Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair Read online

  Empty vodka bottles, bags of potato chips, and glass dill pickle jars were scattered around the floor. There was no one else in the room. No sign of the renowned dancer. Or Illya.

  "Did he leave?" Solo asked.

  "Ilyusha? No, he is sleeping in the other room." Zadkine sat down at the table opposite Travkov. From the tension between them, Solo assumed they had been arguing about something and his arrival had interrupted them. "The others had to return to their tour company before they were missed. They were smuggled out of their hotel. And he had to catch a plane. Come, sit down with Sasha and me. Join us."

  "Thank you, but Ill just get Illya up--and sober--and then we'll go. It's been a long day and we are already well into tomorrow." He moved toward the door connecting the two rooms but Zadkine stopped him.

  "Solo, why not leave him here? I'll make sure he is awake in the morning. Why disturb him now? Pick him up on your way to work."

  It wasn't exactly on his way. "Let me check him before I decide."

  Sasha Travkov said nothing, still staring silently into his cup, but Zadkine grinned mischievously. "Go ahead. As you can see, he is propped up on his side the way you insisted last time, so you won't have to worry."

  Inwardly frowning at their response, Solo opened the door and peered into the dark room. As the light fell onto the bed, Solo saw Illya was sleeping on top of the covers, laying on his left side. Curled behind him, propping him up, was one of the female dancers, also sleeping, the one who had greeted Solo in English earlier. Two blond heads on the same pillow, a small contented smile on her face and a slight frown on Illya's brow, their arms intertwined, clothes rumpled.

  Solo backed out of the room and closed the door. "I'll pick him up at 8:30."

  "He'll be ready."

  He saw himself out, chatted with Givney, the U.N.C.L.E. guard stationed outside the hotel room door, and walked down the hallway. He froze before the elevator door without pressing the button, sudden indecision halting his movement. Then he shrugged and took a half step forward, reaching for the elevator call-switch.

  A door opened into the hallway and Solo turned.

  "Wait. Please," Sasha Travkov said and disappeared back into the suite.

  Givney shook his head as Solo waited by the elevator. "They're a strange lot. Been fighting for an hour."

  "About what?"

  "'Don't know. Keep their voices pitched just low enough that I can't make out what they're saying, supposing I could speak Russian."

  Loud words from inside the suite. Travkov and Zadkine arguing. Then Illya's voice, harsh and angry. Something crashed against the door and broke.

  The door opened and Travkov came out, pulling Kuryakin with him, Illya's coat and shoes in his hands. Sasha closed the door quickly as something else hit it.

  Illya slid down the wall, fumbling with his shoes, half awake and trying to master his anger and whatever else was threatening to unglue him. He accepted Sasha's hand up, only then noticing Solo standing at the end of the hall. He pulled away from Travkov, walking on his own, struggling with the heavy coat, and finally allowing Travkov to help him into it.

  They looked and acted like brothers. There seemed to be far more affinity between them than between Illya and Grigory Zadkine. A deeper level of trust and unspoken words. Napoleon watched the glance between them and understood where Illya had learned to speak non-verbally what he dared not say out loud.

  "We will go now," Travkov said, and Solo pushed the elevator button again. The lift was waiting for them and the doors opened immediately. Once inside the elevator, Sasha turned to Illya. "You understand why this is?" he said, trying to put his words into English for Solo's benefit.

  Illya shrugged. "But what choice do I have, Sasha?' he asked, in Russian. He rubbed at his forehead, closing his eyes.

  Travkov growled. "Don't sell yourself, brother."

  Solo stared hard at Travkov, watching how he handled Illya, his harsh words edged in empathy, how he turned him around, bending his head to one side to look into the shorter man's eyes. And Illya responded as he had not done with Zadkine, answering back freely, choking out his frustrations, and finally leaning forward to rest his forehead against Travkov's chest as the evening's pressure drained him. There was a sense of history with these men; it was not, perhaps, an American bond, but it was a Russian one and it seemed somewhat refreshing in its genuineness.

  The elevator chimed to indicate they were arriving at the main floor. As Illya opened his eyes and straightened, Solo saw him suddenly freeze as though in pain. "Napoleon?"

  The doors opened. "What?"

  "Napoleon, I can't see."

  Solo's stare ricocheted from his partner to the almost empty hotel lobby and back again. He made a decision instantly. "Be drunk," he whispered, moving one arm under his partner's elbow and motioning for Travkov to take the other side. As Kuryakin put on the standard 'two drinks too many' act which got them out of the lobby, Solo steered them away from where the valet waited with his car and into the lounge, still open in the early hours of Sunday morning. The U.N.C.L.E. agent loudly reported to Travkov that they should sober up their companion before heading out into the streets

  The waiter brought their coffee as Illya sat hunched over the table, continuing his intoxicated routine, until Solo was convinced the few patrons left in the bar had gone back to their own conversations.

  "Can you see anything?" Solo whispered, placing the cup of coffee between Illya's hands.

  "No. Nothing." They could hear the fear in the agent's voice, watching as he grasped hold of Napoleon's sleeve in an effort to get his bearings in the darkness. "Nothing."

  Sasha cursed. "Grigory has done this thing."

  "Do you know for sure?" Solo asked.

  "In my heart, I know. There is something wrong... He is not same man."

  "How well were you acquainted with him before?"

  Travkov had trouble with the question until Illya shakily translated it for him. "Oh. Acquainted... Grigory? Well, I have known him since childhood. We danced together in company for maybe eight years, Grigory and I. So I know him. We fought though, because he did not want Ilyusha to marry my sister. Grigory always watched carefully."

  Solo glanced to his partner, but Illya seemed lost in controlling his panic. "I'll get this story later. Sasha, I will take Illya to a doctor to check his eyes. Can you get back to your home on your own?" He was relieved that Travkov' English was as good as it was. His own Russian was barely passable.

  "Yes Please call." Travkov searched through his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled down his phone number. "Call here, please." He started to rise, then leaned over and whispered to Illya rapidly in Russian, one strong hand pressed into Illya's shoulder conveying his regrets as he turned and left the bar.

  Alone with his partner, Solo glanced around the lounge and pulled out his cigarette case, activating the transceiver. "Open Channel D. Mr. Waverly's Office."

  "Yes, Mr. Solo." Waverly's voice came softly through tiny box.

  Solo outlined their status as Kuryakin tried to sip at the coffee, ending up with it running down his shirt front, and the cup clattering to the table. "It's okay. Relax," he said, in the calmest voice he could muster, pressing a napkin into Kuryakin's hand. "I'll bring him in, sir," he continued, speaking inconspicuously into the transceiver. "Solo out."

  He had seen Illya frightened before. They had been in many situations in the last year where one, or both, of them had been terrified by their circumstances. Trembling and shock was not a sign of weakness, it was merely reality assaulting human bodies. And it was not always simple fear they faced; two months previously he had hauled his whimpering partner out from under a table as a chemically-induced terror had incapacitated him.[2]

  As with many attacks they had encountered, this was unexpected. There was no visible attacker. No one to place the blame on. And no guarantee that this was a temporary problem.

  "Let's get out of here," he said and Illya nodded, slumping ba
ck into his lethargic act.

  To Illya Kuryakin, the cold winter air was refreshing and he sucked in a lungful as Solo led him to the waiting car. The initial blow was over and he was already trying to sort it out in his foggy mind, trying not to cling to his partner's arm.

  He could feel the alcohol in his system, the slight numbness from the vodka. His senses whirled, threatening to tilt him to one side. If he recalled correctly, Solo had given him a lecture or something the night before about drinking too much and perhaps he should have remembered that earlier in the evening.

  It was a bad habit Grisha had started ten years before and he had fallen into it now as easily as he had then. Illya shook his head. Sasha seemed convinced that Grisha had done this to him. It made no sense.

  He let himself be steered into the car seat, careful not to move as the door shut. Napoleon had kept up a steady stream of dialogue as they walked to the car, but he was too tired to listen to it. If it was important, he would ask Napoleon about it tomorrow.

  He felt light-headed, not in pain, although his heart still felt clenched in apprehension. Waiting for...

  The gunfire came as Solo spun the car out into the falling sleet. Illya reached blindly for the dashboard, trying to brace himself as the car bucked. Napoleon had turned into an alley; Illya could feel the car bounce every few seconds as the vehicle went over sidewalks, then down the alley, bucking as it came to another sidewalk, hit the cross-street and then up for the sidewalk and another long stretch of alley, twisting to avoid the inevitable garbage containers.

  Another shot took out the back window and he hunched down in the front seat as the car took off into the air, coming down with a crash and bouncing off something with a metal- ripping scream. His partner yelled out in pain. The car spun in an alley that was too narrow, jerking them from side to side as it glanced off the structures bordering the lane.

  Illya could feel Solo's grip on his arm, pulling him out of the rocking vehicle. "The glass ripped my arm, Illya, but I'm okay. Illya, stay here. Don't move."

  He was thrust down against the pavement and pushed back into a corner, cardboard tossed over him. He could hear Napoleon's footsteps pounding down the lane, somewhat off stride as he favored the injured arm.

  More gunfire. Cars screeching to a halt near the abandoned vehicle. Voices--in Russian--shouting for the men to move in on foot. Solo had been spotted running down the lane heading for the water.

  Illya tried to pinpoint their location, get some idea of where they were. As an afterthought, he pulled out his own transceiver and called in for help, setting the distress frequency.

  Gunfire. At least a block away, in the direction Napoleon had gone. He swallowed and got up to his feet, inching along the side of the building, hoping the darkness would cover him. Were there lights in alleys? Probably not.

  A gun went off near him and he flung himself to one side, hitting the broken pavement hard and scrambling on all fours for cover from the unseen gunman.

  Solo's voice carried above the traffic that was on a bridge overhead somewhere, yelling for him to stay down. He had no choice. He was no help for his partner in this condition, he thought bitterly.

  In response to Solo's shout, there was a series of shots, then the sound of fists, grunts and swearing. A startled yell, followed by a loud splash from ahead of him on the left.

  Illya lay hidden among the garbage, listening frantically for his partner's voice or the distinctive sound of an U.N.C.L.E. Special. Car tires squealed behind him; a car sped down the lane he was in, not seeing him but almost hitting him anyway as he tried to tuck in his legs. Another high-pitched screech as they rounded a corner.

  His heart thudded against his chest. He could smell the rotting garbage around him and the faint salt smell from the East River. He could hear the distant unreachable traffic above and behind him. Something scampered across his hand and he yelled involuntarily, staggering to his feet, wondering where his partner was in the relative silence around him.

  In the blanket darkness, a hundred guns were trained on him. He could feel them watching. Every loose pebble made him flinch, waiting for them to attack and wondering why they weren't. He shivered, trying to hear, his head down against the icy wind.

  Where was Napoleon? Had he gone after them, or had he been the one shot, falling into the river?

  He stumbled forward, hands out in front of him warding off the unseen gunmen and the rats and the sense of paranoia threatening to clamp down on him.

  He tripped, stumbling over something and sprawling forward, scraping the open palms of his hands and his chin on the gravel. He knew without having to see that it was a body. "Napoleon?" he whispered. There was no sound. He crept back to it and his hands found the unmoving body and traced his way to the face, lightly flickering over the surface and then drawing his hand away damp and sticky. Whoever it was had been shot through the head, but it was not Napoleon. This one had curly hair.

  How many other bodies were there? He had had nightmares about this happening. When he was a child, he had picked his way across a battlefield, crawling over dead bodies when they blocked his way. He had never looked at their faces. And now he couldn't.

  He swallowed.

  He had no way of knowing if he had already passed his partner. One of the bodies.

  A sound. His name? He wrenched his neck, twisting around toward the river as Napoleon's voice came again, weakly calling him. A splash of water, then a louder splash as though someone had tried to pull themselves out of the water, only to fall back in.

  "Napoleon? Talk to me so I can find you," he cried out, heedless of the possible gunmen. He stumbled past the pavement's end and lost his balance as the ground sloped down suddenly. He rolled head-over-heels to the waterfront and lay for a moment, the breath knocked out of him. "Napoleon?"

  A small splash maybe ten feet ahead on his right. He pulled himself up to his knees, crawling toward the sound, gasping as he hit the icy water unexpectedly. He found bottom with his feet, righted himself, and heard his name again. He sloshed toward the sound, swallowing a mouthful of the filthy water a second time as the river bottom dropped suddenly from beneath him. He struggled up to the surface, frantic that the current would carry him away from his partner. For one terrifying moment, he realized he had no idea which direction to head in, then Napoleon's voice came again, louder this time, as the Enforcement Agent had seen his predicament.

  Illya connected with him finally, his numb fingers finding the nail on the wooden pier that had hooked his partner's suit pants, pinning him in the water. The cold made it increasingly difficult to work his fingers and he knew Napoleon had been in the freezing water longer than he had. At last, the cloth ripped and he somehow managed to pull Napoleon out of the river. Both men were violently trembling from the cold.

  "Did you call for backup?" Napoleon managed to ask as Illya attempted to examine his arm.

  Kuryakin nodded, his teeth chattering. He felt Solo's body go limp and knew his partner was unconscious. How much blood had Napoleon lost? How long had he been in the water? What would the U.N.C.L.E. response team need to know? He could not see where the transceiver had flown to.

  He couldn't stop shivering, his body frantic to keep itself warm. He had no more energy to talk. No energy to fight the cloth suddenly placed over his mouth and nose that sent him spiraling down into a far different darkness.

  Chapter Five

  "Easy, Napoleon. Lie still. Don't move."

  Solo could hear John Lagto's voice floating somewhere above him. His body started quivering; he couldn't control it, couldn't stop the frantic shaking.

  "The stretcher is coming. How is he?" Xavier Garcia's anxious voice came closer. "Good, he's shivering. His body is trying to stay warm. Any sign of the other one?"

  "No. They're still looking." Lagto's face came into focus. "Napoleon, Illya called in for backup about fifteen minutes ago. Do you know where he is?"

  It took a few tries to find his voice, but Solo managed
a weak, "He was here. He pulled me out of the water. I must have passed out."

  Garcia crouched down beside him as the ambulance attendants came closer. "Do you think he went for help?" the thin Filipino man asked. "The Boss said Kuryakin went blind suddenly about an hour ago. Did his sight come back?"

  Solo shook his head, instantly regretting it as waves of pain crashed inside his skull. "He couldn't see. What about the river?" He was currently lying within five feet of the banks of the swift-moving water.

  One of the ambulance attendants knelt beside him and cut through his jacket to fully expose his ripped arm, pressing drainage pads over the wound and binding it. Another began asking him questions, diverting his attention from the search going on around him. Name, age, last time he ate, allergies. He was lifted and transferred to the stretcher, then placed in the ambulance where they removed the rest of his clothes and wrapped him in dry, warm blankets in an attempt to reheat his body.

  The pounding in his head became worse, muffling out the voices and shouts around him. They were asking him something, shaking his right shoulder, shining a flashlight in his eyes.

  Slowly the black spots fringing his sight grew closer together and he drifted into the darkness.

  ***

  Colonel Vladimir Konstantinovich Petrov glared down at the communiqué on his desk, his facial muscles twitching in aggravation. "So they have changed their minds," he said to his associate. "Boris Fedorovich sends me a couriered update to my orders. It seems we have a new directive to follow, Ivan Vasilyevich. Shelipan was appointed to the Party Presidium and I see his hand in this. Semichastny may be head of the KGB now, but he is still acting as Shelipan's agent. That one will never let go of the reins."

  Tsvetayev read the paper handed to him, then looked back at Petrov questioningly.

  The Colonel shrugged. "So they want a hero. I'll give them a hero. I may even give them a hero in one piece."