Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair Read online

  Solo sneered in comic disgust. "I hate people with perfect recall."

  "I wanted you to watch the film to see the private side of Russian emotion, with that light switch turned on. This is only in private, with trusted friends. You cannot match the voluble direct passion of their emotions. The warmth and caring. They don't know moderation and to us Westerners, that can be scary. We are totally unused to such intensity, such childlike fervor. It is disconcerting and it is easy to think of them as simple-minded or childish. Don't make that mistake. And remember that they have just as much difficulty in reading our emotions.

  "Keep that in mind when dealing with Zadkine. Be prepared for quick mood-changes verging on schizophrenia to the Western eye. But if he doesn't trust you, you'll know that, too, for you'll see the emotions switched off, the eyes suspicious or cautious."

  Solo sealed the film in its case. "Illya will probably be dealing with him more than I will, but I see your point."

  There had been times, of course, that Solo had seen a trace of this other side in his partner. On a case recently, as Illya met a giant Yugoslav who spoke to him in Russian, the blond agent's face had lit up in a smile, grabbing the man by the arms and talking excitedly. And on another case they were stuck on a raft in the middle of the ocean and the dark side of the emotion had surfaced, with Illya dejected and gloomy. The feeling had persisted even after they were rescued until there was a way of beating their predicament; then he had lightened up, excited about the plan.[1]

  But usually there was the quiet businesslike deferring appearance that made him so easy to work with. The perfect straight man.

  Solo glanced over at Graham. "That's it? You came all the way from Washington for this? For a sociological, psychological chat about Russian emotions?" He handed back the film. "Thanks, but Illya and I have a good working relationship. Our first loyalty is to U.N.C.L.E., the rest falls in place. Now if you don't mind, I've got some real work to do."

  "You know, Napoleon, I talked to one of our men at the hotel, who said that Zadkine was quite upset about your little episode with Illya in Washington. He felt you were quite out of line." Graham fished a chocolate bar out of his pocket and offered it to Solo.

  "No, thanks. And I wasn't out of line. Illya shouldn't have gotten that drunk. He was—"

  "He was being Russian and you expect him to be American."

  "He lives here. He has an American passport."

  "In his heart, he's Russian."

  "That's ridiculous. I've worked with him for a year now and--"

  "How long?'

  "A year."

  "Minus--what?--six months during the Rotterdam mess. Back to back cases the rest of the time where you were in different cities working different angles? Illya is a master of impersonation and disguises. Has it ever occurred to you, Napoleon, that being American is just another guise to him? He has just figured out how you expect him to act and does it, or he tries to copy your actions. But he's not American. He doesn't think like an American. He's Russian. When he's alone and without your expert guidance, he's very Russian. And in your very American way, you simply assume he has adapted to YOUR way of life. That he has left behind all the rules and customs and fears and loves that made up the bulk of his life and slipped into your patterns without looking back."

  "He defected--"

  "From a political system he realized he disagreed with and one that had cornered him. He didn't defect from being Russian. He defected from being used. From being Soviet."

  "So how would you have handled it?"

  "The situation? Your partner is getting drunk. Why? Why is he letting himself get hammered? His adopted big brother was handing him the drinks and he was knocking them back. In Russia, it's expected. Illya was upset: the memories, seeing Zadkine, thinking about Mikhail Zadkine's death, everything he left behind, everything be ran away from. Zadkine was doing what every good Russian friend was supposed to: he was administering a sedative. There is no answer there for pain or bad memories; there is nothing they can do about it. No legal action to take. No authorities to complain to. But there is a way to dull it for a while. Drink yourself senseless. Your friends will watch over you and you can sleep it off and escape in the numbness. For a while, there is a sense of belonging. Of someone caring about you."

  Graham paused, trying to gauge Solo's reaction. "How would I have handled it, keeping in mind all of the above? When I saw what was happening, as soon as I had a chance I would probably have taken Illya into the other room, apart from the vodka and his drinking partner, and talked calmly and quietly to him, asked him to tell me what he was trying to forget, why he was upset. Being Russian, it would not have occurred to him that it would be helpful to talk about it with you. To him, the matter is hopeless and since it has nothing to do with what he perceives this case to be, there is no reason for him to 'report' it to you. It is personal."

  "I would agree with that. It's personal. And I'm not his babysitter. If it has something to do with the case, he should come out and tell me. If not--that's his prerogative."

  "But does he know what his prerogatives are? You aren't operating on the same set of rules, Napoleon. His superiors in Russia would give him a bit of money and a bottle of vodka at the end of an assignment. Here's your paycheck and a way of dealing with what just happened. Now what do you do at the end of a case, Napoleon? You write up the report and go dancing at a club with a beautiful young lady. Do you know what he does when you leave? What he does when he has two days free?" Graham paused again, as though waiting for an answer.

  When Napoleon obviously had none, Graham continued, "If you two are going to be partners, you have to meet each other half way. He is trying his best to be American, but I'm sure he has a crazy, muddled idea of what that means. Have you tried to be Russian? How do you know what he's thinking about? Or how he feels about it? How do you KNOW how he'll react to being tortured? To YOUR being tortured? To a child dying? To a government betraying him?

  "Napoleon, Russian friends ask questions constantly in private. What do you think about this? About that? Are you going to grow a beard? Shave your beard? What do you think about the news today? What do you feel about the news today? Why did that happen? Why did you do that in that way? Why? Why? Why? Have you any idea how many words for why there are in Russian?--I think it is the only time they can ask questions, in private with friends.

  "You may not want to hear about all this, but I'm just doing my job. You may be the top Enforcement Officer around, but when they made you the Chief of your section, be aware that there's more to it than shooting up the bad guys.

  "And you didn't ask me officially, but I can't make dinner tonight. Alexander has invited me to his home for the evening." Graham gathered the film under his arm and left the room.

  ***

  Colonel Petrov walked through the halls of the New York Soviet embassy, his heavy coat billowing out as he moved. The plan was set. Zadkine's hotel room had been staked out and they were watching for a chance to target the brother. He would come eventually. And they were ready for him.

  Moscow had given him a week. It was a shame, really, to end it all so quickly, but a week would have to do. At least Boris Fedorovich had understood. And the KGB Major General had his own reasons for wanting Illya Mikhaylovich taken care of.

  There hadn't been much time to put things into motion, but the actual steps had been planned in Petrov's mind for ten years. One week Boris Fedorovich had given him. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

  A lot could happen in an hour.

  Yes, Illya Mikhaylovich was a liability. It may have been profitable to order his men to leave behind a dead body. It would have been a nice touch to leave two bodies and avoid the worry about the uncertainty--a traitor and a defector together in one room. Petrov usually had his "uncertainties" eliminated but this explicitly went against his orders.

  But, no, he had other plans for Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine. Or whatever he called himself now.

&nbs
p; As for Grigory Mikhaylovich, he made Petrov's life a little more complicated. Orders would have to be circumvented. Besides, he had been sent to observe the NATO conference, not handhold a disenchanted dancer.

  Chapter Four

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" Solo caught his partner's arm as they came out of the hotel elevator that evening.

  Kuryakin paused in the hallway, running a hand nervously through his blond hair, a faint smile on his face. "Really, Napoleon, just because Grigory asked for us both to come over tonight, doesn't mean you have to come. I'll explain it to him."

  "If I had known about this invitation when Norm Graham backed out of our dinner, I never would have made other arrangements."

  "It doesn't matter." Illya shrugged. "Besides, how bad could it be? We will be spending the next few days in Bulgaria trying to duck soldiers and poking our ears into each village to hear how the people feel about Zhivkov taking over as Premier--"

  "Poking our noses, Illya."

  "What?

  "The phrase is poking our noses into the villages."

  "To do what? Smell them?"

  "Never mind. It will be dangerous there, granted. But this makes me just as nervous, for some reason. Especially since you aren't carrying a gun."

  "He's not going to shoot me, Napoleon. You are clucking like an old babushka. I'm feeling much better; I rested earlier this evening, grandmother. Come in, say hello to Grisha, then go meet this woman you are so anxious to take for dinner. It is of no importance; I probably will not be staying here long myself." He flipped open his wallet to show his identification to the U.N.C.L.E. guard standing outside the entrance.

  Zadkine opened the door at their knock and slipped out into the hallway, half-closing the door behind him. He gathered Illya into a big bear hug, lifting him off the ground. Over Kuryakin's shoulder, Zadkine grinned at Solo. "Please come in. Ilyusha, there are some friends here."

  Kuryakin pulled away from the dancer. "Friends, Grisha? Who?" The fear in his eyes startled Solo.

  "Inside." Zadkine opened the door and pushed Kuryakin through in front of him.

  To Napoleon Solo standing in the doorway, be was passing into the threshold of another world, a world to which he was not a part and would never be. Concerned, he watched silently as Illya was drawn into the small circle of compatriots--four men and two women--in the Manhattan hotel room. His partner was shocked at seeing them, choking out their names, dizzy with his overwhelming feelings. Within seconds, the entire group was sobbing, tears streaming down their cheeks, laughing, passing him from one to the next, kissing him, hugging him, letting him feel their affection until Illya, too, was crying and clinging to them, kissing their wet faces, his own face alive with radiant smiles.

  Norm Graham's advice and comments suddenly made more sense. The lightswitch was on. Definitely.

  Zadkine took Solo's outer coat and added it to the pile stacked on one of the beds and the American slipped around the group to a small table near the window, uncertain of how much he was intruding on the reunion. He glanced around the simple hotel room with its

  double beds, small adjoining room and little else. A far cry from the elaborate suite in Washington, but Zadkine was happy with it and U.N.C.L.E. did not have the government's budget for such things.

  Solo sat at the table and observed the group, intrigued by the foreign manner of socialization and trying to mentally record the various nuances of behavior exhibited. It would take major coaching before he could blend undercover into a community of friends such as these Soviet adults. He would have to let go of a great many rules of his society to act as open as they were. They had instantly branded him as foreigner and amid the excited chatter of the group, he felt wary eyes glance over at him, wondering who he was and whether he was a danger.

  Illya turned, startled, and introduced them to him, but the names were long and unpronounceable, and the variations seemed to shift, depending on who was talking.

  Solo recognized one of them, Alexander Travkov, from the file pictures on Kirov defectors he had examined earlier that day. Travkov had left the ballet in Europe the preceding year and had managed to achieve a position with one of the New York companies. He was known for his white blond hair, his dramatic intense stage presence, and his passionately guarded private life. At six foot four, he towered over even Zadkine. Travkov came over and offered his hand, American style, his grip strong and confident.

  One of the females, a beautiful petite blonde, glided over to him with the obvious walk of a ballet dancer and in passable English asked his name and offered him some tea. He shook his head and she seemed relieved and rejoined the others.

  Zadkine stood near the door, apart from the group, watching the proceedings and watching Kuryakin with an intensity that alerted Solo's internal warning system. The agent casually undid his suit jacket, feeling the familiar weight of the U.N.C.L.E. Special in its holster.

  The group bad moved to sit on the two beds, facing each other, all laughing and talking rapidly in Russian. Solo had to listen carefully to catch a trace of what they were saying. Kuryakin was apologizing. That was all, apologizing over and over. It wasn't clear what he was apologizing for, but the group would hear none of it and again the hugging and kissing rituals erupted, Kuryakin being handed bodily from person to person until he was gasping for breath, his head flung back, laughing.

  Solo felt himself smiling, relaxing a little as his usually gloomy partner unwound, Illya's haggard expression lifting, actually giggling as they coaxed him to interact with them.

  But even as he watched, the memory of words exchanged with others--even U.N.C.L.E. agents--came unbidden, words that he had attributed to their ignorance when they referred to Illya as a Commie, Russkie, mole, or even the subtle "your Slavic friend." Only one week before, Cal Brentwood in the Boston U.N.C.L.E. Office had spoken of "that Russian" as being "as cold and unemotional a bastard as the computers he had been adjusting there."

  Solo shivered. The Cold War had seeped into the Network, despite the fact its very existence was to prevent such a war from happening and despite the claim to be a multi-national organization. Obviously some nations--and individuals--were being considered more equal than others. While the workers admired, and gladly made use of, Illya's knowledge and intellect, they had kept him on the fringe of their lives, never allowed past the polite nod in the hallway. Never allowed into their confidence.

  The doorbell rang again and the group all instantly fell silent, glancing at the door. This time Solo could actually feel the ripple of apprehension, the uncertainty of exactly what waited beyond the door.

  Zadkine let in the sole visitor and Solo was astonished when he realized he recognized the man and that according to the file he had read only hours before, the great dancer entering the room was supposedly performing in Europe at this time.

  One look at Kuryakin and he knew his partner knew him better; Illya's mouth dropped open as he slowly rose part-way from the floor, his bright eyes alert and guarded. There was no smile on his ashen face.

  The dark-haired man at the door smiled, though, and his outer coat came off with a grand flourish. He, too, had tears in his eyes as he approached Kuryakin with his arms wide. The group had obviously known this man was coming and they pushed Illya out of their circle toward him.

  Illya stumbled over arms and legs, backing away from the newcomer's electrifying presence. "Please... I…"

  "Ilyusha, do you think I came all this way to yell at you?" the man asked. He was no older than Illya, but had a confidence at this moment that gave him an added edge.

  The scene finally made sense to Solo. The date in the file: June 17, 1961. And on the gray metal film case: June 19, 1961. This man had defected two days before Illya. This was the dancer Illya had been sent along to spy on, and he had defected. And then, for whatever reason Solo had yet to discover, Illya had defected immediately afterwards. But how did the exploding van in London come into the picture?

  It had been an
exhausting twenty-four hours for Kuryakin, the reunion with Zadkine in Washington the night before, waking with a hangover that morning, followed by a long drive, the research at U.N.C.L.E., seeing old friends, and now this. The sheer emotional weight of it settled on him and he sank weakly to the floor. "What do you want from me?" he whispered. "I warned you didn't I? I tried to tell you what was happening."

  The famous Russian danseur knelt beside him. "I know you did. Why do you think I came all this way to see you? When Grisha phoned this morning and told me you were alive... Do you know how I felt to hear you were alive--not dead as we had been told? We all felt the same way. We had to come and see if it was really true. And, Illya Mikhaylovich, it is time for you to stop being afraid of what happened." The small audience in the room cheered as they embraced, hooting and crying with them, and another round of hugs and emotions swept the room.

  As the ever present vodka bottles appeared, Solo left his partner in their hands and went to his dinner engagement. He knew he couldn't stay; it was a party he could never join, of long friendships and pain, of passions he knew nothing about, of a secret inner Russia he had never glimpsed while over there but witnessed that evening in a small hotel room in Manhattan.

  He returned to collect him four hours later.

  Zadkine opened the door and beckoned him in with a sweeping gesture, the cryptic half-smile still on his face.

  The tall, broad-shouldered dancer, Alexander Travkov, sat glumly at a small table by the window, pouring a pot of tea into two cups. He glanced up at Solo and the U.N.C.L.E. agent was momentarily startled by Travkov's resemblance to his partner. Although Travkov was more than half a foot taller than Illya, they both were slim built, with fair skin, blue eyes, a firm jawline, and the distinctive unkempt straight blond-white hair scattered across their foreheads. They also shared many mannerisms, such as Travkov's habit of looking up with his eyes without raising his head, and cupping his hands around his cup of tea.