Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair Page 3

  Still looking quite pleased with himself, the dancer pushed past Solo in the doorway and returned to the table. "There. Now he will sleep and we will talk." Zadkine was not in the least bit drunk; he had skillfully maneuvered Illya into drinking most of the two bottles they had consumed over the course of the evening.

  "We'll talk, but not yet." Fuming, his jaw and fist clenched as he fought to contain his anger, Solo strode into the elegantly furnished bedroom and pulled Illya off the bed by the collar of his shirt and his hair. Kicking open the bathroom door, he dragged his partner inside and deposited the semi-conscious man on the floor.

  Outraged, Zadkine followed and grabbed at Solo's arm, trying to stop him, but the U.N.C.L.E. agent knocked him none-too-gently out of the small room. "This is private, Zadkine. He's my responsibility and this is not acceptable. He's got to get rid of some of the alcohol in his system. He's on assignment--pointless drinking is not an option. Neither is poisoning himself."

  Solo looked down at his dazed partner who was staring up at him bleary-eyed, groaning. "Are you going to do it, or am I?" There was no immediate response so Solo crammed a finger down Kuryakin's throat, roughly yanking the agent onto his stomach in front of the toilet. "Get out of here!" he barked over his shoulder at Zadkine.

  Ten minutes later, with an U.N.C.L.E. detox pill inside his vertiginous partner and two pillows on the bed propping him on his side so he wouldn't choke to death, Solo left the room.

  Zadkine scowled at him, not hiding his revulsion. "If he had not told me you were his friend, I would not have believed it. Why did you do that? He needed to forget."

  "I told you why." Solo stalked to the table and grabbed the remaining half-full vodka bottle, emptying it down the bar sink.

  "But you are his friend--?"

  "There are some things more important." Solo cleared away the two empty bottles and threw them in the garbage. He would have rather thrown them across the room.

  Zadkine shrugged the answer off, sitting back on his chair and putting his feet up on another chair. "You don't understand how it was. I saw him killed. In London, I saw him dragged into a van against his will and the van blow up seconds later. I saw him killed. The British government confirmed that he had been killed. The Soviet government confirmed that he had been killed. He was dead. He was dead! Do you understand? It tore our home apart; my father was devastated. Can you understand it was quite a shock for me today, seeing him alive? Talking with him? Sitting with him?"

  "I know he was upset." Solo twisted his chair around, straddling it so he could see Zadkine and still monitor the silent form in the bedroom. He had no idea what Zadkine was talking about. London? A van blowing up? "He shouldn't have compromised himself, though. He knows better."

  "You are angry with him?"

  "I am very angry with him."

  "So you hurt him? You humiliate him?"

  Solo rested his forehead on the back of his chair. "I don't have to justify my actions to you, Zadkine."

  They sat in silence for several minutes. "I will fight for him," Zadkine announced calmly, then picked up the phone and dialed room service, asking for a pot of coffee and two cups, while Napoleon puzzled over the remark. "He belongs in my world, not your world of guns and violence," Zadkine continued after hanging up the phone. "He has changed. He is lost. He is colder. His heart is gone."

  "He's one of our best agents. And I think he is old enough to make his own decisions."

  Zadkine snorted. "He acted tonight no different than the nine year old child my father brought home, so serious, so like a machine. He does not feel alive. The child was everything my father wanted and could not find in me. Ilyusha was fantastic with a gun; my father entered him in contests and he always won. They were interested in him from the start--this child who knew about weapons and science and mathematics and had a photographic memory. My father convinced them that the boy had been lost to him for five years because of the war and had just been wonderfully returned and should not have to suffer being torn away for special education so they left the education to him.

  "My father was, at that time, one of the heads of the Kiev Artillery School, so this wonder boy was considered further proof of his genius, regardless of whether he had been the one to train him or not. Ilyusha wandered the school at will, unobstructed, and a tutor was brought in to teach the basics. The boy understood several languages, but he spoke Russian like a peasant; every other word was vulgar. The tutor taught him to speak the language correctly and he was the one who suggested to my father that Ilyusha enroll in the afternoon classes with me, hoping to find a place to channel the boy's energy and refine him. My father went along with it, but he did not expect his little soldier to excel at that, too."

  "When did your father die?" Napoleon was tired. Damn you, Illya. We were in the car for four hours today. Why didn't you talk to me? How can I help you if I don't know what's happening?

  "He died three years ago." Zadkine brushed a hand through his thick dark blond hair. "Killed himself. Initially, there was a scandal when Ilyusha died--when they told us he was dead, he corrected. "It was never made clear who owned the van or what group had seized him. My father was questioned constantly. Only later did they decide Ilyusha was a hero."

  Oh. The mysterious van again. But he had missed something. "Your father did not expect him to excel at what?"

  Zadkine stared at him. The coffee arrived and he went to the door and signed for it with an off-hand familiarity with Western hotels. There was a break as the coffee was poured. "At ballet, of course."

  For the second time in two days, Solo choked on his coffee. "Pardon?"

  Zadkine slowly put down his coffee cup, his eyes wary suddenly. "You act surprised?"

  Damn you, Illya. Solo smiled disarmingly and sipped at his cup. "No, he just doesn't talk about it much."

  Zadkine seemed to accept his explanation. "So he has not changed in that... My stubborn little brother... During the Great War, Ilyusha lived with our family in Kiev for several years after his mother and older brother were killed when the Germans razed our area. Then my mother died when I was seven and Ilyusha's father came back and retrieved him. Five years he was gone and when he returned he was a savage angry child. He frightened me, at first.

  "Much as my father disproved of my love of dance--he considered it a frivolous waste of time--he had hoped the ballet would give Ilyusha a sense of the classics, the history of Russia. A child bred on war alone has few options. The Party wanted him. My father also wanted him in the Party, but on his terms, not theirs. And as I grew older, we began to fight over him. For six years, he was tutored in the morning, at the conservatory every afternoon with me, and my father took him to his meetings at night." He shrugged. "I was happy about it at the time; my father left me alone and Ilyusha was with me."

  "What happened when Illya was sixteen? I know he was in New York then."

  Zadkine glanced up, surprised, as he lit another cigarette. "Oh? America? He never told me where he had gone. I moved to the ballet school in Leningrad when I was eighteen, and I heard Ilyusha had been sent on assignment by them and disappeared. He showed up in Leningrad ten months later. I was out of the dorm by that time and sharing a large room in an apartment with three other dancers. Even though the school accepted Ilyusha and found a place for him in the boys' dorm a few blocks away, he would sleep on the floor in our apartment. As I said, the KGB was already controlling him during those years--throughout his teens. I hated them.

  "Ilyusha would come back from his absences tense and jumpy. He would scream sometimes in his sleep and we would calm him; often we would sit up with him and drink and talk about nothing. He would not discuss his experiences or his nightmares. I think the classes and the rehearsals were therapy for him. The teachers were unhappy because he would disappear for weeks on end, then return without a reason for his absence. Although he was good dancer, no one would let him join a performance because at any time he could be pulled without notice. But the head of
the school let him stay. I didn't ask. No one did. It wasn't... healthy… to ask questions."

  Zadkine took a deep breath. "My father was transferred to Leningrad when Ilyusha was seventeen and so the boy was then required to live at home. I was twenty--already part of the Ballet Theater--and I had moved in with one of the female dancers. He had no other choice really; it was either live with our father or be put out of the school." He drained the coffee cup. "I think there were other reasons."

  Solo lit his own cigarette, trying to stay awake; it had been a long day but he wanted to make sure the detox pills had begun to work on Illya before he retired for the evening. He thought of the two empty bottles and another wave of anger hit him. What were you thinking of, Illya? He noticed that Zadkine had stopped talking. "Go on."

  "Our last days together in Leningrad are a bit of a blur now. Ilyusha had been gone for a few months--on other business, I suppose. But a tour was being put together and because of his background as a dancer, Illya was used as a mamka, an informant for the Committee for State Security, for the KGB. He was to report back on the behavior of the dancers while outside of the Soviet Union, to make sure they didn't show too much interest in your Western World, to prevent defections, and to make sure they all acted like good Soviet citizens and gave a positive image of our country.

  "If it wasn't him, there were others to choose from. But the KGB had already cleared him and they gave the theater no choice but to accept him if they wanted to travel outside the Soviet Union." Zadkine smiled, his eyes closed in remembrance. "Ilyusha would almost kill himself getting ready in the short time allotted, trying to meet the schedule and learn the choreography necessary. He never had a major role, of course--the Party and the KGB kept him busy on many other jobs--and besides, he was demi-caractere and I was a danseur noble.

  "Let's see, that performance... Rudi performed the role of Prince Florimund in Sleeping Beauty for the tour--his last for the company. I alternated between that and the Bluebird... Ilyusha was the Puss-in-Boots understudy and was in the corps de ballet. He did not do badly but, as I said, it was a rush for him to prepare. Anyway, he played Puss-in-Boots that last night in Leningrad. He was utterly charming. The audience loved him… I was proud of him. And I began to be infuriated then at how they were warping him. No, Ilyusha was good at his part; not large part but... given more time... had he wanted it…" Zadkine's voice trailed off angrily and he crushed the cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. "But then they killed him."

  Solo shook his head wearily. Nothing was left to surprise him today. Or was this vranyo, too? Now he really did have a headache. "I'm going to bed. I suggest you do the same. I have made arrangements for your paperwork to be done in New York, so we have no reason to stay here. We'll leave in the morning." He checked with the two guards outside the hotel suite door.

  "I flew into Washington a few days ago from New York. How long does it take to drive there?" Zadkine asked when Solo returned, still sitting at the table.

  "It's over two hundred miles. Usually four hours, but in this weather--five at least, I'd say. There are two beds in the smaller room--you are welcome to one, or shall we move Illya?"

  "No. Let him sleep. I'll lie down eventually but my head is too full. America is truly a land of promise, for I have come here and my brother, you see, is alive."

  Solo shrugged, went into the second bedroom, and fell into one of the beds, barely taking time to remove his jacket.

  ***

  Vladimir Petrov looked up from the drink he had been nursing, surprised at Heatherly's return. "I did not expect you back, comrade."

  The Head of the London Thrush Satrapy scowled. "I received an update from our bug in Zadkine's suite. We have identified a third man that entered at approximately 9:30 p.m. A Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L..E., New York Headquarters. He could be a problem for us. He's a top man."

  "Solo? I don't know the name. Does he work alone?"

  "No. Not usually. This is where the confusion lies, Petrov. From the conversation, it sounds as though the younger brother is Solo's partner."

  This grabbed Petrov's full attention. "Do you have a name for this Solo's current partner?"

  Jonathan Heatherly shook his head. "We haven't dealt with Solo in Britain for some time and our office here was uncertain. As of a few months ago, the partner was an Irishman by the name of Patrick Dunn, but the local satrapy here has heard he has moved to the Netherlands' office. I don't know the name of the replacement."

  "Then I suggest you find out. And quickly."

  Petrov sat alone with his drink as Heatherly left. At last, he downed the fierce liquor in one gulp. "So, my little pigeon... Have you come back to roost, Illya Mikhaylovich?"

  Chapter Three

  The ride back to New York was long and tedious. While Illya dozed in the back seat, Solo endured Zadkine's running commentary on the trip. Everything seemed to fascinate him about the countryside: the highway branches, the ease of passing from state to state, the names and histories of the towns and cities they were passing, the variety of cars, vans, trucks, and semi-trailers on the road, the hitchhikers.

  They stopped for lunch just outside of Philadelphia, a small diner off the freeway. Zadkine barely glanced at the men ordered the soup of the day and the meatloaf special, then continued the verbal journal of his experiences since arriving in America.

  While nodding and attempting to appear interested in the dancer's comments, Solo casually monitored his partner throughout the lunch. Kuryakin nursed a cup of coffee, barely sipping at it, staring at the stained formica tabletop with little interest in his surroundings or what Zadkine was saying.

  An interesting pair.

  When they resumed their trip, Illya had pretended to sleep, but in the rear view mirror, Solo could see his colleague's wary half-open eyes watching the back of Zadkine's head as the car sped along the freeway. Once or twice, Kuryakin met his eyes in the mirror and for a few seconds, a silent, wordless message flickered between them.

  So, you are still there. Solo relaxed a little then and even encouraged Zadkine to continue his one-sided dialogue, hoping to learn more about the defector and some reason for Kuryakin's unvoiced misgivings. Perhaps misgivings was too mild a word. Kuryakin's unease was only amplifying Solo's own intuitive awareness of Zadkine's duplicity.

  It was almost five o'clock when they pulled into the New York hotel driveway and two U.N.C.L.E. guards officially relieved them of their passenger. Solo reported quickly to Headquarters on his transceiver while Kuryakin retrieved Zadkine's suitcase from the car trunk.

  After enduring a crushing farewell hug from Zadkine, Illya crawled into the front seat next to Napoleon and breathed a long sigh of relief as the car moved back into the evening traffic. "I suppose you have some questions," he said, simply, offering no apology for his long silence.

  "I have a lot of questions and I'm sure I don't have to tell you what they are," Solo responded, conscious of the hard edge in his voice. "I suggest you start talking now before we get to Waverly's office." He was aware of Kuryakin's pale blue eyes staring at him, trying to read his mood, but he didn't feel like making it easy for him.

  "He told you about... what I did in the Soviet Union?" Kuryakin asked haltingly.

  When Solo darted an angry look across at him he was surprised to see the embarrassed flush on his partner's face. "You worked with the KGB. I already knew that."

  Kuryakin kept looking steadily at him, waiting with resigned patience for the rest.

  Solo obliged him. "Illya, you danced with the Kirov Ballet!" he snapped. "I find it incomprehensible that you have never mentioned it. And I can't believe you didn't say one word about this to me after finding out we were going to meet Zadkine. Did you think the subject wouldn't come up? Did you think he wouldn't recognize you? It was preposterous--not to mention dangerous--to allow me to walk into that situation without alerting me to pertinent information you had.

  "So what else have you neglected to tell me?" Solo twisted the
steering wheel, his right hand working through the gears as he took a corner faster than he should have. "Are you also a famous poet there? Head of Strategic Intelligence for the GRU? An army general posing as an opera singer? Or maybe you are the only remaining descendent of the Romanov family? Any other little details I should know about, Illya Nickovetch? Or is it Illya Mikhaylovich? Any more big brothers going to pop up? Any more secrets tucked away in that locked mind?"

  It didn't get the angry reaction Solo had expected; instead, Kuryakin closed his eyes and withdrew behind the mask he had just emerged from.

  "Illya, who is Grigory Zadkine? Is he your brother?"

  "Grigory Zadkine is not my brother," Kuryakin said quietly, his voice level with unemotional detachment. "Mikhail Zadkine never adopted me. When the postwar re-registration started in 1949 I was presented to the public as his son. All my papers there list me as the natural offspring of Mikhail Zadkine. Had I not been, there would most certainly have been investigations later that would possibly compromise my future job considerations."

  "And being a good little Russian, you went along with it, of course."

  "I wasn't given a whole lot of options, Napoleon. When I returned I was nine years old and I was told I was to be Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine."

  "So Mikhail Zadkine handed you a pair of ballet slippers and a Czech Skorpion machine pistol and the KGB put you to work."

  Kuryakin's face was unreadable in the dark shadows. "So what were you doing when you were nine? Playing baseball and eating apple pie?"

  Solo bit back his reply, concentrating on weaving through the evening traffic.

  "I cannot explain how it was at first... I was young and they indulged me. I did only what I wanted to. I learned only what I wanted to. They left me alone if I wanted them to. They provided me with whatever I asked of them. That was the way it was." Kuryakin's voice floated through the car, oddly unconnected. "Then it changed one day and I had to do what they wanted me to, when they wanted me to do it. I could not do what I wanted to. Every action had to be recorded. Every word was dissected. The people and things that were closest to me were suddenly used as ways of controlling me. I... I did things for them that I did not want to do. I was manipulated. I was maneuvered into providing services for them. I was--It doesn't matter. I could not live like that."