Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair Read online

  They drove in silence. Napoleon had no words to answer him. What could he say? Yes, I played baseball. And I snuck into cowboy movies and played pranks on little unsuspecting girls. And I didn't kill anyone.

  Give him some rope, Norm Graham had said.

  Napoleon stopped at a light and looked over at his partner, matching the even stare, feeling the desperation. Okay. But don't hang yourself, my friend.

  He circled the block, then turned into the U.N.C.L.E. garage, pulled into his parking spot, and turned the car off. "Waverly's waiting for us," he said, but his partner was staring out the front window, making no attempt to leave the vehicle. "Illya?"

  Kuryakin sighed wearily. "It was supposed to be over."

  "What was?" he asked softly, his anger played out.

  "It was over. Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine was dead. It was over." Kuryakin sighed again and closed his eyes, his head resting on the seat back. "It was over... I have a headache."

  "Come on, Illya. Waverly's waiting." Once again, he saw a look in Illya's eyes that communicated instantly what he was unable to say out loud: I don't want to go in there. "I've got some aspirin in my desk. Waverly's waiting," Solo repeated.

  Alexander Waverly nodded absently as Solo and Kuryakin entered his office. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

  Solo sank into a deep chair at the circular conference table. "Can we get some coffee brought up? It's been a long day." Across the room, Kuryakin poured himself a glass of water and downed a few pills before joining them at the table.

  "Hmmm? Certainly." Waverly made the request while peering through his reading glasses at several files. He waited until the hot beverages had arrived before choosing one of the files and sending it around to them on the revolving tabletop.

  Solo reached over quickly and snatched it as his partner leaned forward to retrieve it. "I'll take it, thanks ."

  Waverly glanced up at him, nodding again. "Yes... You two gentlemen will leave tomorrow for Bulgaria to visit the capital, Sofia, and check on the progress of the American Ambassador there who has just resigned her post. We also have some news concerning--"

  They all turned as Norman Graham, Head of Washington U.N.C.L.E., entered the room, but Waverly continued with scarcely a pause.

  "--concerning the British Thrush agents observed leaving the Soviet embassy in our capital. Since the confiscated Soviet-made cipher machine was from Thrush's East European Office, we have assumed that Thrush is working with the Soviets in some capacity."

  Solo glanced over at Kuryakin, but considering his partner's outburst in the car the day before, the inscrutable agent seemed unconcerned at the U.N.C.L.E. Chief's remark.

  Waverly went on. "How the British Thrush group fit into all of this has yet to be seen. There are some names I would like you two gentlemen to check out. Mr. Solo, Jonathan Heatherly is the head of the London Thrush Satrapy. Please check on the activities of this man and his group over the past several months and see what you can uncover.

  "Mr. Kuryakin, are you familiar with the name Vladimir Petrov?"

  The Russian agent's eyes widened slightly. "Is he here?"

  "He arrived in Washington early yesterday and has been spotted in the Soviet Embassy and in several meeting places in the capital," Norman Graham answered.

  "Do we know why he is here?" Kuryakin asked slowly.

  "No." Waverly tapped his pipe on the table. "That is for you to find out, Mr. Kuryakin. Also, Mr. Solo reported that your... countryman, Grigory Zadkine, has still not passed on his promised information. Perhaps tonight you could ascertain if indeed there is information or whether he was using this as a leverage point into the country.

  "That will be all, gentlemen. Be back here tomorrow morning prepared to leave for several days in Bulgaria. We have arranged a flight out at 11:30 a.m. The necessary documents will be ready for you by then." Waverly turned back to his files, dismissing them.

  Solo ushered the other men out of the room and into the sterile hallway. "So what brings you to New York, Norm?" he asked as they headed toward his office. "With the NATO conference between President Johnson and the British Prime Minister coming up next week, I would think you would be occupied with those arrangements."

  "My men know what they're doing. We're all set up. No, I came here because of you two. And Zadkine. And Petrov." Norm shrugged. "Alexander felt it would speed things up if I could act as an advisor in these initial stages."

  "Yes, I am sure that will be wonderfully helpful," Kuryakin said, vacantly. "I will speak with you later. Listen, Napoleon, I will be back in awhile. It seems I must make a phone call and check some files."

  "Take your time. Meet us in my office at 6:30 and we'll take this guy out for dinner. On U.N.C.L.E., of course."

  That brought out a faint smile. "How original of you, Napoleon." He turned off down another hallway and disappeared from sight.

  Graham stared after the Russian agent. "He's under a lot of pressure," he remarked.

  "He'll cope. Listen, Norm, I've got some information to look up. My office at 6:30?"

  Graham grabbed Solo's arm as he turned to go. "Wait a minute, Napoleon. Do you have time to look at a film? Of course you do... We'll make the time. I'll be right back; Waverly will have it, I'm sure."

  "Will it take long?"

  "Give me fifteen minutes of your time and I'll give you a hand later."

  Solo shrugged. "Why not? I'll have the projector ready in Viewing Room One."

  Graham returned with a gray film case labeled only "June 19, 1961." U.N.C.L.E. surveillance film. Solo ran the leader through the projector and waited for it to thread. The screen lit up with numbers, then it began.

  Waverly's office.

  The phone rang. Waverly, on the far left of the screen, answered it and listened. He said something quietly. He glanced to the hidden camera, then called security. An agent came in and then was sent by Waverly into the inner room behind the desk. After a moment, the scene was focused as it was taken off automatic and was under the control of the cameraman.

  The door opened again. A young man in between two guards. He struggled out of their grasp and leaped across the room to Waverly, clutching his arm and speaking at an incredible speed. In Russian.

  Illya? Solo sat up and glanced at the date again. June 1961. Illya, dressed in a gray knit shirt and dark pants, his blond hair cropped short, a jacket crushed under his arm and a duffel bag on his shoulder, looking impossibly young. And scared. And Russian.

  "This is when Illya defected?" Solo asked.

  Graham nodded, motioning for him to watch.

  The sound was bad; Solo had a hard time making out the words and the young man on the film was frightened, bordering on hysteria, talking fast, his tongue tripping over his words.

  Waverly told the guards to leave them, then he took Illya by the shoulders and, in Russian, demanded that he calm down. Illya quietened, then dropped straight from Waverly's grasp to his knees, melodramatically begging for something, his hands clenched tight together before him as though petitioning God Himself.

  Waverly sat back in his chair contemplating the young man still kneeling on the floor in front of him. He told him to sit in the other chair and questioned him for some minutes, writing notes gleaned from the monosyllabic answers, then glancing up as Illya sank to the floor, despondent.

  "What have I done? It is no use. It is over. It is over," the Russian muttered.

  'It was supposed to be over. That's what Illya had mumbled in the car,' Solo thought.

  Waverly could get no more information as the melancholia overwhelmed the young man and he lay huddled on the floor, the jacket pulled over his head. Then the U.N.C.L.E. Chief ignored him, picked up the phone, and made a phone call. Then another. And another. And another.

  From what Solo could gather, Waverly was calling in chips, asking for a special permit for Illya to remain in the country legally. He was running into problems, as apparently there had been a defection two days before in Paris that left Soviet
relations with everyone up in the air. But, Waverly had responded, this man is dead. Apparently, it didn't matter to the government. He was a Soviet citizen either way, dead or alive. Waverly hung up and made another call.

  Gradually Illya's head emerged from beneath the jacket and the young man sat up, wide eyes fixed on Waverly, hope daring to show beneath the lowered brow as he realized what was happening. In a single fluid motion, he was back on his feet crowding Waverly at the desk and chattering information until the U.N.C.L.E. Chief covered the receiver and demanded he move over to the couch across the room.

  There was a noise outside, heard through the window. The young man darted to see, then flinched backward as though bit. Pulling the phone after him, Waverly moved to the window and stared down at the street. He hung up and then called security.

  Again, it was difficult to pick out what was happening from the one-sided conversation, but Solo understood that a group of men had tried to storm Del Floria's tailor shop on the street below. The police had arrived and were dealing with the situation, easing the men out of the building and breaking up the crowd that had gathered.

  Waverly told Illya it was a routine problem and had nothing to do with him, but the young man in the office continued to watch intently from his vantage place near the window, chewing on his thumbnail, obviously distressed by what was goning on, the camera close-up showing raw emotions naked on his face. Terror. Panic. Pessimism. He moved to the couch, burying his face in his hands, his knees drawn up as though his stomach cramped, his shoulders quivering with the passion he was trying to contain.

  Waverly hung up the phone again and moved over to him, bending over and talking quietly below the volume of the tape. The young man listened wide-eyed, then nodded reluctantly and curled up on the couch, still clutching the battered jacket. Waverly left the room.

  A flash of white. The time marker showed two hours had gone by.

  The young man was waking up slowly, then with a burst that propelled him to his feet and pushed him halfway across the room. He realized he was alone, moved to the window, and peered cautiously down below. The street was empty and he smiled, a fleeting smile at first, unwilling to believe his good fortune. Then he was consumed by laughter, spinning around the room as though drunk, his arms clutched around his shoulders. The film followed him bouncing and twirling like a mad man.

  He froze as the door opened. A secretary brought in some coffee for him, and a donut. He had no idea what to do. He nodded, bobbing his head and smiling uncertainly. He took the coffee from her, the cup rattling on the saucer in his shaking hands. He didn't want the donut, but she left it on the coffee table anyway, telling him, in Russian, that he should eat something. Mr. Waverly would be awhile yet. He was busy.

  Illya was left alone again. He obviously didn't know what to do, standing in the middle of the room and holding the cup of coffee. He sipped at it, then eagerly downed the hot drink. He deposited the cup on the coffee table, then started rifling through his pockets, the jacket pockets, then over to the duffel bag, before he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, pulling the smoke into his lungs and exhaling slowly, trying to calm the nervous shaking in his hands.

  Again the time marker showed another hour and fifteen minutes had gone by.

  He was still alone. There was a pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray. He was sprawled across the couch, smoking, half asleep. He had been crying, his eyes dark rimmed and empty; he was once more overcome with despondency.

  Waverly reentered the room and the depression vanished, replaced by another explosion of energy as the young man was launched across the room and back to the U.N.C.L.E. Chiefs desk, questions pouring out of his mouth, one on top of the other.

  Waverly roared him silent and for a moment Illya cringed, looking for all the world like a boy waiting for the teacher's strap to fall, his eyes closed tight in apprehension. Waverly got up and steered him into a chair on the far side of the desk. The camera fought to hold the angle. Waverly sat on the edge of the desk, his back to the camera, talking quietly. He took a comb from his pocket and handed it to the young Russian, telling him to fix his hair, to clean up--the men would soon be there. Go wash your face in the back room.

  The men? Illya asked, eyes unnaturally large in fear and sudden mistrust. He looked ready to spring from the chair and his eyes darted around the room looking for an escape route.

  The government men. They'll have the papers you need to sign. What name will you use?

  Illya stared at him for a moment, mouth open, then leaped up and disappeared out of sight. He was back again in a few seconds, rubbing his face and wet hair with a towel. It's all over now? It's over? I can stay? he asked, oblivious to the water dipping over Waverly's desk. I am free?

  Waverly nodded, a small smile tugging at one corner of the craggy face.

  I can stay? The young man's hollow eyes brimmed with tears. Thank you.

  The film ended and the tape slapped against the empty reel until Solo stopped it and rewound the tape.

  He glanced at the label again. June 19, 1961. "Three and a half years ago."

  "You weren't here in New York then, Napoleon. Where were you?"

  June 1961. Where had he been? Why had he never asked Illya about his arrival in the United States? He let the year play through his head trying to sort out the dates.

  "Uhm... In April 1961, President Kennedy had authorized an invasion of Cuba--The Bay of Pigs--and I was one member of a team that spent the months following trying to free the captured men any way we could.... It was September or October before I returned, rather exhausted as I recall, to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in New York. Illya was already here when I got back. We rarely saw each other; he reportedly spent most of his time in a research lab, sleeping on a mat on the floor. In... uh...January 1962, I was promoted to Number One of Section Two. Illya was still a scientist, a researcher, a gifted boffin. To my knowledge, we officially met only once when he was asked to explain the use of some gadget he had devised. Illya appeared to be the typical boffin: a mild-mannered eccentric scientist, a social misfit who didn't look people in the eyes when he talked to them and scurried down the hallways unseeing, muttering to himself in various languages, hidden behind those dark reading glasses."

  "Then Waverly stuck you two together last year and the rest is history."

  "Yes. Something like that."

  "I'm interested in your impressions of him at that time--and there is a point to this, Napoleon. These aren't idle questions."

  "Fair enough." Solo collected his thoughts, then related to the Washington U.N.C.L.E. Chief how after one assignment, he had realized he had never worked with anyone of this caliber before: Kuryakin's marksmanship was uncanny, he excelled at arm-to-arm combat, judo, karate, boxing--forever dancing out of Solo's reach in the gym, and he was a virtual encyclopedia of facts in his careful too-precise English.

  But it also became shockingly apparent that he knew little of the American world outside. Solo had taken the Russian with him to a Christmas party, only to realize that Illya had hardly been outside the U.N.C.L.E. building and did not know New York, the people, the food, the nightlife. He knew only the libraries and a deli where he could buy food. After more than two years of employment at U.N.C.L.E., he still lived in one of the visitor apartments within the U.N.C.L.E. building.

  The season was quiet and Solo had used the time to show Illya the city and to educate him on the more useful knowledge of American daily living—where the singles' bars were, the best restaurants, the hottest nightspots, the finest clothes. Almost as an afterthought, he had taken him to the museums and art galleries and Illya had stared at the exhibits and paintings silently. With beautiful women on their arms, they had gone to operas, concerts, and symphonies; Kuryakin had listened intently, watching everything but the young lady he was supposed to be entertaining. The women never seemed to mind and confided to Solo later that they thought his quiet friend was 'charming.'

  Nightclubs made Illya nervous,
with their gyrating dancers and colored lights. Department stores terrified him. Ice skating made him melancholy. Rich expensive food was frowned on. He examined jackets and suits carefully, fingering the cloth like a buyer, praising the outstanding workmanship, but leaving the stores empty-handed. Hockey or wrestling--any sport where he was to be a spectator--held no interest for him.

  "We were just finishing a messy case uptown when we walked by this small jazz club still playing in the early hours of the morning. Illya walked in like a magnet had attracted him, listened for a moment, then dropped into a seat, sighed contentedly, lit a cigarette, and settled back into the music." Solo found himself smiling at the half-forgotten memory.

  "I'm not surprised. Have you seen his jazz record collection? It's phenomenal. He has a great ear for music."

  "Yes, he does... Norman, why did you want me to see this film?"

  "Nothing devious. Partly to continue the conversation we began in Washington. And partly to let you see the emotional dichotomy of a Russian. I bet you've never seen this side of him. With Russians, they have this marvelous lightswitch ability to turn their emotions on or off. It's a preservation mechanism; they don't last long in the Soviet Union without it. To co-workers, government and police, and to strangers, they switch emotions off and show a face that is taciturn, neutral, and correct, with their thoughts and feelings carefully hidden. I'm sure you know the public side of your partner. You work with a very serious young man, impassive--how did you put it—'an eccentric scientist, a social misfit who didn't look people in the eyes when he talked to them and scurried down the hallways unseeing, muttering to himself in various languages, hidden behind those dark reading glasses.'"