Collection 4 - Kolya's Son Page 23

  The escort guard was still standing there, as though none of what had occurred could possibly have anything to do with him. "Are you ready to go now?" he asked.

  "Is there a rest room nearby that he can wash up in?" Tony asked, incredulously.

  "This way, please.

  The escort headed off back the way they had come, and Tony helped Illya to his feet and steered him down the hall after the guard.

  Misha sat twisted in the front seat, staring wide-eyed at Illya, who slumped against the back seat side window, neither awake nor asleep, a plastic bag held loosely in his hands.

  The red Thunderbird swung back unto the expressway and Tony gave a sigh of relief, his heart still slamming against his chest. Fear, anger, and disbelief all waged war in his thoughts, and he fought to keep his attention on the road.

  How could they do that? How could they be so callous? So uncaring? I'm going to report that doctor. That Brighton guy. There must be something I can do...

  He thought about Jack Mercer, the doctor at the U.N.C.L.E., D.C., office. Jack would never do that to someone, would he? Pump him full of drugs so someone else could question him? Would he?

  Would I be able to do that? No way. Ever since he had first met Dr. Mercer, he had wanted to do what he did. To work in the espionage trade as a doctor, riding the excitement, healing the agents' injuries, listening to their tales. Or better yet, to do what Sam Lawrence at the New York Office did, helping the agents cope with not only the physical demands of the job, but the psychological ones as well. Analyzing what kind of person would succeed as an agent and what kind of person would fail, would crumble under the strain. To help them deal with the daily injustices and problems and...

  His eyes slid to the rear view mirror. I've been living in the same house as someone who needs help and I have virtually ignored him. Some compassionate doctor you'll turn out to be, Tony Graham. Why didn't I invite him canoeing? I bet he would have loved it.

  How could Illya have sat so calmly as they were talking about him like that? Despite the drugs, he could understand everything. He acted like this was an ordinary part of his day. Maybe it is. What a life to live...

  Here I am worried if my nose will peel before my date tomorrow night, and you're half drugged out by the CIA! What kind of life is that? Why would you choose something like that? What do you do for fun?

  "Tony?"

  Michael's wavery voice made it through his muddled thoughts. He glanced at his little brother. "I'm sorry, Misha. I've been ignoring you, haven't I? Illya's not feeling very well right now, but he'll be okay tomorrow."

  "Is he gonna get sick again and sleeps in my room?" the child asked.

  "The doctor at the CIA said he is going to be fine. Good thing we went and got him, wasn't it? And you were a big help, too. You held the door open when we left and put on your seat belt all by yourself."

  "I don't want Ilyusha to be scared any more. I don't want him to have bad dreams."

  Tony swallowed, surprised at the lump in his throat, and wondered fleetingly if this burst of emotion was a result of Misha's heartfelt wish, or the knowledge that Ilyusha was probably going to be scared again and there wasn't anything anyone could do about it. He didn't really know a whole lot about their guest, other than that he was Kolya's son and he had worked for the KGB. What kind of things did one do for the KGB? No one had been specific, but it was obviously a lot heavier stuff than babysitting a bunch of dancers strutting around in tights. A GRU killer, the CIA agent had called Kuryakin. Was he really? Had he killed people? How many people did you have to kill before the CIA considered you an assassin? No wonder he was so icy to be around...

  Tony knew his father wore a gun, had shot at people before, and would probably be put in a position to have to do so again. But his father didn't walk around without smiling, doing a zombie impersonation. How many men did a person have to kill before he looked like that? And how could they live with themselves? Or sleep at night?

  "I don't want him to have bad dreams, either, Misha. Maybe we can be really nice to him when he wakes up and he'll feel better."

  Misha nodded sadly, but didn't seem convinced. He sat quietly, his little forehead wrinkled in intense concentration, fists clenched on his lap. It wasn't until they pulled into the U.N.C.L.E. compound, that his little face brightened up. "I know! I know!" He twisted around again and bellowed at the back seat, "I know what will make you feel better, Ilyusha! Tonight I'm gonna pray that some of my angels will stay by you when you're sleeping so you won't have any bad dreams! Okay? Then you'll know that we loves you!"

  Tony bit his bottom lip and grimaced, embarrassed at what Kuryakin must think of the child's solution to his complicated problem. He despondently glanced into the mirror.

  Kuryakin's eyes had opened, but were not really focused. Illya was, however, staring at Misha, and he was nodding.

  *****

  Graham entered the kitchen, looking for a blond head among the group gathered in the room. "Where is he?"

  "In his room. Sleeping." Tony's long-fingered hands were wrapped around a cup of coffee, in a rare unconscious imitation of his mother's gesture. "He was really out of it, Dad."

  "I know. I didn't think they would drug him. Not so soon." Graham shook his head, not comfortable with the confused and questioning looks directed at him from his family. "I think I had better go check on him."

  "I want to talk to you after that," Tony said softly. "I have a few questions of my own."

  Graham nodded, already aware of what the topic would be.

  They had left Illya's bedroom door partially open, sensitive to his usual preferences. (Even though Illya knew the door wouldn't lock from the outside, he seemed reluctant to keep it completely closed.)

  Graham pushed the door open gently and stood in the doorway. They had removed Illya's jacket, tie, and shoes, and unbuttoned a few shirt buttons, but the young man had apparently been too out of it to change or even get completely into bed. He was lying on top of the quilt, and Trish or someone had covered him with one of the afghans from the family room. His breathing was slow and shallow, and his limbs trembled slightly from the effects of the drug. Graham was quietly furious.

  He entered the room noiselessly and checked the broad forehead for fever. None so far, but the stress of the day and the weakening effect of the drugs could well trigger a relapse if they weren't careful, and Illya still had a bit of a cough. Norm would have liked to have settled the boy more comfortably in bed, but instead he just arranged the afghan securely around him.

  Illya hadn't reacted to the brush of fingers across his forehead, but the touch of hands on him clearly startled him. He gasped and tried to pull away as Norm tucked the blanket closer.

  "Easy, buddy. It's all right. You're home. You're safe, Ilyusha."

  The blue eyes opened and studied him, then tracked around his surroundings. Some of the tension left the Russian's frame as he recognized the familiar furnishings of his room. "You brought me back."

  "Tony did," Norm said. "Don't you remember, Ilyusha?" He drove you home."

  "You brought me. They wanted to keep me. They told me so," Illya said fuzzily.

  Norm decided who had done the actual driving was a moot point in Kuryakin's eyes. "I'm sorry about what happened. It wasn't supposed to be that way."

  "They are as KGB. No different. You have KGB even in America." The whispered words were faintly accusing, the tone resigned to whatever would happen next.

  Graham paused in adjusting the blanket, frustrated. "Illya, if they were exactly like KGB, the KGB –" Norm shook his head; it had been years since he had stopped parroting Russian phrasing. "—then we would not have been able to bring you home."

  The blue eyes opened at that and regarded him, the pupils, still drugged to an unnatural size, made Norm question his words even as he said them. But apparently Illya found some kind of truth in them. "Da. Is true."

  Graham put the rucksack on the bed next to Kuryakin. "Here is your bag."
<
br />   "Spasibo. Thank you." He shook his head slightly, obviously struggling to think in English, and wrapped an arm around the rucksack, holding it tight against him.

  Norm wondered again what was in the little bag. He found it frustrating that Illya took more comfort from its presence than all the care and reassurances his family could give. I'd like to know what you have in there that's so important to you.

  Kuryakin was studying him through dazed eyes, blinking frequently, obviously fighting to stay awake and to get the few words he wanted to say out. "Is kindness, to bring me away. I did not wish to stay there."

  "This is your home now, Ilyusha," Norm said, troubled, his hand reaching out in the familiar gesture of reassurance.

  Illya shook his head under the hand, rejecting the comfort. "I have no home. No country. I am dead. The dead need nothing." As if those words had taken his final effort, Illya turned away, pulled the afghan up to his chin, wrapped both arms around his rucksack, and closed his eyes.

  Norm studied him sadly. And this is only the first CIA interview. They could debrief him for months. And despite U.N.C.L.E. running interference where we can, it's going to get nastier there.

  You barely trust anything or anyone now, what is that kind of interrogation going to do to you? And how can we help you through it if you won't let us? Something has to give, Illya. Either you have to start trusting us, and let us help you, or you are going to go under.

  10

  "Illya? Ilyusha?" Tony stuck his head around the door at nine-thirty that evening. He had been doing some reading in his bedroom when the strangled shouts from the next room grabbed his attention. "Hey, wake up." He approached the bed, then ducked as the young Russian struck out wildly. "Take it easy. It's just me. It's Tony." He grabbed the bony wrists as the blue eyes cleared to rationality, and the flailing limbs quieted. "Are you okay?"

  "Da. Yes." The young man withdrew his arm, sitting up abruptly. "I am fine. I regret having disturbed you."

  "Yeah, right." Tony leaned back against the bureau, carefully regarding their guest. "That was some nightmare."

  "If you do not mind, I would like to return to sleep."

  Tony ignored the statement. "We were all worried about you tonight. How do you feel now?"

  "I am fine," Illya repeated. "I would like to sleep, however."

  "Are you hungry? I can bring you something, if you don't feel well enough to make it to the kitchen."

  "As I have said, I am quite well." Illya bit each word off testily. "And I am not hungry."

  "Right," Tony drawled. "You haven't eaten since breakfast, fourteen hours ago, so, of course, you're not hungry. And having been interrogated all day, and then drugged, you feel just fine."

  Illya flushed, his eyes narrowing at the other's amused look.

  "I bet you have a hell of a headache, feel all loggy and sore, and are hungry enough to eat a horse," Tony challenged.

  "Loggy?"

  "Clumsy. Slow. Like a log in the water.

  "Yes," Illya said, his brow clearing. "I understand."

  "So, what do you say? Want me to bring you something? A sandwich? Or should we raid the fridge?"

  "Raid...?"

  "Tearing through the kitchen, eating everything that falls in our path."

  A brief smile cornered Illya's mouth and he leaned back against his headboard, relaxing a trifle. "I am really not hungry."

  "That's no good." Tony reached out a hand to the broad forehead. At Illya's protest, he frowned. "I am going to be a doctor, you know. I think I can recognize a fever."

  "I am not ill."

  "No." Tony sat back. "You're cool enough. And not just your temperature." At Illya's wary look, he elaborated, "You could open up a little. We're not the enemy." When Illya didn't respond, he shrugged. "Come on. I'll help you up. You probably at least want to change out of your clothes before you go back to sleep."

  "I don't need any help."

  Tony scowled. "Knock it off, Ilyusha. You were drugged out of your skull today. I'm not going to leave you to stumble around and crack your head open by accident. Now, come on." He held a hand out defiantly, daring Kuryakin to take it.

  After a moment of meeting the dark eyes, Illya reluctantly surrendered his own hand. He stumbled when he was pulled to his feet, reeling with obvious dizziness. But after being escorted to the bathroom, and the application of a little cold water to his face, he seemed steadier on his feet when he came out.

  Tony stood just outside the bathroom door, his arms crossed. "Well? Ready for a sandwich?"

  Illya sighed softly. "If it is important to you."

  "Stay here. I'll bring it down."

  He was folding the afghan that had been covering him when Tony came through the door with a plate in each hand. The Russian had changed to jeans and a sweatshirt and put away the suit coat and other items that had been strewn around the room.

  "Trying to show me up?" Tony asked, setting the dishes on the desk.

  "Pardon me?"

  He gestured around the room. "You're so neat. Mom is forever complaining about how sloppy I am."

  The smile curved Illya's mouth again. "I am not usually... neat. But this is not my home."

  "Right. That's why Mom's virtually adopted you and Dad practically threatened the CIA with an U.N.C.L.E. strike force if they didn't cough you up. But I don't like to argue when I eat." Tony pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans and unloaded two bottles. He grinned at Illya's expression. "Only way I could carry everything. I hope you like beer." He pulled out a Swiss army knife, applied the opener to each bottle, and handed one over.

  Kuryakin took a cautious sip and grimaced slightly at the taste. "I prefer vodka."

  Tony made a face in turn. "I prefer my own brand. Dad has the worst taste. But I guess, since we're drinking his beer, we can't complain too much."

  Illya put the bottle down abruptly. "It is forbidden?"

  "Beer?" Tony asked in astonishment. "Dad may grouch a bit if we drink all of it and he goes looking for one. But if you want to really make him angry, eat the last of the butter pecan ice cream he was saving." Tony grinned in memory, then frowned when he saw Illya's face, as still as a mask. "I was just kidding, Ilyusha. Dad is a pretty understanding guy. And we're both old enough to drink."

  "But you are not permitted cigarettes," Illya said, making no further effort to touch his beer.

  "Well, yeah, he's a bear on smoking. I tried it in high school during what has been fondly called my 'rebellious period,' but after being grounded a few times, I just gave it up. One disadvantage for having an agent for a father is that it's pretty hard to sneak things past him. He's got eyes like a hawk, a nose like a German Shepherd, and the morals of a judge. And now," Tony shrugged, "I guess, I'm glad I never got into the habit."

  "Grounded?"

  "Oh, yeah. That's a slang term -- it means restricted to the house."

  "You were imprisoned?" Illya asked, startled into a revealing statement, his face turning ashen.

  "Hell, Ilyusha, I'm sorry. I have to watch how I word things around you. No, not imprisoned. Just grounded. Stuck at home. I could go to school, or family outings, or anywhere here in the house or grounds. But I couldn't go out for just fun stuff with my friends for a week. Or two, the second time he caught me. Believe me, after a couple of weeks of nothing but TV and homework at night, and weekends of movies with the family and babysitting those brats upstairs while Mom and Dad went out," Tony's grinned again, "cigarettes didn't seem so attractive. But that's the only thing he's really unreasonable about, and I don't think he minds you smoking as long as you do it outside and when Misha or Tanya aren't around. Just drink your beer, Ilyusha. It's okay. Dad and I usually have a beer or two when we go to baseball games."

  Illya hesitated, his brow furrowed as he struggled through the gist of the former statement. Then, almost reluctantly, he sighed, his shoulders rising and falling in capitulation. He took a sip of beer and nibbled cautiously on the sandwich.

  Tony watched
him curiously. "You don't look like an U.N.C.L.E. agent, but you sure do act like one. At least the ones in Section Two. Suspicious and prickly all the time. Aren't you a little young for that?"

  Illya regarded him coolly over the sandwich. "Perhaps things are different in America. In Russia, I have been considered an adult for some time."

  Tony looked down at his T-shirt. "Hmm. No visible blood, but I think I've been wounded." He grinned and mock saluted. "Not wounded, sir, but dead."

  "I don't understand you."

  "It's okay. I don't insult easily."

  Illya colored and looked down at his sandwich almost sadly. "I apologize. I did not intend to be rude."

  "Yes, you did. But that's okay. I gave you a little justification. Relax, Ilyusha. That's exactly what I meant about being touchy. When you're not glaring at everyone, you're apologizing. Or just staring off into space. We're not the KGB, you know. You don't have to worry about us." Tony laughed. "And just so you know, I am considered an adult, as well. However... in America, they'll treat you like an adult one moment -- sending you off to war, or expecting you to have suitable employment and conduct yourself accordingly -- and before you can catch your breath, they're treating you like you're Misha's age, you should acquiesce to their every whim and should hang on their every word."

  Illya didn't respond to the statement, but as he took another sip of his beer, Tony studied him intently, trying to find a way to open him up a little. "I have an idea. If you'd rather have a vodka and a cigarette, why don't we head into town and I'll take you to an American nightclub?"

  "It is allowed?"

  "I haven't had a curfew since high school. Just let me grab my car keys and wallet." He glanced over the young Russian, and returned after a moment, carrying another sweatshirt. "Take that shirt off and put this one on."

  Illya hesitated, looking down at his nice clean American sweatshirt, but complied, pulling it over his head and handing it to him. "Why?"

  "Because that's a high school shirt." At Illya's uncomprehending look, Tony held it up, displaying the logo. "See. That one," he pointed to the shirt Illya had just put on, "says Boston College. You're probably going to get carded, but you want them to believe you when you give them your ID."