Collection 9 - The Changeling Page 3

  "Mr. Kuryakin, please sit down." Alexander Waverly, the phone to one ear, waved him toward a chair across the office, then he continued with his phone call, ignoring the Russian.

  Kuryakin put the suitcase down to the side of the entrance, straightened his tie in the reflection from the window, then sat carefully on one of the leather chairs. The last time he had been in this room, he had been waiting for news if he would be allowed to stay in the country. Now he waited for news if he would be allowed to join U.N.C.L.E. Norm Graham had assured him this was the case—why else would Alexander Waverly order him to pack his bags and go to New York. Unless, of course, he was being sent away again.

  Yet, that seemed unlikely. He had walked through the halls without an armed escort. The possibility existed that they were so confident of their security that he posed no threat, but Illya felt a degree of pride in that he probably could have gotten into the building without their knowledge. There was always a way, if you studied a problem carefully enough, and he excelled at that sort of thing.

  When it came down to it, his skills and training had gotten him in the building—one way or the other. This time, it was through the front door. He was still, it appeared, to be welcomed. The time might yet come when he was hunted down these same corridors, or perhaps returning for some hither unknown act of vengeance. Circumstances had turned on him before, enough so he learned to memories the retreats and faults of the blueprints. Next time, it might not be as simple to enter this building.

  He pushed the thought aside.

  Alexander Waverly had made a habit of rescuing him and then sending him off for someone else to deal with. It had happened four times now, age ten, age fifteen, age sixteen, and age twenty-two. Always some unanticipated problem arose, changing Illya's course of direction, and rerouting him away from the U.N.C.L.E. office. But, if worse came to worse, if U.N.C.L.E. didn't want him, what would Alexander Waverly's choices be? Send him back to the Soviet Union? To the KGB or the GRU? He wouldn't last long there.

  It went without saying that he wouldn't be allowed to live in America, if U.N.C.L.E. did not wish to employ him. It was the basis of his permission to stay in the country. The CIA—maybe he would be handed over to the CIA. They had much interest in him and his background. He'd been through many sessions with them already, evading their questions, defusing their interest in certain areas, and misleading them wherever possible. It was the drugs he disliked. Physical pain he was used to, but the drugs they used robbed a man of his defense, stealing his secrets if asked the right questions. Fortunately, they had not asked the right questions yet.

  The door behind him opened and he turned, eyes following the man who entered and crossed quickly to Alexander Waverly's desk. Medium-height, dark hair, dark eyes, wearing what even Illya could recognize as an expensive suit. He was armed, the weapon tucked in a holster under his left arm. He had the air of someone born to wealth, confident and sure of themselves.

  He noticed Illya immediately, obviously surprised by his presence in the office. No doubt, the man had thoroughly appraised him by the time he had taken the few steps to Waverly's desk. He handed the Head of Section One a single sheet of paper, then turned and looked in Illya's direction, smiling carefully, sizing him up.

  "Hello." The man's voice was smooth, sophisticated, but beneath the level tone was the silent warning that Kuryakin was a stranger in this man's territory, despite Illya's high-level security badge. This man was dangerous, simply because he smiled and hid his animosity behind a veneer of diplomacy and refinement.

  Be polite, Trish Graham had told him.

  "Hello," Illya responded, his voice low, then he turned and looked out the window, ignoring the man. For all his own display of indifference, his sweating palms were pressed against his suit pants.

  You'll be safe once inside the building, Norm Graham had told him.

  Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  Illya watched the other's reflection in the glass, though. The man still stared in his direction thoughtfully, then turned back to Alexander Waverly, who handed him back the piece of paper. He waited a moment, as though expecting the older man to introduce Kuryakin. When Waverly returned to his phone conversation, the Section Two head gave a polite nod to his superior, then turned and left the room.

  The man's badge number had read "11", which meant he was the head of Section Two and had access virtually throughout the building. Alexander Waverly was head of Section One, so his badge number was Number "1". When the man had looked over at Kuryakin, one eyebrow had raised slightly when his Number "2" badge was noted. Waverly had always left word for him to be given the same badge, a number reserved for high-level guests and granting him access to every level of the building, the labs, and the conference rooms. He'd asked Norm once why Alexander Waverly gave him that particular badge. He was told that it had to do with the labs, allowing Kuiyakin free rein to observe any of the on-going experiments, yet return to Waverly's office when he wished. It also protected him from being questioned by the security staff—if Waverly said he was okay, then they took the old man's word for it.

  "Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly said now as he hung up his phone and got up from his desk. "Would you like tea? Coffee? I can have it brought in for you."

  "No, sir. Thank you."

  "Fine. Fine," Waverly muttered, and sat down opposite him on the couch. "Enough of that, then." Sharp eyes assessed him from beneath busy brows. "So... what are we to do with you, indeed?"

  It seemed a long time to Kuryakin before Waverly continued, but in all likelihood, it was only a few moments. Illya maintained his outer coolness, but the statement stabbed at already vulnerable emotions. It was as he suspected; he was not wanted. He was superfluous, an extraneous body foisted upon the Network.

  Waverly cleared his throat and Kuryakin held his breath. "Fortunately for our offices here in New York, we have need of a man of your scientific and engineering skills, such that I was able to secure a position for you temporarily in our Section Eight office, but I've spoken with Carl Lewiston, Head of Section Four, and you'll be working in tandem with them. There is an overlap." Waverly paused, waiting for him to respond.

  "Section Four? What is this, please?" He didn't want to sound ungrateful—hell, he was overwhelmed—but it seemed too good to be true.

  "Ah. Yes. I see. Some background is needed, I suppose. Section Four is—Didn't they teach you this at Survival School? It should have been taught," Waverly groused when Kuryakin shook his head mutely.

  Perhaps they had. He had not always paid attention to the classes he considered boring.

  "Section Four is Intelligence and Communications. Research, computers, that sort of thing," Alexander Waverly said.

  "And Section Eight?"

  "Research and Development. Our laboratories."

  Kuryakin let out the pent-up breath. Okay, this was running smoothly so far. He nodded, then remembered Trish's warning and said quickly, "Thank you, sir."

  "Hmm... Quite..." Waverly seemed to be thinking about something else altogether, then came back to the conversation with a start. "Best I can do, right now. I still want you as an agent here, but first they seem to want to monitor your development."

  Kuryakin nodded again, then waited for some instruction of what to do next.

  Waverly's phone rang, and he got up and went straight to it, leaving Illya at his chair for several minutes. Waverly hung up, then shook his head as it rang again. Before he answered the call, he said, "Mr. Kuryakin, please report to Dr. Lawrence for your physical, then to Section Six for housing assignments." With a quick nod at the young man, Waverly dismissed him and answered his call.

  *****

  Napoleon Solo stood outside Waverly's office and frowned, staring back at the closed door that separated him from his boss—and from the agent sitting waiting for Waverly and wearing the Number "2" badge. Whoever he was (and Waverly didn't introduce them) he was far too young to be a part of Section One, yet he was wearing a badge from that sectio
n. Very odd. The possibility existed, of course, that he was the visiting son of one of the other members, but looking at the agent's coloring, the only real connection might be Harry Beldon and he didn't look like him at all.

  For that matter, he might not even be an agent. Maybe just a visitor.

  But then why a Number "2" badge? Why not one of the guest badges? Not a badge that entitled the wearer full access to all of U.N.C.L.E. New York. Even Napoleon didn't have that. There were only a few places he didn't have immediate access to, the most notable being Waverly's office. In his absence, it sometimes became necessary for Napoleon to retrieve something from the Section One Chiefs desk or filing cabinet, and each time he had to go through Security and be okayed access.

  This young man, this stranger, had complete access.

  Irritating.

  With a resigned sign, Napoleon headed down the corridor toward his own office. Eventually this little mystery would be solved, but for the time being, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

  *****

  "Ilyusha!" Samuel Lawrence greeting Kuryakin with a big smile. "I heard you had finally arrived in the Big Apple. About time."

  "Sorry?"

  "New York, son. You're in New York."

  "Yes. I know I am in New York. What is 'Big Apple'?"

  "Nickname for New York."

  "Why is this?”

  Lawrence shrugged. "I have no idea. Or if I ever knew it, I've forgotten. Regardless, it's not important. Let's get this medical over with and you can get settled in your new quarters. I see they have you slotted for an in-house room. Is that what you want? Don't you want to get a place of your own?"

  "Is not the room for me alone?"

  "Of course it is. But it's small, there's no kitchen, no way to cook for yourself or entertain.''

  "Is not a problem."

  "Well, maybe not at the moment, but down the road..."

  Illya waited, then prompted, "Vhat is down the road? An apartment building?"

  Lawrence stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and said, "Strip down." He gestured toward the table in the small examination room. "You're in New York now, Ilyusha. You should get out and see it. You have no restrictions on where you can go while you work for U.N.C.L.E."

  "So, if I am not working, I may leave the building, yes?” Illya asked, removing his jacket.

  "Yes, that's right. There are restaurants all over this city."

  "Vhy would I go to restaurant, when food is free here?"

  "Variety. This is just cafeteria food. You can sample from some of the finest cuisine in New York."

  "Food is food. Does not matter." Illya dropped the last of his clothing on a chair and hopped up on the table.

  "I thought you were supposed to be smart?" Lawrence frowned at him, staring at the too-thin bare ribs. "I see you've added a few meager pounds to your skinny frame, but you've got a ways to go to get to the base weight for an agent. Didn't Trish feed you?"

  "She is excellent cook," Illya said coldly.

  "I know she is. I've eaten there many times."

  "Then what you are meaning?"

  "Another expression. I want to see a bit more weight on you, understand? Spend a bit more time eating and less time reading."

  Illya shrugged as though it were not important.

  "I'm serious here. I will not authorize any move to Section Three without you meeting the physical requirements."

  "Does not matter. I go to Section Eight."

  "The labs?" Lawrence finished listening to his heart, had him take a deep breath in and out, then put aside the stethoscope. "Interesting move. George Shakely will keep you busy."

  "Sometimes, I will work with Section Four."

  "Carl Lewiston is the section head. Yes, I can see you working there okay. That's not where you're going to end up, though. You know that, don't you? Waverly is going to do everything he can to get you into Section Two. But you might find the labs fun in the meanwhile."

  "Fun?"

  Any further conversation was postponed for ten minutes, while Lawrence went through the physical with his patient. Finally, Lawrence returned to the question, as though there had been no interruptions. "Yes, fun. It will satisfy your curiosity, make use of your science skills, and give you time to settle into New York and American culture."

  Kuryakin snorted. "American has not culture."

  "Don't sell your adopted country short, kiddo. That's snobbery. Maybe in ten years you'll be experienced enough to make that claim, but right now, don't brag about what you don't know."

  The reply was cold, mechanical. "Yes, sir."

  Lawrence finally put down the chart he was entering data on. "Illya, what you make of these next few months is up to you. You have the smarts for the job. You have the slyness and the ability and the experience to be a top agent. What you don't have is the ability to be an American spy. Don't alienate the people you work with. Try to get to know them and find out what makes them tick. So far, your interaction with Americans has been limited to Norm Graham and his family. You're about to meet an entire cross-section of American life, in this building and the moment you set foot out the door onto 42nd Street. When you can talk with them comfortably, when you can walk down the street casually and get lost in the crowd without drawing attention to yourself, then you'll be ready for Section Two."

  *****

  Illya stood outside the door to his new quarters and punched in the code he'd been given. Section Six, Security and Personnel, had assigned him a room within Headquarters. The door slid open, and he walked inside, placing his suitcase and his briefcase on the bed.

  The room was small and Spartan, with no window, but it had all the other necessary features: a single bed, a dresser, a utility bathroom, and a desk and chair to sit at. There was no kitchen area, but he was told he could eat 'on the house' at the twenty-four-hour cafeteria on the lower level.

  So this was it. He was here. He was at the United Network Command in New York City. With Alexander Waverly.

  He sank down on the edge of the narrow bed, exhaling a shaky sigh of resignation.

  Not what he'd hoped for, but better than he had feared. Alexander Waverly still believed that one day he would be a full operative at the United Network Command, so perhaps that was true. For now, he was working again, and for an organization whose mandates he could believe in. He would be in the labs, free to experiment and devise the strategic devices he had so often dreamed of. And with Section Four, he had access to the computers and to research material.

  Perhaps this truly was a new beginning.

  - 3 -

  December 1963

  Alexander Waverly stood silently in the room, staring out the window, nodding occasionally as his Chief Enforcement Agent gave his report. One hand rested calmly behind his back, the other clutched his pipe in anticipation.

  The time had come.

  Finally.

  He turned to his prize agent and interrupted the smooth report. "Sum up your request, please, Mr. Solo," he said, impatiently. "What exactly do you need?"

  Napoleon Solo grimaced. "To be honest, I'm not sure, exactly, sir. I don't know what Thrush is hiding there. I'm not a scientist or a chemist. You've asked me to lead a small team to this warehouse, ascertain the contents of the shipment, then eliminate it. The only information we have is from our agents reporting the arrival of twenty-four barrels containing some sort of liquid. Sir, I'm not prepared to give an order to blow up the warehouse or destroy the shipment, without having absolute identification of the chemicals in those barrels, or else we could be destroying half of Manhattan."

  "A wise precaution," Waverly said, gruffly, not apologizing for the sarcasm tinging his voice. "There are no scientists in Section Two, however. How do you propose finding out the contents of this shipment?"

  "One option is to take a small group of Enforcement agents with me and steal one of the barrels, then bring it back here to be looked at."

  Waverly turned from the window to lo
ok back at him.

  Solo cleared his throat. "However, due to the time involved, there is no guarantee that the shipment would still be there later if we returned to eliminate it. The cargo was delivered two hours ago, and most likely will be gone first thing in the morning. According to our sources, shipments usually clear out within twenty-four hours."

  "And undoubtedly, Thrush would notice the theft, and your actions would alert them to U.N.C.L.E.'s knowledge of the warehouse."

  "That's the problem. We've been tracking items in and out of that location for over a month now, with some excellent leads on where the merchandise is coming from and where it's headed." Solo dropped into one of the chairs around the conference table. "I'm not sure what the best move is here, which is why I've come to you for advice, sir. Time seems to be a factor."

  Waverly stared out the window again, watching the brisk December wind whip at the bare trees bordering the street below them. "There is a third alternative."

  It was Solo's turn to nod. "I figured there would be."

  "Several more possibilities, actually," Waverly continued as he returned to his desk. "The most obvious answer is the one I recommend. Take a scientist with you to look at the chemicals, make your decision immediately, then proceed with the assignment."

  "A boffin? On an assignment?"

  "Not our usual methods, I agree," Waverly said, "but the case warrants it. Call Shakely in Section Eight and see which of his chemists are working tonight." The Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America dismissed his Chief agent with a wave of his hand, already turning to other matters.

  "Sir, I'm not comfortable with the idea of bringing a Section Eight scientist on assignment."

  "I'm putting this through on my authorization, Mr. Solo."

  "Yes, sir." Solo stared at him for a moment, then leapt to his feet and headed out of the office.

  Waverly glanced up at the closing door, a moment of doubt nagging at his conscience, for he was well aware which scientist was on duty that evening. He would either be vindicated for his affirmation of this U.N.C.L.E. employee or blamed for signing the man's death warrant.