Collection 2 - The Defector From Leningrad Affair Page 8

  "Don't worry, Ilyusha. Have I ever neglected to tell you when you were doing something wrong?" she asked, with a smile in her voice. She put his hands back on the bar, turning him to face her. "Step by step. Chin up. You will do it."

  She sat at the piano, playing softly and leading him through the opening exercises, plies at the barre in all positions of the feet. His body responded, instinctively performing the steps and bends. He had done them, half-awake, every morning for most of his life. Even in America. The routine, the stretching.

  They had always had a barre for him to work at. They knew what he had required. They knew the discipline his body had needed as well as they knew the discipline his mind had needed. And perhaps what his price was.

  Komleva had him turn and do the plies again facing the other way. There was silence when he finished and she came over to him, taking his face in her hands and kissing his damp cheeks. "You may not have been to a proper class, but you have kept your exercises. And for your first time at barre in so very long, I am proud. And now you will do it again. You can do it, lyubov moya. Remember to keep your back erect. Pull up the torso. Keep your eyes closed and picture yourself. Think about your arms and where they are in relation to your feet. Concentrate on where you are, what you are doing."

  "But, Irina Yakovlevna," he said in a strained voice, "I do not know where I am or why I am doing this."

  "You will." Petrov watched through the observation window, looking down into the studio as the old lady continued the lesson. It was difficult to see Illya Mikhaylovich without admiring the courage of the young man. And the skill. He had been away from the ballet for many years, but to see him there...Well, Petrov was not an expert, but he had seen dance classes before and knew there was little forgotten and little flexibility lost. And what mistakes he made were probably due to his blindness.

  He was in excellent physical condition, the doctor who had examined him said. A half- healed shoulder injury on his right side, probably caused by a bullet that had left a minor flesh wound. Numerous scars over his body, but all apparently well-healed and leaving no apparent functioning disability.

  It could work. It was already working. He was here and he was already in the studio unrestrained.

  It could work. The younger Zadkine was coming along slowly, but on schedule. He was confused, weakened, and blinded, but had been placed in a familiar situation with a woman he had trusted. That was the key. If she could get him to want to dance in the next few days, to remember why he used to fight for the chance to travel with the ballet companies, the freedom that he apparently felt in dancing, then they had him. The rest would be easy.

  The newspaper articles in Moscow would be released the next day. Then in New York.

  ***

  A small part of his mind wondered if he could ever go back.

  Illya stood in the shower and let the hot water drench his sweat-soaked body. His legs were trembling, threatening to collapse beneath him. His knees ached. He was completely exhausted.

  It had been a good session.

  The water crashed against his head, washing away disquieting thoughts and leaving his mind empty, numb. He turned and let the soothing force strike his back and felt the muscles in his shoulders uncramp and loosen. He bent his head forward and the water massaged his neck and arms, tension washed away in rivulets down his fingers and disappeared from his awareness.

  He felt light-headed for a moment, turned again and leaned back against the shower wall, sighing as the heat released the tightening across his chest. He took several deep breaths, letting his lungs expand until it hurt, holding them for a moment, then slowly releasing the air through pursed lips.

  He felt good. He was surprised by what he had accomplished. Surprised that he had done it.

  The echo of the water falling was hypnotizing, hushing his thoughts, the flowing sound drowning everything but the heartbeat pulsing through his body. He drifted, unable to focus.

  The water cut out and Komleva wrapped a large towel around him and led him to a bench. He shivered as the cooler air brushed his damp skin and she sat beside him and stroked his back, waiting until he gained some measure of control over his protesting limbs.

  "Better now, darling? Good. I'll go get some clean clothes for you and be back in a few minutes. Dry yourself off." Komleva moved away and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Illya could hear her footsteps down the hallway and felt a momentary twinge of panic at her absence. Besides the slow drip of water from the shower, there was silence. He sat alone on the wooden bench and wondered where she had gone. He dropped to the floor and pressed his ear against the hardwood surface, but there were no sounds of life in the building.

  He struggled back onto the bench, losing his equilibrium as he stepped on the towel and knocked himself off balance. Where am I? Where is Napoleon? Komleva hadn't answered his questions the night before. He pulled the towel over his head and rubbed his hair dry, feeling his shoulders ache at the movement. He would be stiff tomorrow.

  Komleva returned with more clothes and he slipped into the loose fitting pants and shirt and let her lead him through the hallways. They entered a large room that smelled of food and detergent. She had him sit at a wooden table and, hungry from his exercise, he ate the yogurt and fruit that was placed before him, a standard meal. Komleva advised him of buttered bread slices on one side and cheese to his right.

  She left his side and he stopped chewing, listening for her steps, frowning. Across the large room, a refrigerator door opened and closed. She returned and sat beside him, putting his fingers around a glass of milk. "Drink this."

  "Is all this building for me? For one person?" He drank the milk, knowing in the silence that followed that she stared at him, wondering what to say. "Is this building for one person?"

  "No. Your ego is as big as always, Ilyusha. Finish your food."

  He ate slowly, finding it difficult to feed himself when he couldn't see where the bowl was. The bread was easier to handle and he ate the cheese without cutting it, holding it in one hand and biting off pieces. "I would like to talk to my friends, Irina Yakovlevna."

  "I know, darling."

  He woke later, wondering what time it was.

  "It's still daylight out." Komleva always knew what he was thinking. "Your clothes are at the end of the bed. Get dressed. We will have a class in a few minutes."

  His head felt clearer than before and he jumped on the thought before it escaped him. "I don't want to go to class. I want to find my friend Napoleon. This is important, Irina Yakovlevna. There are things I must do. Where is he?" Illya swung his legs over the end of the bed and stared at where he thought she was.

  She pulled up a chair to the bed and took his hands in hers, bending and kissing them. "Ilyushechka, your friend is in the hospital. He is not well. You will be taken to him as soon as he is able to see you. You were both foolish and brave to try to rescue him when you couldn't see anything. Now let the doctors help him. And when a bed is free, they will fix your eyes. But, meanwhile, I agreed to stay behind while the company returned to Leningrad to be with you. We did not want you to be alone in your darkness."

  "Irina Yakovlevna, I need you to help me. I want to see my friend." It became harder to hold the thought in his head and he wondered if he had been drugged.

  "I know, darling. But you can't. He is far from here. Put on the clothes and we will have a class. It will give me something to do and you something to occupy your hours while you wait."

  He sat for a moment on the bed trying to figure his options. But he was blind and he couldn't go far, especially when he didn't know the building yet. Napoleon believed in playing for time graciously and he had seen Napoleon use it to his advantage.

  He reached for the tights.

  ***

  At eleven-thirty, Tuesday morning, Grigory Zadkine strode into Waverly's office and looked in surprise at Solo. "What happened to you?" he asked, gesturing at the agent's arm.

&nb
sp; "Cut myself shaving," Solo answered evenly. "Sit down. We have to talk." It was amazing the sense of power he had sitting behind Waverly's desk. But the sense of responsibility that rested on him was even stronger. "There are two subjects on my agenda, and I'm not sure if they are connected. You can tell me."

  Zadkine sat in the offered chair and looked at him calmly. "What do you want, Napoleon Solo? I have other appointments today and your men dragged me here. And first, where is my brother? Your shadow is missing."

  Solo looked up from his papers, irritated at the man's arrogant tone. "If, by brother, you are referring to Illya, he's missing. Unless, of course, you know where he is...?"

  There was no reaction. No surprise. No anxiety. Nothing.

  He continued, "Illya mysteriously lost his eyesight minutes after leaving your hotel suite on Sunday morning. Within forty-five minutes, our car was attacked and in the confusion that followed, he disappeared. We have not yet determined his whereabouts, or established if he is alive or at the bottom of the East River."

  "He should have stayed with me. I would not have lost him." Zadkine crossed his legs, leaning back into the chair and Solo fought the urge to smash him between the eyes.

  "You don't seem overly concerned about your brother's welfare."

  "He didn't tell you? We fought and he walked out on me. I think he is just being stubborn. He will come back."

  Solo stared across the table at him. "You're a cold-hearted bastard, aren't you?"

  "Merely realistic, Solo. The boy has been dead for three years. Perhaps he wants to go on being dead. so, I will let him. He did not always listen to me."

  "He's a man, not a boy. He's entitled to his opinions. You can't treat him like a child."

  "I can do whatever I want to, Napoleon Solo. He is my brother and I will treat him as younger brothers should be treated. Besides, he was trained not to have opinions. Who does he think he is?"

  Solo swallowed his retort. "I have some other questions for you," he said to Zadkine, glancing at his notes. "When you defected, you stated you had information on Project Cipher. We have been asked by the CIA for the details of your material and as yet have nothing to pass on to them. They will be coming here next Monday to interview you, but in the meantime, I have made arrangements for one of our agents to examine your information now." He pressed a button on his desk and Norman Graham walked in.

  Zadkine reacted for the first time, jumping to his feet. "What is he doing here? I will not speak to him."

  It took Solo by surprise, but Graham merely smiled slightly from where he stood at the door and gestured for the other man to precede him into the corridor. Zadkine stood his ground, glaring, and made no attempt to cross the office.

  "I take it you have met," Solo said wearily.

  Graham nodded. "I am honored that you remember me, Grigory Mikhaylovich. As I recall, we never spoke."

  "It is enough that you stared at him like a cat his prey. I saw you. You and other one, the boy-lover. Ilyusha was upset after. He would not sleep. He would not dance. He would not talk to me. He was alone in his room or following Rudi. It was as if for next two weeks he was only half alive. We did not know what was happening. But it was you all along. And then you killed him in London."

  Graham shrugged. "Maybe he felt death was his only choice."

  "No!" Zadkine shouted. "You poisoned his mind."

  "The damage was done long before I met him!" Graham shouted back. "You cannot pull a man in two for those many years without him cracking. I should think you would thank us for keeping him alive. He would not have been if he had stayed with you."

  "You do not know that," Zadkine asserted darkly.

  "I do." Graham's confident statement stopped the danseur's next words. The U.N.C.L.E. chief continued to stare at him coolly. "He lived in my home for four months following his defection. I know how he was feeling."

  "He did not defect. He was kidnapped and brainwashed." Zadkine's voice was dangerously low.

  "And did you arrange for the same thing for him now?" Graham reached out and grabbed Zadkine's arm, twisting it back.

  "You must not touch me. I am protected by United States Government."

  Graham restrained him a moment longer, then spun him across the room. "Then talk to us, Zadkine."

  "I will tell you nothing!" Zadkine was livid. "Is this how you treat someone who volunteers information? You harass them? You threaten them?"

  "I have not yet begun to threaten you, Grigory Mikhaylovich," Graham said, his arms folded across his chest.

  "I will give your CIA information, but not you."

  Solo spoke quickly, "I will have someone else talk with you if you prefer. My secretary will take you to a room where you can write your statement. A translator is available should you wish one." He touched another button on the desk and a young Asian woman entered the room.

  Zadkine stood immobile, still glaring at Graham, but he did not resist when the female agent took his arm and escorted him out of the room.

  Solo sank back into the chair, rubbing his arm as he bumped it on the edge of the desk. "Well, Norm, do you want to decipher that last scene for me? I would like to know where you met Zadkine before and how much you know about whatever happened in London and afterwards. Now that I am sitting in this chair, I think I deserve some explanations."

  Graham frowned, sitting down opposite him. "I didn't mean to be cryptic, Napoleon--you actually don't know any of this?" The fifty-five year old agent ran a hand through his thick brown hair. "That scamp. Okay... what do you want to know?"

  Solo glanced at his reports. "A few months ago, on another case, we had to dig memories out of Illya that he was too young to remember properly. It was awkward for him but he tried. He struggled to help, even though he put his health and life at risk. This is different. Right from the first moment of this case there has been a reluctance, or aversion, on his part to be involved. Almost a denial of the events that were unfolding. Would he be blocking memories?"

  "Denying them? No, but I bet he was trying to. I know, you don't want another Russian lecture... Denial is a way of life there. The system almost killed him once. Not by anyone else's hand, but by his own."

  Solo looked up sharply. "Suicide?"

  Graham nodded as he saw the Enforcement Agent had understood what he had said. "If we hadn't chanced upon him... He should have told you this himself. Or Alexander. All right," he sighed. "I met Illya first about ten days before he defected. Alexander Waverly and I went to Vienna in early June 1961. Kennedy and Khrushchev were meeting to probe each other's position on world problems--specifically the Soviet view of the German situation. There was a lull for a few days while the Americans prepared their response, so we went to Paris to check with the U.N.C.L.E. office there and they gave us tickets to the ballet. It was the first time the Kirov was in Paris and the city was captivated by them. Alexander didn't appear to be paying much attention to the performance, until he suddenly stiffened and asked for my opera glasses. He peered at one of the dancers, then checked his program. I never got my glasses back after that; he watched one dancer for some time.

  "Then in a rather embarrassingly loud voice, Alexander announced he would love to 'meet that cute blond dancer' on the left. Knowing the KGB and how they think--and them assuming we were high-rated US government workers--we were, of course, overheard and immediately following the performance were invited to a reception later that evening. The KGB love getting a hold of anyone of strategic importance who they think is a homosexual because they know that person can probably be blackmailed.

  "Well, Alexander continued the act of a diplomat lusting after one of the young male dancers. At the reception, I maneuvered close to this particular danseur who was alone on the outskirts of the room, drinking and watching several ballerinas flirting with some Western diplomats. He appeared much smaller off the stage; a slim, tired-looking young man with the typical hollow, wary eyes of fearful compliance. He stood clutching the glass in his hands and stari
ng fixedly at the girls as though he could follow the conversation between them and the foreigners even though he was across the room.

  "He was approached by the KGB officers who had invited us to the reception and I was surprised at the rather rude look he tossed their way. He was drawn aside by them and as they spoke, he listened carefully, his eyes still eerily blank, until they probably got to the part he was to play in getting information from the American diplomat. His face colored, then blanched, and he shook his head slightly. Apparently he was given no choice and as I joined Alexander, the KGB escorted him over and introduced him to Waverly.

  "At that point, he looked rather wearily from where he had been studying the floor and stared up at Alexander, freezing for a moment, then his eyes widened ever-so-slightly. He glanced down, almost coyly I thought. They exchanged a few pleasant words while the Soviet agents watched, then the danseur reached out for Alexander's hand and whispered into his ear before flitting away, rejoining the others. Grigory Zadkine was there; I remember his possessive hug as he drew Illya into the circle of dancers, his eyes shooting bullets at Alexander.

  "The KGB seemed happy, assuming their danseur bad made arrangements to meet Alexander later, as he had been instructed. Alexander kept his eyes greedily on Illya the rest of the evening, then was called to the phone and we had to leave suddenly for the airport.

  "I found out later that the boy had simply whispered, 'Please, help me. Let me come work for you.' A week later we heard about Nureyev's defection in Paris and even though we were already back in Vienna, Alexander left at once to take care of this 'prior obligation', as he called it. He suspected what we only confirmed much later. The KGB, too, was anxious about Illya, but they weren't expecting him to defect. They were also convinced he was going to suicide."

  "Why?"

  Graham leaned back in the padded leather chair. "Like I said to Zadkine, he was being pulled in too many directions. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to think, to cope. He was losing his identity. He lived in a pressure cooker. Petrov controlled the heat toward the end, I suspect."