asked him basic questions first. About his name and its variations over the years. About the death of his mother and brother, the death of his father, his 'adoption' by Mikhail Zadkine. Their occupations. The dates he had begun working for the KGB and the GRU. The fact that his occupation
during such assignments often involved the cover of dancer or scientist. Just rudimentary questions, establishing facts. They both knew they would come back for the details.

  What was also established was their contempt for him. They made no effort to hide it. It strengthened him, far more than any unaccustomed show of compassion could. He knew adversity. It was an old companion. He shouldered up to it, leaned against it familiarly. Together, he and adversity stared across the table at the CIA agents while his eyes chilled to blue ice, and his soft-voiced answers became measured and clipped.

  "Why did you come to the United States?"

  "I wanted to work for Alexander Waverly at United Network Command."

  "And why, suddenly, after nearly a decade of service to your own country, would you suddenly decide to defect?"

  Illya blinked at the last word, but said evenly, "I hope to serve my country, as yours, by working for Alexander Waverly."

  "If you are defecting," the CIA officer pointed out, "then this country is your country."

  Illya said nothing, and the CIA officer grew impatient. "You have nothing to say to that?"

  Kuryakin raised his eyebrows. "My English is not perfect, but I think you did not ask me question."

  "Then I'll ask the question. Are you prepared to regard the United States of America as your own country?"

  "I have been told by Alexander Waverly that U.N.C.L.E. has earned right to place in any of their offices in the world, agents of any race or any nationality, as they see fit. U.N.C.L.E. is international organization, whose agents are not supposed to be affected by any personal political affiliations."

  "And what are your personal political affiliations?"

  Illya was silent a moment.

  "Perhaps you need a translation?" the CIA officer asked snidely.