Collection 4 - Kolya's Son Read online

  After the guard raised that gate, they merged with another road and more traffic. Kuryakin fixed his eyes to the signs on the route, anxious again about where he was being taken. And how he might get away with so many guards and gates blocking the roads.

  But now there seemed to be no further gates or guards, and the traffic moved rapidly. His eyes widened as a large sign said, You ARE NOW LEAVING VIRGINIA. A moment later they passed another sign that proclaimed, WELCOME TO MARYLAND. PLEASE DRIVE GENTLY. Then there were further warnings about traffic speeds and monitoring. He swallowed hard, more confused than ever. He was fairly sure Virginia and Maryland were states, but why no guards at such major borders, but so many stationed in and out of the airports? Were Americans prevented from leaving their country as Soviets were? He had heard very differently.

  The man next to him cleared his throat. Kuryakin's attention was abruptly brought back to his companion, and he forgot about the roads.

  He would rather stay with this man than the two others, who reminded him of countless KGB agents, hard and cold and ruthless. Not only were the odds on escaping, if he needed to, better with one, but Graham had been kind before and had treated him in a friendly fashion. There were few people in the United States he knew, and only one that he trusted. If he was to be turned over to yet another person, it was something of a relief to have it be someone relatively familiar, who appeared harmless. That could be a lie, too, but he would wait to see if that were the case.

  He wondered what the letter had said that had made the man irritated. The man had appeared to be a close associate of Alexander Waverly's. What could there be in the brief note to make him angry? What had Alexander Waverly asked him to do?

  They turned off the main route onto a series of successively smaller roads. There were houses here, large and handsome, set well back from the road. At times he could see glimpses of a river among the hills. Trees lined the road, manicured lawns curved toward the roadway.

  Kuryakin's eyes widened as Graham slowed down, made a turn into a single-lane drive and stopped the car before a gate. Another gate -- and far worse things than a gate. Armed guards stood on each side of the checkpoint. He stared out the window at the guards with their guns and his heart started racing. Why was he being taken to a jail? What had he done?

  Graham spoke to the guards with easy familiarity and they were waved through as the gate slowly swung open, allowing them to proceed. Graham was well known here. Was he the jailer then? Did his smile hide a man expert at questions and the means of extracting answers?

  Kuryakin's arms tightened around the rucksack in his white knuckled hands as the car continued up the long driveway. His vision of the large building before him blurred; he blinked back the tears angrily and forced himself to be calm. Tears were for yesterday and yesterday was gone. If he was being taken to a jail, then so be it. He would tell them nothing and take his first opportunity to escape, even if that escape meant dying. He was long past the point where he considered that the worst of choices.

  In the end, Alexander Waverly had betrayed him, too.

  *****

  Graham pulled the car up to the entrance way and got out, whistling softly. He could see Kuryakin was exhausted and unnerved, but Waverly's note had warned him of that. "Illya. We're here."

  He frowned as the Russian slumped in his seat. He could see the shoulders trembling slightly before they stiffened and the young man raised his head, his face a tense blank mask. Kuryakin exited from the car without meeting the older man's concerned eyes or supportive smile.

  Something in the withdrawn stance warned Graham against putting an arm around the boy's shoulders or even offering an encouraging pat. Kuryakin was like a coiled snake ready to strike. Alexander, what did you saddle us with? This may be temporary, but I have a feeling it's going to be hell while it lasts.

  They entered the Safe House and Kuryakin stared coldly at the guard on duty. Graham greeted the man by his first name, trying to offer by his manner the reassurance that Kuryakin obviously needed. The guard stepped aside to allow them entrance through a doorway, and Kuryakin drew himself to a new tension, stepped through, and stopped as whatever his expectations had been, warred with what he saw before him.

  Graham sidestepped quickly to avoid bumping into his guest and ended up grasping his arm to avoid stumbling. Kuryakin hissed in surprise as he was touched, his entire body bracing for some further contact. Graham held his arm more firmly, this time supporting him, one hand taking the rucksack from the young man's nerveless fingers. "Illya? Are you all right?"

  The wide blue eyes were staring down the empty corridor in shock, and Graham looked around, too, wondering what had startled him so. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary, other than Michael's little red trike left there again. (Misha found racing up and down the thirty-foot unobstructed hallway connecting the Safe House with their home irresistible, although it was technically forbidden.) Graham debated putting the trike away and decided his guest's mental state was too fragile to ignore him even for that brief time.

  Then Trish opened the door at the far end and Norman sighed in relief and moved them toward her. Stopping before the doorway, Kuryakin glanced at Graham, then looked back over his shoulder, without responding to the introduction that was made.

  Trish covered over the lapse, taking his cold hand lightly, and then releasing it. "He is not so tall as his father and certainly not so dark. But I can see Kolya in his face and eyes." She smiled at Kuryakin, drawing him into their home. "You see, Illya Nikolayovetch, I knew your father years ago in New York. He was a friend of mine. I never thought to meet his son after all these years. But you are very welcome here, just as he was."

  Illya looked from Norman to his wife, as though trying to fit this new piece of information in with the other isolated pieces he had. His eyes blinked as he tried to regain his composure. "How could you know Nico? My father?" The last question was barely voiced.

  Norm could see in Trish's eyes her heartrending recognition of the task ahead of them. He could also see the determination. She inclined her head toward her guest, a soft smile disarming him. She spoke gently and slowly so he would understand, so her words would slip past the walls built around him. "Very few Russians who came through New York in those days could fail to know your father. He had quite a presence. When you're more settled, I will tell you some stories of him. But now, it's very rude of me to keep you standing in a hallway while I study your features. I'm sure you'd like a glass of tea after your flight."

  Graham followed them through the house to the large open kitchen, smiling at the way his wife handled the boy. Kuryakin was equally, if not more, mystified than ever, but at least he was no longer spoiling for a fight. Trish gestured him to a seat at the kitchen table and Kuryakin quickly sat, trying to unobtrusively check out the kitchen the same way he'd scanned the rest of the house.

  The eating nook of the spacious country-style kitchen was along the southern exposure of the building, overlooking the Potomac River bordering the property. The mid-afternoon sunshine had warmed the room; flies buzzed outside against the screens covering the open windows. Truth be told, it was Norman's favorite place to be, the activity and focal center of the house, with toys, newspapers, and textbooks scattered around as proof of its popularity with the rest of the family.

  Graham ignored his guest for a moment, letting him look. He poured himself a cup of coffee and raided the cookie jar, dumping a dozen or so on a plate and putting them out on the table. "Where are the kids, Trish? Did you finally find some gypsies to sell them to?" He grinned at Illya and motioned for him to take a cookie.

  "I got Misha down for a nap, finally, after promising him you'd take him miniature golfing this weekend," Trish answered, taking the already-heated kettle from the stove.

  Norm groaned. "Not that. Well, maybe Tony will take him."

  "He wants Daddy to take him. He can't beat Tony, but you are another story." Trish put a glass of Russian tea before their guest and p
oured one for herself.

  Graham scowled in mock anger. "The only reason he beats me is that those courses are made for kids. Tiny clubs, tiny greens, tiny everything." Kuryakin was staring at him. "Ever played miniature golf, Illya?"

  "Small... golf?" Kuryakin shook his head, uncertainly.

  "Good. You can come, too. Then there will be one other person Michael can beat besides me." He took pity on the young man as Illya lowered his eyes warily. "I'm joking, Illya. I'm not really angry. I like playing miniature golf with my kids, and I also like complaining about them beating me." The reassurance didn't seem to make an impression on the young man, and he withdrew further, too inundated by everything that had happened to him. Well, he couldn't be expected to be contemplating suicide one day, and full of life the next. Norm quickly asked Trish, "Where's Tanya?"

  "She's still at her lesson; it's Karen's mother's day to car pool. She should be home in an hour or so. Can you stay, or are you due back at the office?"

  "I've got some calls to make, but I can make them from here. I am supposed to be on vacation for a few days. Illya can encounter the gang at dinner tonight, I guess." They both looked back to their silent guest.

  "Ilyusha, is something wrong with your tea? Would you prefer coffee? And perhaps you would like something more substantial to eat -- a sandwich, perhaps?"

  Kuryakin's eyes had widened slightly at the diminutive form of his name. "No, thank you, madam." He lifted the glass and sipped politely at the tea.

  "My full name is Nastasia Antonovna, and in Russia my friends called me Tasyusha. Here in America, I am usually called Trish. Either will do." She smiled slightly. "And he's Norm. Please call us by those names. As you may already know, we have three children. Tony is your age -- he's away right now, but he'll be home on the weekend. Tanya is twelve-almost-thirteen, and Misha just turned four. You will meet them all later."

  "And after an hour with them, you may consider defecting back to the Soviet Union," Norm teased.

  Illya glanced at him uncomprehendingly and looked back down at his tea.

  Trish could see circles under his eyes, like gray bruises, and the way his fingers trembled on the glass before they were ruthlessly tightened. After the one dutiful sip of tea, he was ignoring it. She said, quietly, "I can see that our guest is tired, Norman. Perhaps you would like to see your room, Ilyusha?"

  The slight Russian looked up and then nodded wearily.

  They weren't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the full-sized pool-table at the foot of the narrow staircase leading down from the kitchen. It took up one section of the spacious rec room and he circled it warily, as though trying to understand what ulterior purpose it might have for being there. Obviously too tired to care if he was caught, his eyes sidled over to the other side of the room, taking in the couches, the large television and phonograph stand, and the shelves of haphazardly arranged games and toys. Beyond that, a large curved staircase swept up to the main floor entrance, oak banisters polished and gleaming. To his left, sliding doors exited to the courtyard between the two wings. They watched his eyes widen further at the sight of a swimming pool, seen through the sheer curtains that provided privacy for the family.

  Behind him, there was an arched entrance to a hallway at the south end of the rec room, and Norm led him through it. "We renovated this area about five years ago when Tony suddenly needed more privacy, adding the hallway and two extra bedrooms. Oh, I'd suggest not using the exterior door at the end of this hallway, as it's heavily wired with security devices and will set alarms ringing everywhere. When he was still in high school, Tony tried to sneak out one night to go to a party and we found it worked quite effectively. Anyway, the far room is Tony's bedroom and this is where you'll be staying."

  The young man took a few steps into the room and then looked back at Graham, baffled as to what he was supposed to do. The room was furnished simply; he was shown the bed, a desk, a bureau, shelves for books, and access to a small washroom shared with the other room. As Illya stared at the soaps and the glass-doored shower and the fluffy towels -- his were on the right, Trish explained, pointing everything out -- Norm could see his mind was fogging, incomprehension and exhaustion draining whatever resources were keeping him on his feet.

  "Do you want to take a nap?" Trish asked, lowering the blinds to the four half-windows that ran along the southern side of the room. The young man turned in her direction mechanically as the light level dropped, but he made no response to her question, if he ever heard it.

  They left him alone and closed the door behind him. As they automatically bent to pick up Misha's toys -- how did he manage to scatter them so quickly throughout the entire house? -- they heard the door to his room open softly, then close, then open again. He left it open a crack and they could see him tumble face down onto the bedspread and let the darkness claim him.

  Upstairs in the kitchen, Trish turned to her husband. "He doesn't have a clue what's happening, does he? We'll have to find out from Alexander -- Norm, where's his luggage?"

  "Doesn't have any. He wasn't exactly given time to pack before they nabbed him off the London streets. And after he was presumably dead, it would look strange for someone to sneak back into the Kirov Company and pack up his things."

  "I know, but since then? Surely --"

  "Alexander sent a note along with him and apologized, but he said he didn't have time to send someone out to pick up anything for Illya. He had the boy sleep on a cot in his office."

  "How comfortable," Trish said derisively. "No wonder the boy looked exhausted. Couldn't they have had Del Floria provide a change of clothes for him?"

  "Alexander said," Norm grinned, prepared to enjoy this, "to get our guest whatever he needed; he'd cover the expenses."

  "Alexander 'Skinflint' Waverly, said that?"

  "Yes, indeed. I've never been given carte blanche on a budget line before. You don't think I could charge that new recording system I've been wanting for the office to Illya's new wardrobe, do you?"

  Trish was already sorting out her schedule for the next few days. "I'll grab a few things of Tony's, then have him weed through his things on Friday when he gets home. Heaven knows I've been after him to clean out his closets since he went to college. That should tide the boy over until we have time to shop for him." She glanced at the calendar on the wall. "Bad time for him to come. Tomorrow I have the afternoon reception at the White House that I can't get out of and Friday I'm translating for the Soviet Science Delegation at Chesterton's. He'll have to wait until Saturday or Monday to be dragged through Macy's."

  "I'm sure Alexander would prefer something like K-Mart. Particularly with that new recording system being such a big line item."

  "Alexander can be as miserly as he wishes once our guest is officially an U.N.C.L.E agent. Until then, we'll skip the blue light specials."

  "Uh-oh. My boss may have cause to regret his choice of asylum. This may be the last time he picks us as caretakers."

  "Well, then, we might as well not worry about the budget," Trish said, dryly.

  *****

  He could feel eyes on him, watching him, and a presence very close by, but whether hostile or neutral he couldn't tell. Memory of his location connected with his awareness, but even that consideration did not really give him an answer. He still had many questions about his presence here.

  If this was a jail, it was a luxurious one, but he could not discount the armed guards at the entrances, the fences, the security. The wired door at the end of the hallway that he was warned away from. Until he had more information, discretion seemed best.

  His body was aching with weariness, the strain and tension of the last few weeks leaving him limp and exhausted. He could not remember the last time he had felt safe, but now that his body had taken enough rest to stave off collapse, the rush of adrenaline made further sleep impossible. It was time to deal with his situation again.

  He opened his eyes to look directly into a pair of blue ones only inch
es from his own. He started back instinctively, his head cracking against the wooden headboard, even as he realized the eyes were on a level with the edge of the bed, their owner merely a small child.

  The child in question spun like a helicopter, screeching in an incredibly high voice, "I saw him, Mommy. He's awake! He's awake!"

  His back against the headboard, Illya tried to calm his pounding heart. Close by, he heard footsteps and then the voice he recognized as Trish Graham's.

  "Misha, I told you not to wake him!" The woman knocked lightly on the doorframe and then appeared in the open doorway, the blond child in her arms, her voice contrite. "I have to apologize for Misha. He's curious about you and I told him that he could meet you when you woke up." She shook her head slightly, her attention turned back to the child huddled shyly now against her shoulder. "Misha, you have to learn not to bother our guest."

  The curly-haired little boy wriggled out of her arms, falling to the ground. "He isn't a guest."

  Kuryakin tensed, unable to control the dread of the anticipated answer. The child must have heard something.

  The woman folded her arms in mild exasperation. "And why is that, Misha?"

  "Guests stay upstairs in the guest room," the little boy lisped dismissively. "He's staying in Tony's area. That means he belongs to us." Misha spun to face Kuryakin, who had sat up warily. "Will you play Candyland with me? Tony does."

  "Not now, Misha," the woman said softly. "How would you like some milk and cookies?"

  The child's eyes went round. "Before dinner?"

  "Well, dinner is not for a few hours and I think our guest might like a snack. Go on, Misha, I'll be right up."