Work Text:
Stockholm, Sweden
November, 1969
The ambassador was out at a reception at the American Cultural Institute. The three attachés were arguing vehemently over what to do with the Russian boy who had walked up to the Embassy's gates half an hour before and politely, in fluent, only slightly-accented English, requested asylum. The boy in question sat very quietly on a hard chair in the Blue Parlor and paid attention while the three Americans discussed his fate.
"How come we always get stuck with these nutcases?" lamented the second attaché, to whom Illya had taken an instant dislike. "Why can't they go to England? Or France? Why couldn't they just get asylum right here in Sweden, for heaven's sake?"
"Too close to home," drawled the third attaché, a laconic woman with an accent Illya later learned to identify as Texan. "Too easy for the Soviets to get 'em back. And they come to us because who else advertises as a free country? Learn some sense, Morgan."
The second attaché flushed. Illya smiled inside. As far as he could tell, nobody liked Morgan. The first attaché said, "Be that as it may, he's here and we've got to deal with him. Kuryakin, do you have any friends stateside?"
It was the first time anyone had addressed him directly in twenty minutes. He did not know the last word the attaché used, but the meaning was clear. "No, sir."
"Any relatives?"
"No, sir." Illya shrugged inside his overcoat. He had surrendered it only reluctantly for it and him to be searched, and put it back on at once. He was cold. The overcoat helped a little.
"That's going to make things tricky, Kuryakin. You'll have to have someone to sponsor you, especially since you're underage."
"I am nineteen years old, Mr. Comstock."
"Legal age in the United States is twenty-one. And your youth doesn't help your case. What can you do that would be an asset to the United States? You'll have to show something, or we can't take you." Comstock looked at him. "You got a trade, Kuryakin?"
"I was in the armed forces, sir."
"We guessed that. The uniform was a bit of a giveaway. Nice gun you have, not to mention that impressive collection of knives. What else do you know how to do besides kill?"
Illya flushed. He hadn't wanted to kill Grisha. But they didn't even know about that yet. And he was glad Comstock hadn't asked yet what branch of the service he had so abruptly and recently left. They wouldn't like the answer.
"I speak several languages fluently. I am a competent pianist and a good mathematician and physicist."
"Physics, huh? You in the rocket program?"
"No, sir."
"Missiles? Airborne?"
"No, sir. But I can fly helicopters and most small planes."
"Great," remarked Morgan. "He could get a job as an airline pilot. Say ferrying folks between Boston and Provincetown. A Russki. They'd love it."
"Shut up, Morgan. Kuryakin, are you cold or something? We can turn up the heat."
"I'm quite comfortable, thank you, Mr. Comstock."
"Huh." Comstock scratched his nose. "Do you have any relatives outside the Soviet Union? Or are you the first defector in your family?"
"I have one aunt and one uncle--on opposite sides of the family--who both emigrated legally some time ago. I am not sure where they are now. Family gossip said somewhere in Europe, but it is difficult to be sure."
"Were you going to look them up?"
"I had reserved that for a fallback option, sir, in case I was refused asylum in the United States. We were not especially close to either of them, however, and they emigrated when I was quite young. I dare say they hardly remember me."
"Uh-huh," Comstock said. "Well, look, Kuryakin, I--"
There was a sound of cars in the courtyard. The third attaché went to the front window. "Paul! The boss is back."
Comstock got up. "Linda, you stay here. Morgan, come with me."
The laconic woman stayed, and so did the guards. They had been unobtrusive, but Illya had felt their eyes on him the whole time. They had searched him in the guard hut before letting him into the Embassy proper, thoroughly enough that even the Colonel might have approved of their technique. One had emptied Illya's canvas satchel to peruse the contents, and had almost laughed at the last item to emerge. Almost. Illya had fixed him with one of the Colonel's stares, and the man had changed his mind.
Several voices were coming down the hallway. The third attaché stood up. The guards let in Comstock, Morgan, and two other men. One appeared about sixty years of age and was dressed in a sharply pressed navy blue suit, white shirt and red necktie. That had to be the Ambassador, surely, wearing the national colors. The other man's age was hard to tell, anywhere between forty and sixty. Illya opted for fifty as a first approximation. He had gray hair that was neatly parted and slicked down, a rumpled-looking face, and the bushiest eyebrows Illya had seen since Grandfather Kuryakin died. He was wearing corduroy trousers and a rather rumpled-looking tweed jacket. Surely not part of the Embassy staff, dressing so casually for the Institute's reception--Illya was certain that he and the Ambassador had arrived together. So who was he? Interesting!
"Is this the guy, Paul?" the sixtyish man said to Comstock. "He's just a kid!"
"Ah, yes, sir. Been here about forty-five minutes, like Morgan said. He's been pretty cooperative. Handed over his weapons before we asked. They're over on the side table."
"Uh-huh." The sixtyish man came toward Illya. Illya stood up. "I'm John Boardman, U.S. Ambassador to Sweden. What's your name, kid?"
He didn't like the "kid" but he wasn't in any position to object. "Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin, Mr. Ambassador."
"Paul here says you speak pretty good English, Mr. Kuryakin. Where did you learn it?"
The "Mr." restored Illya's estimation of Boardman. "At school, sir."
"Paul also says you were in the Soviet armed forces. What branch did you belong to?"
Here it went. "The Committee for State Security, Mr. Ambassador. The KGB."
Silence fell. The woman and Morgan glanced sharply at each other, then at Comstock. The Ambassador frowned. The tweed man, who hadn't said anything, looked thoughtful--interesting reaction.
"And you want out, is that it?" the Ambassador said.
"Yes, sir."
"Did you come here on a mission, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"No, sir."
"Were you sent here by your superior officers?"
"No, sir."
"No one told you to come here."
"No, sir. I have resigned from the KGB, Mr. Ambassador. I am only wearing the uniform now because I have no other clothes."
The Ambassador pursed his lips. "Sit down, Mr. Kuryakin."
Illya was glad to, but he made sure to wait until a split second after Boardman himself was seated.
"Mr. Kuryakin, do you have any identification papers with you?"
Illya handed over his passport, his Moscow residential permit, his international driver's license, his KGB identification card and his vaccination certificates. Boardman looked through them, frowned. "Alex. Come here and read these things for me. My Russian is rusty."
The tweed man leaned over Boardman's shoulder and correctly identified and translated each item. Boardman nodded. "I suppose you didn't have time to get your birth certificate, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"That is correct, sir. I left from Moscow, via Leningrad. But my birthplace is Kiev. I have not been there in almost a year."
"I see. Your passport has no exit visa from the Soviet Union--not that it would, I suppose, under the circumstances. No entry visa for Sweden, either, which may pose a little bit more of a problem. And nothing at all for the United States. You said you left from Moscow via Leningrad. I'd like you to be a little more precise, please."
"Yes, sir. We were based in Moscow. I persuaded the Colonel--my immediate superior, sir--that the team had to go to Leningrad to follow a certain trail we were on. It was plausible, at any rate. Once there, I... got away from the team and got on a ship bound for Sweden. From the harbor here, I walked."
"Evading the port authorities."
"Yes, sir," Illya agreed.
"How did you do that?" Boardman's eyes seemed to pierce into him. "Get on and off without documentation?"
"I stowed away, sir. To be precise, it was night when I reached the Leningrad port, and I was able to climb up one of the ropes of the ship. I hid in an empty cargo hold during the crossing. When we arrived here I waited till the crew had completed unloading and gone on shore leave, and climbed back down by the same rope."
"I see. Well--"
Comstock leaned down to tell the Ambassador something. Boardman looked annoyed.
"Mr. Kuryakin," he said, "in ten minutes I am meeting with the Swedish Minister of Trade. I have to do something with you in the meantime; I can't leave you running around loose in my Embassy. The guards will take you up to a bedroom you can rest in for a while--what's that, Alex?"
The man in tweed said, "Not a bedroom, Johnny. The infirmary."
"Huh? What for?"
"Look at him, Johnny. He's shivering, even under that coat. Son, are you sick?"
Illya did not know how to address this man. "I am not sure, sir. The cargo hold was unheated," he admitted. "And I am a little tired."
"Oh, you are, eh? When did you last sleep?"
Illya hesitated, but only because he had to think. "The--night before I left Leningrad, sir. Three--I'm sorry, four days ago." Had to stay awake on the ship, couldn't let them find me...
"And eat?"
Even harder to think. "I had some sausage and bread in my satchel, sir. I think they lasted a day."
"Johnny, I really think the infirmary would be best, if you don't mind."
"All right, Alex. It does seem the wisest course. I suppose you're going to want to tag along?"
"Naturally. If, of course, you don't mind."
"No, I don't. Take the guards, they're to stay with him. You three--back to work. I'm just going to catch the Minister as it is. Alex, you'll let me know--?"
"Of course, of course, Johnny. It is your house."
"Flatterer," Boardman said with a sigh. He and the attachés vanished. The tweed-jacket man said, "Well, son? You won't get there sitting."
Not impatient: kindly. Illya slowly got up, then reached down for the strap of his satchel. His head started pounding and he came up shivering. It was a moment before his vision cleared. The tweed man was suddenly right next to him.
"Son? I know you're not feeling well. Just hold on till we get to the infirmary. It isn't far."
He was too tired to protest the hand guiding his elbow. He concentrated on keeping hold of his satchel. It was important. He'd brought it all this way. Misha was in it. Even if the guard had wanted to laugh.
There was a plushly carpeted corridor, a wood-paneled elevator and then another corridor, less brightly lit and floored in linoleum tile instead of carpet. The whole way the tweed man kept hold of Illya's elbow, gently but reassuringly--you could fall and that hand would hold you up. The tweed man opened a door and Illya blinked in the sudden bright light. A man in a white coat appeared from around a room divider. "Oh, Mr. Waverly. What can I do for you?"
"You can have a look at my young friend here, Dr. Bush. He's cold, he's tired and he hasn't eaten recently. The Ambassador is particularly anxious that he should be taken care of."
The Ambassador had said no such thing, but Illya wasn't going to say so. Now that the pressure of the questions was momentarily off, he felt in full the fatigue of every minute of his four-day vigil. Bush said, "Come this way, please."
A little examination cubicle, so like those in KGB headquarters that Illya balked at going in. He stepped backwards and bumped into the tweed man.
"Whoa, son. Easy. Just remember you're in Stockholm, not Moscow. Let's get that coat off." Before Illya could object, Waverly--he thanked the doctor for that name--had eased the satchel strap over Illya's head and started unbuttoning the coat. Illya twisted out of his hands and backed up against the wall, dragging the satchel with him by the strap.
"No. Please. I prefer to keep it on."
"Can't do an exam with half a ton of coat in the way," Dr. Bush said. Illya looked instinctively to the tweed man for support.
"Please, I--"
"Son." The tweed man spoke firmly. "You've got to be looked at, and the good doctor can't do that unless you take the coat off. Will you do it or do you want me to?"
The only thing Illya hated more than undressing in front of strangers was being undressed by strangers. "No," he said quickly. "I will do it." He undid the buttons one by one, feeling more afraid the further he got. He took the coat off and then didn't know what to do with it. Bush said, "Coathooks over there, 'f you want." Illya hung his coat up and stayed there, back to the wall. He was dressed in winter uniform: wool trousers, wool jacket, heavy boots. The doctor said, "Your jacket too, please."
Illya hesitated. He didn't want to. He looked between the doctor and Waverly. The latter said, "Better do it, son. You'll have a better chance with the Ambassador if you follow his orders."
Reluctantly Illya unbuttoned the jacket. It was tricky taking it off without betraying himself, but he thought he'd done it. Then Bush frowned at something and inspected the jacket on its peg. "What the hell--? There's blood on this."
Illya cried out and darted to take it out of Bush's hands. Too late. Waverly had already seen the telltale stains on the jacket lining. Both Americans turned.
"It wasn't my fault," Illya said, shaking. "It wasn't my fault. Please don't be angry."
"We're not angry, son," Waverly said. "We're worried. How badly are you hurt? When did this happen?"
"I--I don't know," he lied. "Please, don't look at it..."
"Why not?" Bush said gently. "We're your friends, kid, not your enemies."
"Stop calling me kid! son! I am grown man." As usual, under stress, his English grammar slipped.
"You have more than a man's courage, Illya," Waverly said. "But right now you are a scared, sick runaway boy. It's all right to be scared, you know. It's all right to want to relax. I can see you do. You've passed the first set of hurdles. Now you have a breathing space before the second set. You'll want to make the most of it. The second hurdle is getting your U.S. entry visa, and with your profession that means talking to the CIA. For that you'll need your strength. I strongly recommend you let the doctor do his job."
Illya stared. How did the man know so clearly what he was thinking? Waverly's mild gaze met and matched his, and overmatched it. Feeling ashamed at showing himself so, Illya turned around so they could see.
"Son of a bitch," the doctor breathed. "Mr.--uh--" Waverly whispered something to him. "--Kuryakin, would you mind getting on the examination table? I need to look at those right away."
They were not going to scold him for having been so stupid as to earn the wounds? Illya still hesitated. "Cold," he said, ashamed of his cowardice. "It's so cold."
Somebody whispered. Bush said "Thank you," so it had to be Waverly that went out. Bush said, "Exam table?"
Illya reluctantly climbed onto it and let the doctor unbutton his shirt and take it off. Illya winced as the cloth pulled away from the half-clotted whipmarks. The Colonel's last beating had been a good one. Bush said, "Sorry about that. I'm afraid your shirt's about ruined. Perhaps it would be best if you lie down for this."
Numbly Illya complied. The cold plastic of the examination table stuck to his chest and belly. Better than cloth to blood.
"How many of these, ki--Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Ten." He didn't care enough to keep back information anymore. "It was ten. One for first infraction. Ten for worst infraction."
"Is this Army policy?"
Bush had misread the uniform. "It was the Colonel's policy. Not official, but very popular with his brother officers. He was KGB, not Army. So was I."
Silence. Illya grew tense. He was half-naked, at this man's mercy, and his profession--and the Colonel--had taught him to be wary of that. Then Bush said, "Son of a bitch," again, and stopped asking questions. He made noises with his medical equipment and a wet cloth descended on Illya's wounds. "Sorry," he said when Illya winced at the sting. "Have to clean these up first. I'll be as quick as I can."
Some time passed. Illya drifted. Then Waverly was back. He came to the head of the examination table. Illya could now smell pipe tobacco clinging to the tweed jacket, and a part of him was obscurely comforted. Grandfather Kuryakin had smoked a pipe.
"I've brought you some tea from the canteen, Mr. Kuryakin. No strawberry jam available outside meal hours, but I put some honey in. I expect you want the sweet as well as the hot."
Illya's mouth watered. How to drink face down, though? Again Waverly came to his rescue with a whisper to Bush. The doctor said, "I'm not done yet, but sit up and drink that tea. I'll get you a blanket."
Warmth on his shoulders, warmth between his hands, warmth in his mouth. Better. Oh, much better. He'd never been happier for a cup of tea in his life.
They let him finish it in silence. Waverly took the cup from him and Illya, embarrassed, said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Mr. Kuryakin. It was no trouble."
Almost he wished Waverly would say "son" again. The smell of pipe tobacco was pleasant, and the "Mr." sounded so... official. It didn't seem to match.
He lay down again. Bush finished cleaning the blood off his back. Then he swabbed out each whiplash in turn with disinfectant, which hurt. Illya winced once, then kept himself still by biting his lip. Then there was some sort of ointment, then gauze and surgical tape. When the dressing was done Bush sat him up and completed the rest of the exam. Illya clamped his lips over the oral thermometer. Bush withdrew it and showed it to Waverly before announcing, "All right, Mr. Kuryakin. Apart from your back, which I'll give you something for in a minute, you have a nice case of incipient bronchitis and a fever of 101. Are you allergic to any antibiotics that you know of?"
Illya said no. Bush stuffed him full of aspirin for the fever, painkiller for the Colonel's punishment, and a decongestant, as well as shots of penicillin and a vitamin formula. "Get you started on some of those nutrients you've missed. Are you nauseous at all?"
Illya replied that he wasn't.
"That's good. But since you've been starved for a few days I'd like to keep you on a light diet for the next twenty-four hours. Your stomach will take it better that way." Bush held up one more pill. "Last thing. I recommend a sedative because of your exhaustion and your state of mind. Let me revise that--I strongly recommend. I'd insist, but I don't guess you'd take to that too well."
Illya looked at Waverly. Why? Just because he looks, dresses and smells like Grandfather Kuryakin...
"I'd take it if I were you, Mr. Kuryakin. You'll sleep better. Feel better in the morning to argue with Johnny Boardman."
Bush's lips twitched. Illya swallowed the pill and tossed some water after it.
Shortly after that Waverly said he had to go, had a dinner date outside the Embassy. His parting look to Illya was long and steady--steadying. Bush said, "Come on, I'll give you a room," and Illya got off the table and grabbed his satchel and followed. A question prompted by curiosity popped out of his mouth. "Doctor, that man, who is he?"
"Him? You weren't introduced? Well, if you're going to survive in the West, you're going to have to learn some faces. That's Alexander Waverly, head of U.N.C.L.E. North America. One of the founders of the organization."
Illya knew of U.N.C.L.E. The Colonel had not approved of it. To think that some people--good people, good Soviet citizens--actually worked in a multinational organization alongside with not merely Chinese but Americans! The Colonel had a rather narrow view of the world. But the Colonel was dead now and would never trouble him again. Illya did approve of U.N.C.L.E., to the extent he knew about it. If Waverly commanded its operations for an entire continent, he must be powerful indeed.
Well, what had Illya expected? It was unlikely that many people called the Ambassador "Johnny" in his own Embassy. Or passed on orders in his name and got them obeyed...
*******
He slept right through to the next morning, sixteen hours or more. He woke with a bursting bladder and crawled out of bed to the little bathroom attached to his little room. As he flushed the toilet, he noticed the rack of nice clean white towels, and that made him notice the shower stall. Suddenly his skin started itching and he felt filthy. He was filthy. He hadn't had a bath in nearly a week. The Colonel hadn't let him after--
Cut that thought short. And he couldn't take a shower anyway, because of the bandages on his back. He went back and sat on the bed. Someone had put his jacket and overcoat in here while he slept. He had worn the trousers to bed, having nothing else. He reached beneath the bed and brought up his satchel, just to check. Yes, Misha-bear was still there. If the guard yesterday had laughed at the KGB man carrying a Misha-bear, Illya would have throttled him.
Someone knocked. "Come in."
Dr. Bush was carrying a little stack of fabric, which Illya did not have time to make out. "Glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"
"I am feeling very much better, thank you, Dr. Bush. I would like to take a shower, but this dressing..."
"Ah. Yes, let's get that off. Hot water'll do those stripes good, if you can stand the stinging. If you'd step this way?"
The thermometer again, more pills, more penicillin. "Hmm. Still 101. I can tell the Ambassador you're too sick to be interviewed. It'd annoy those two spooks, but who cares about them?"
"The CIA is here? Already?"
"The CIA is everywhere," Bush said drily. "They showed up at breakfast. Ruined my appetite, I can tell you. Anyway, you've got an appointment with them at..." He looked at his watch and shrugged. "Whenever I can get you ready."
Which meant "ten minutes ago." Illya said, "Thank you, Dr. Bush. I am quite well enough to meet your spooks." And I'd rather get started sooner. I do not like anticipation.
"All right. But you're going to be clean and fed first."
Even at five minutes long, it was the best shower he'd ever taken. He dried off hastily, shaved with a borrowed razor, and put on clean underwear from his satchel. Then uniform trousers, yesterday's dirty socks--his only pair--and his boots. Bush redid the dressing on his back and he put on a clean shirt from the pile of clothes Bush had brought in--from where, he didn't say. His crewcut hair was dry before he finished his toast, scrambled eggs and tea. Five minutes later the third attaché, the woman, showed up, and Illya got to learn her name. She introduced herself as Linda Valdez.
"I'm here to take you to Ambassador Boardman's office. He will introduce you to the two gentlemen from the CIA. They'll take it from there. Do you have any questions?"
"No, Miss Valdez. Thank you."
In the elevator he wondered whether wearing the uniform jacket had been a good idea after all. The blood had dried and in any case didn't show on the outside, but now he was too warm. He did not want to start sweating before meeting the CIA agents. That, he was sure, would be doing things out of their natural order.
He settled for unbuttoning it halfway; that gave him plenty of ventilation for now and the option to unbutton further, or button up again if the trend of his fever reversed.
Boardman's office was on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard and a fine view of Stockholm. It was furnished in blue and gold and the mahogany desk was enormous. Illya had had offices smaller than that desk. Boardman looked relieved when Illya, Valdez and the guards arrived. "Ah. There you are, Mr. Kuryakin. I hope you slept well."
"Very well, Mr. Ambassador, thank you."
"Linda, stick around for a minute. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Kuryakin, this is Agent McCoy and Agent Raftery of the Central Intelligence Agency. They'll conduct your initial interview. Gentlemen, are you satisfied with Miss Valdez as a witness?"
Raftery looked Valdez up and down in a way that made Illya want to strangle him. Valdez returned a cool stare. No love lost between those two.
"Thanks, Mr. Ambassador, but we've got our own secretary with us. No need for a loaner."
"Miss Valdez is my third attaché, gentlemen. It's her or Alexander Waverly. Take your pick."
McCoy groaned. "Christ, Boardman. Waverly's not even on your staff. Why him?"
Raftery was the bad cop. McCoy, slightly politer, was... well, he'd see.
"Because he's here, he's American and he has the clearance. Actually he has higher clearance than me, and therefore than either of you. Please decide which you would prefer, Mr. McCoy. I have other business to attend to."
Boardman and McCoy sounded like people who were friends when they weren't on opposite sides of an issue. Boardman was all right, so McCoy did qualify as good cop. It was nice to have all the roles down before the party started.
"I'm satisfied with Miss Valdez," McCoy said. "Come on, Raff, let's get going."
Raftery scowled, but got up when his--yes, superior--did. Boardman said, "Linda, you can take them to the back sitting room. Sorry I can't give you a small basement room, McCoy."
McCoy let a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. Raftery scowled again. Boardman said, "See to it that their secretary is escorted there too, Linda. She's waiting downstairs. The guards are to stay at the door at all times. McCoy, you've seen Dr. Bush's report. Don't push the boy too hard or I'll have your boss tie you in knots. Lunch break, supper break and any refreshment he asks for. You can send one of the guards to the canteen. No need to play waiter yourselves."
Raftery had obviously been thinking of Valdez in that role; Boardman had known it and had moved to scotch it, right off. Illya's estimation for him went up another notch. Women weren't new to the diplomatic service no matter what country, but for male supervisors to respect and protect their dignity was still rare.
"Very well, gentlemen. I think we all understand each other. Good luck." It was not absolutely clear to whom that wish was addressed, even though Boardman had been looking at McCoy when he said it.
The back sitting room was a small but pretty room with soft cushioned couches, yellow wallpaper sprigged with tiny flowers, a mahogany coffee table and end tables, and a matching eight-legged highboy on the inner wall. There were windows on three sides of the room. Over the highboy hung a large mirror in a brass frame, and there were vases and bowls of flowers all over the room. McCoy's mouth twitched when he saw it; Raftery looked annoyed. Illya smiled inside. They were disconcerted already. Boardman had to have given them this room, so incongruous with the mere idea of interrogation, on purpose for that reason. Boardman appeared to be on Illya's side.
The CIA secretary arrived and set up at one side of the room with a reel-to-reel tape recorder and a pencil and steno pad. Suspenders and belt, Illya thought. Valdez had no equipment. Apparently she was just going to sit and listen.
They sorted themselves out. Illya and Valdez wound up at opposite ends of the big couch. The CIA men took armchairs opposite them. A guard brought glasses and a big pitcher of water, then shut the door quietly. McCoy cleared his throat.
"State your full name and place and date of birth," he said.
"Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin. Kiev, Ukrainian S.S.R., Soviet Union. September 22, 1950."
"Your age."
"Nineteen."
"Parents' names."
"Nicko Aleksandrovitch Kuryakin. Maria Maximovna Kuryakina, born Danylenko."
Dates and places of schooling. His siblings and their dates and histories. His grandparents. Other relatives, their names, locations, dates, professions. His profession.
"I have no profession at present. Until some days ago I was employed by the KGB."
"And how did you come to leave their employ?" McCoy said, his voice still even but his eyes getting interested. This was where the fun began.
"I left the Leningrad apartment where we were staying. I walked to the port and stowed away on a freighter bound for Stockholm."
"You say `we.' Who is that?"
"My team."
"Names."
"Myself, Grigoriy Ivanovitch Shapkin, Lyudmila Arkadievna Marinskaya, Boris Lukanovitch Vadim."
"And who is in command of this team?"
Was, Illya thought with deep satisfaction. "Colonel Vadim."
"Mr. Kuryakin, where are your teammates now?"
"I'm not certain." Well, he didn't know where the two bodies had been taken. And Marinskaya had probably been called back to Moscow to answer for the team's failures, but she had talent and skill enough to survive the team's dissolution and be assigned elsewhere. That could take between a day and several months, so he couldn't say he was sure of where she was.
"Are you in contact with any of them?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I am not a fool, Mr. McCoy. In any case," for it was time to tell them, "Miss Marinskaya does not like me, and the Colonel and Mr. Shapkin are dead."
He had the satisfaction of seeing McCoy look surprised. Raftery said sharply, "When did they die?"
"The night I left Leningrad."
"Both on that night?"
"Yes."
"How do you know about their deaths, and how can you be so sure?"
"Because I am the one who killed them." He explained, since that would be the next question, "They caught up to me when I was almost at the ship. They must have suspected I would run, and came right to the port as soon as I turned up missing. They had their guns out and were aiming at me. I seemed to have a choice between shooting and being shot. I chose not to permit the latter."
"Fancy words for a Russki," Raftery muttered. Valdez hid a smile. McCoy said,
"So to escape, you killed two men."
"Four."
"Pardon?"
"I killed four men, Mr. McCoy. Well, either or both of the last two could have been women. I shot two dockworkers on my way through the port. There was a police alert out. I did not wish to bring all that down on my head."
"You bragging, Kuryakin?"
"No, Mr. McCoy. It is simply fact. I wished to give you precise information."
"Smartass," Raftery muttered.
"Raff, shut up. Kuryakin, while you're being so helpful, why don't you tell us precisely how many men you've killed?"
"Men or people, Mr. McCoy?"
Valdez snickered.
"Altogether," McCoy said impatiently. "I don't give a good goddamn what sex they were.--Have you killed women?" he said, contradicting himself.
"Yes. Five women. Nine men, not counting the four last week."
"So that's eighteen."
Illya didn't see any point in agreeing that McCoy could count correctly.
"Eighteen, uh, people dead, and you don't seem very disturbed by it."
"At the moment, Mr. McCoy, my mind is mostly on larger things."
"Really. Well, tell me. Do you enjoy killing?"
"No." Flat-out truth. "Yes, I do it. And yes, I did it voluntarily every time. I won't hide behind the excuse of following orders, although I was doing that, every time. Except for the last four. The last two, I consider self-defense."
"Vadim and Shapkin?"
"Yes."
"But not the dockworkers?"
"No. They were innocent, not involved except insofar as they had seen me. At the time it seemed to me that I had to shoot them, but it was a wrong act nonetheless. I regret their deaths greatly."
"Regret, huh?" said Raftery, who obviously didn't believe him. "Mr. Kuryakin, we don't like killers in America."
Illya looked him straight in the eye. "Yet you lionize your great soldiers above all others, and you tolerate police? Federal marshals? The National Rifle Association? The FBI? Your own agency?"
"Being a smartass won't help you, Mr. Kuryakin."
It went on.
At noon the guards wheeled in a cart bearing lunches for five people. Another man brought Illya a paper cup from Dr. Bush with his pills in it. Raftery looked suspicious, and McCoy insisted on looking at the pills, but having done so, he shrugged. "Aspirin, vitamins, decongestant and painkiller, just like the man says. Okay, Kuryakin, you can have 'em."
They asked him several times whether he was in contact with anyone at home. Whether he planned to be. Whether he hadn't had help "escaping" and wasn't just a plant by the Soviet government, sent to spy on the United States. Whether he had any recording devices or cameras or weapons concealed on him.
"No. My weapons are in the custody of Ambassador Boardman. And if I had had any such things about me--I was searched yesterday on my arrival."
"Oh, sure," said Raftery. "Searched by Embassy guards. As if that counts. What do you think, McCoy?"
"Yeah. Kuryakin, take off your clothes. All of 'em."
Illya stood up and began undressing. There wasn't any point to protesting, and he'd gone through much worse than nakedness to get this far. It was only flesh, anyway. He stripped off jacket, borrowed shirt, boots, socks, trousers and underwear. The CIA secretary looked up, blushed fiercely and went back to her steno pad. Raftery gazed in an unfriendly way at Illya's naked body. He said to Valdez, "See anything you like?"
"Not really. I usually like them closer to my age," she said. "Why, do you?"
Raftery scowled.
They inspected Illya head to toes three times, once by hand and then with two different scanners. Raftery frowned at the bandage on his back, but Valdez said pointedly, "That dressing's been changed twice since he got here. Leave it alone."
Raftery desisted, if unwillingly. McCoy put on rubber gloves and examined him internally, the only time that Valdez looked away. McCoy thought he was being rough, but Illya had had worse. Finally the two CIA men looked at each other and shrugged.
"Okay, you're clean," pronounced Raftery. "Put your clothes on and siddown."
It went on.
At something after three o'clock Illya started to feel warm again. He undid his jacket all the way and drank a glass of water. Raftery was pressing him about his intent in defecting. Illya had told him many times: I want to be free. Raftery asked it again, his manner implying as before that Illya was going to the West in order to report back to his superiors in Moscow. Illya finally couldn't take it and burst out, "I left so that I could be free to live my own life! Do you find it so hard to understand? I did not wish to sell my soul to the KGB any longer. They are an abomination on the face of the earth. I know that every good spook hates the KGB, just as a good Ka-geh-beshnik hates you in return. Is that not true? Then we are on the same side! Why do you press me so?"
"Getting excited won't do," Raftery said coolly. "Just answer the question."
"I believe I have done so, Mr. Raftery."
"You didn't stage this elaborate `defection' in order to set yourself up as a secret plant in the United States."
"No. I did not."
"Your superiors did not order you to do this?"
"Mr. Raftery," Illya said in exasperation, "I killed my immediate superior in order to get away. Do you not find this convincing enough?"
"Just answer the question, Mr. Kuryakin."
"No," Illya said wearily. "My superiors did not order me to do this."
Round and round, on and on. Illya excused himself to the washroom and wiped sweat off his forehead and upper lip. He was hot and did not feel well. It was harder to answer the questions when he went back. Raftery was playing bad cop to the hilt. He started to repeat questions. Name. Rank. Serial number. Tell us again where you were born. Your schooling. Illya recognized this for what it was, pure harassment, and told himself he had taken worse, much worse, from his superiors, his trainers, even the senior boys at the military academy. And he had. But he had been well then. He had not had fresh whiplashes on his back, he had not had a fever, he had not uprooted himself and left everything behind but some books, some clean underwear, and an old stuffed animal. Not even any pictures. That would have been too obvious if anyone had searched his Moscow flat.
He had known what the rules were, then.
"Mr. Kuryakin? Did you hear me?"
Oh, God. He'd missed a question. "I'm sorry, Mr. Raftery. I was... distracted."
"I asked about your command structure in the KGB."
Oh, that. He could spew it out in his sleep. "There were myself, Mr. Shapkin and Miss Marinskaya on the team. Colonel Vadim commanded us. He reported to General Borodin in the Kremlin. I believe there were a number of other teams reporting to the Colonel, that he did not work with directly, but we never met them. Likewise the General had a number of team chiefs reporting to him, but again, I do not know how many nor any of the names. We were never told anything but what we needed to know."
"So you never worked with anyone but your own team?" McCoy said.
"We never worked with any other teams of our sort. Sometimes we had specialists along on a mission. Experts."
"What kind of experts?"
"Weaponry experts, for example. Cultural specialists. Translators and interpreters. Well, we didn't use those very much, because of me."
"How's that?"
"I speak twelve languages."
"Really?" McCoy sounded torn between doubting and being impressed. "Run 'em by me."
Illya reeled off the list. "Russian, Ukrainian, Finnish, Polish, Czech, Slovak, Hungarian, English, German, Portuguese, bad Chinese, and Old Church Slavonic." He prepared to explain the last two. "The Chinese was bad on purpose so I could pass as a bumbling European tourist; very useful cover. The Old Church language because it--"
His head was spinning. He put his hand up to it and shut his eyes. The room was spinning, too.
"Mr. Kuryakin, is anything wrong?" McCoy sounded far away.
"Please excuse me. One moment." He groped his way to the bathroom. He sat down on the toilet, fully clothed, and leaned over to put his head down between his legs. That should help.
But he was hot, too. He sat up and pulled off the jacket, undid the top two buttons on his shirt, and rolled up the sleeves. For the first time he noticed the cuff monogram, AW. Alexander Waverly?
So hot. But he had to get back out there. He stood up, fighting heat and dizziness. Bending down for the jacket nearly undid him. He walked back to the couch unsteadily, aware that sweat was springing out again on his forehead, his upper lip, his chest. He sat down. "Please excuse me. I am ready again."
"You were talking about languages," McCoy said. "Did you actually go to China? On missions?"
"Yes, three times. The Colonel sent me and Gri--"
His head was spinning again. He dropped it between his knees, gasping for breath. It was so hot.
"Mr. Kuryakin?" McCoy again.
"Had enough, little Russki?" That was Raftery.
"Raff, shut up. Mr. Kuryakin, are you all right?"
"I am sorry--" he gasped out. "A minute--"
"Illya," Valdez said, "do you want me to get Dr. Bush?"
No. Oh, no. Not in the middle of questioning. He couldn't look weak like this. He sat up, got up, then collapsed back to the couch as his knees went out from under him. The room went into a white roar around him.
"All right. That's enough." The firm voice belonged to Valdez. So did the reassuring hand on his arm. "You two take your tape recorder home and play with it. Mr. Kuryakin is done for the day."
"Miss Valdez--"
"Sorry, gentlemen. That's all you're getting for now. Ambassador Boardman will contact you when he's ready for you again."
Illya heard them stuffing notepads in briefcases, the secretary packing the tape recorder back into its case. He could only murmur something incoherent when McCoy said, "Good night, Mr. Kuryakin." Raftery said nothing at all.
When the door had closed Valdez said, "Can you walk to the elevator, or do you want the doctor first?"
He was damned if he was going to be carried to the infirmary on a stretcher by these people he was trying to impress. "I think--can walk." On the other hand, he wasn't a fool. "With some help."
She called the guards. The big one laconically hoisted Illya off the couch and supported him with an arm around the waist. His legs felt like rubber and the hallway swam, but he walked. In the elevator they encountered Comstock, the first attaché, who asked Valdez, "Done already?"
"I sent the spooks home. Illya's had enough."
"Yeah," Comstock said, looking at him. "You all right, Kuryakin?"
"Yes, sir. I am quite well."
"Uh-huh." Judiciously. "Well, don't let the spooks spook ya."
Comstock got out at the first floor. The descent gave Illya a sick feeling. The guards and Valdez walked him to the infirmary and turned him over to Bush.
"Son of a--excuse me, Miss Valdez," the doctor said. "What happened?"
"Fine till a couple of hours ago. Then he started sweating, and it wasn't the questions. When he got dizzy I sent the spooks away and brought him down here."
"Good," Bush said firmly. "Thank you. Okay, Mr. Kuryakin. Bedtime."
Illya couldn't agree more. Bush walked him to his tiny room, Valdez following, and finally Illya could sag onto the bed and lie down, chest heaving, head swimmier than ever. Bush went to get his kit and Illya decided to risk a personal communication with Valdez. "Miss Valdez--"
"Yes?"
"Why is everyone on my side?"
She smiled. "Bothering you, Illya?"
"No... not really. Confusing, though. I thought all good American citizens hated Russian spies."
"Possibly, but you're not a spy, and everyone except Morgan and the spooks know it. I don't mind saying we're all rooting for you."
It was one expression Illya didn't know. "Rooting?"
"I thought you spoke a dozen languages?" But she was teasing. "Cheering. Supporting. Um, being on your side."
"I see. Thank you, Miss Valdez."
"Forget it. What you are is a nice kid who's been through hell and wants out. By the way, what’s Old Church Slavonic?"
Illya decided he liked her.
"Language of Russian Orthodox Church. Underground since Revolution. Very difficult to—"
Bush returned. "Miss Valdez, the Ambassador wants you upstairs. And you're talking my patient to death."
"No, she isn't!"
"Nonetheless. Language lessons later."
"Okay, I'm going," Valdez said. "Illya, can I drop in later?"
"I would like that," Illya said, and meant it. She smiled and went out.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Kuryakin?" Bush said.
"Hot. Head spins. Hurts to breathe."
The thermometer showed 103. Bush stripped his boots and trousers off for him and shoved him under the covers. Illya swallowed pills and bared his arm for the penicillin and vitamin shots. Wet rag on his forehead--that felt good. He was so tired...
He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke abruptly to an urgent signal from his stomach. He kicked at the covers. His feet got tangled in them and he couldn't move. He panicked. He had to get up. He couldn't throw up on this nice clean floor. He kicked the footboard in his struggles, and suddenly Bush was there. "Whoa. Hold it right there. Where do you think you're going?"
"Bathroom," he managed. "Sick."
"Ah. Not bathroom. Basin." Bush whipped one out from the nightstand. "Here you go."
Right on cue, Illya's stomach went into action. He vomited a steady stream of lunch, pills, water, fears, memory. The dark, freezing cargo hold. His stomach convulsed. The Colonel's whipping. Another convulsion. Grisha, dead of Illya's bullet, staring unseeing at the heavens. Illya's stomach tried to turn itself inside out.
"Easy, son. Easy."
"Son" again. It should go with pipe tobacco and tweed, not medical smells and a white coat.
"Easy. Take your time."
He did, but there was nothing left. Illya hung over the edge of the mattress, unable to get back into bed. He said faintly, "Is all. Is no more. Help, please?"
Bush helped him lie back. To his dismay, Illya saw that some of his ejecta had dribbled off his chin onto the shirt. Bush saw it too, and saw his panic. "It's all right. It's just a shirt. It'll wash out."
"But is not mine. Is Mr. Waverly's."
"Even his clothes have to get washed sometime." Bush unbuttoned the shirt. "No, I'm not going to leave you stark naked. There were some pajamas in that batch of stuff. Hang on a minute."
They were dark blue flannel with white piping, by far the most elegant pajamas Illya had ever worn. The breast pocket said "AW." Bush dressed him, cleaned his face, tucked him back into bed, took away the stinking basin, came back with a small plastic cup filled with green liquid. "Rinse your mouth out with this."
Mint-flavored, rather pleasant. Illya spat the stuff out when he was done. "Doctor, I’m sorry.”
"Oh, now, there's no harm done. I won't take it personally," Bush said in a good-natured way. "Now go to sleep. I'll be right outside."
He dozed. He woke up halfway once and thought he heard Boardman and Comstock and Valdez talking with Bush. He thought he heard Waverly's voice. Presently the discussion ceased and a smell of pipe tobacco came into Illya's room. Tweed brushed against the back of a chair. A fat newspaper rustled. Someone was settling in for a good long stay.
Illya went to sleep.
*******
Grisha was running towards him. His gun was aimed at Illya. Illya had nowhere to run or hide. He had to get away. He fired, and Grisha stopped, dropped his gun and fell backward in the snow, limbs splayed out.
The dockworker saw him between the two sheds and yelled to another worker, who reached for the telephone on the outside of the shed. Illya shot that one, who gurgled and fell against the shed wall, sliding down, eyes wide open but unseeing. The first one's mouth gaped and he, too, reached for the telephone. Fool. Illya's shot brought him down across the first one's lap.
The bench was cold on Illya's chest. He was glad the Colonel hadn't made him strip all the way. Grisha knelt in front of him, holding his hands as they did for each other at these times. The Colonel raised his whip hand and brought it down crack! on Illya's back. Illya cried out and Grisha held his hands down against the pain, his eyes sympathetic.
The cargo hold was dark, unilluminated even by moonlight, for it was an interior hold and there were no portholes. Illya sat huddled up in a corner, eyes on the door, ears straining for the smallest of sounds. He had his overcoat buttoned up all the way and his mittens and furry hat on, but he was freezing cold. It was only the first night of the passage. How much longer would he be so cold?
And Grisha was running towards him again, boots pounding in the snow, gun aimed right at Illya, and Illya had nowhere to hide. He fired, and Grisha dropped in his tracks, gun flying off into a snowbank, unseeing eyes gazing at the Leningrad heavens.
And the dockworkers saw him...
Illya screamed. He screamed and screamed again. He couldn't have helped it. He'd had to get away. This wasn't fair!
"Easy. Easy, there. It's all right. You're in the American Embassy in Stockholm. You're safe now."
"I killed him," Illya cried. "I killed him."
"I know," Waverly said. "I'm sorry."
Illya realized then that he was awake and that Waverly was really there. He blinked and the lights came into focus. Waverly looked worried. "I killed him," Illya repeated stupidly. "I killed Grisha. My friend. And I killed him."
"Who was he, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"My friend. My... teammate. Loyal Party man, but my friend. I killed him."
"How did it happen?"
"We were on the docks. He was chasing me. I had to get to the ship, I had to get away. He would have shot me. I killed him first. But I didn't want to!"
"I know you didn't, Mr. Kuryakin--"
Illya's voice cracked. It sounded so wrong. "Stop calling me that!"
"I thought you didn't like `son.'"
"Maybe I made a mistake!" Illya flung at him. Then he started to cry. Mistake. Oh, Grisha. I'm sorry.
"Easy, son. Easy." Waverly hugged him. "You lean on me, son. It's going to be all right."
Illya cried hard and long. The rough tweed became familiar under his cheek. All that pain... all his life... gone. Mama, Tatya, Maya, all gone. They would suffer for his going. Petya's small grave in Heroes-of-the-Revolution Burying Ground. Dear familiar Kiev. His language. His culture. His country. It was all gone, beyond repair or retrieval. Grisha, Grisha, Grisha. He was an exile, voluntarily outcast from everything he knew. He had no friends, no family, no home. His worldly possessions fit into one small satchel. He hadn't brought anything practical like money, like jewelry. He'd had no way to bring money; he had had no access to foreign currencies, particularly not the American dollar, and the ruble was worthless outside the Soviet Union. And he owned no jewelry. He had nothing worth any amount of money, and there was no place where he belonged. No little dead brother, no sisters, and no Mama.
"Mama," he whispered into the tweed, once and once only. "Grisha, I am sorry. Petya, little one, goodbye. Tatya, goodbye, Maya, goodbye. I am sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."
He was out of tears, and his head ached. Waverly let go of him, but didn't move away. "Feeling better, son?"
"Yes, sir." A little, anyway.
"I should explain myself. The staff were all due at a Swedish government banquet. I volunteered myself as your nurse for the evening so Dr. Bush could go. Johnny thought it was unnecessary, but I reminded him I was his guest, not an employee, so he couldn't order me about."
"Johnny, sir? You mean the Ambassador?"
"Eh? Oh, yes. Yes, we're old friends. He calls me Alex, and there aren't too many people left who do."
Alex. AW. Illya tapped the breast pocket of the elegant pajamas. "I meant to thank you for the loan of the clothing, sir. It's very kind of you."
"Nonsense. Somebody had to, didn't they?"
"Yes, sir, but you're the one who did."
"In that case, you're welcome. Son, why do you suppose I volunteered to keep you company?"
"I don't know, sir."
"It's because I wanted a chance to talk to you without Johnny and his staff or the gentlemen from the CIA. You interest me, you see. I'm curious what brings a boy of nineteen all this way, with the intent to go further. Why did you leave the Soviet Union?"
"Because I do not wish to work for the KGB any longer."
"Yes, yes. But why specifically do you not wish to work for them?"
Illya was surprised. Nobody else had asked him that. But he had the answer, worked out to a T during his long struggle to decide what to do. "Because they kill without reason."
"How do you define `without reason'?"
"Simply to keep someone quiet. To terrify. Not to keep the land peaceful, as they claim. They kill in order to set up situations in which they may kill again. It is not right to end human lives for sport."
"You don't believe a nation has the right to kill to defend itself?"
"The KGB is not a nation, sir."
"Under what circumstances would you consider it right to kill?"
"Self-defense."
"Just that?"
"There may be other circumstances, sir. I have contemplated some. But I am not sure of my opinion."
"Speculate."
"If by doing so you may save many other lives. But again, I am not sure."
"Mmm. Think about it. We'll talk again in the morning. But the final word is that you don't like the KGB. That doesn't sound like a good Russian citizen to me."
"I am not a Russian citizen, sir,” Illya grated out. “I am not a Russian anything. Legally, I am a Soviet citizen. But my nationality is Ukrainian."
Waverly smiled as though he had just bitten into a rose and found a bee, but a bee he liked. "I thought you would say that, son. I like a young man with spirit. Tell me. What do you plan to do when you reach the United States?"
"Anything that will pay the rent, sir. Police, security guard, driver, helicopter pilot, aviation instructor, teacher of languages or self-defense, garbage collector, shoe-shine boy. Anything."
"Is that what you really want to do? A menial job for menial pay?"
"If that is all that I am qualified for, in your country, then that is what I will do," Illya replied with all the dignity he could muster. "It won't matter in the long term. I will still be free, and that is what counts."
"Supposing you could do what you wanted most, though," Waverly insisted. "What would that be?"
"I would study," Illya burst out. "I would study anything I could find. I have no formal education beyond my sixteenth year, and I want to learn." He still remembered the dismay that had come with the slowly growing realization that after the KMA he would not be allowed to go on to university.
"What--again, supposing you could study what you wanted most to study--what would it be?"
"Physics, and mathematics as well. Really I want to learn everything. But those are the two I crave."
"That's an admirable aspiration," Waverly said. "Certainly higher learning is one of the finer aspects of the United States. Oh, there are great universities in Europe--but you're not going to Europe. Do you want to do research, then?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps to teach. But I don't really know where those aspirations lead me. All I know now is that I want to know what's next. I was cut off from my studies at a terribly interesting point. I have tried to learn independently since then, but I could not always get the books or articles I wanted. And we were on missions often, and then there was no time for reading."
"I see. I see." Waverly stroked his chin. "May I ask you a question, son? You want to study, but you aren't sure what to do after that--in short, you have no profession in mind?"
"Essentially, yes, Mr. Waverly."
"Why not the same job you have right now? Oh, I don't mean go back to the KGB; you were wasted there. But why not the same profession?"
Illya snorted. "CIA? They wouldn't have me; foreign-born. Nor would the FBI."
"U.N.C.L.E. would, son. How familiar are you with our operations?"
"I have heard of your agency. What I know about it consists solely of the fact that Colonel Vadim doesn't--didn't--like it. But," he added, truthfully, for he wanted to keep Waverly talking, "I would like to know more about it."
"We have agents and employees of all nationalities. We are an independent organization, not part of any government, and though of course each employee has his or her own politics, we as a whole eschew taking political sides. We hold operating charters in 97 countries and have bases in most of them. Do you know what U.N.C.L.E. stands for?"
"The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."
"That's right. The Network was something some friends and I started up almost thirty years ago. We developed branches in several countries and became the United Network. The C.L.E. was originally just one branch of the United Network, but it soon expanded to the point where we shut down most of our other operations and subsumed the rest into the U.N.C.L.E. We are strictly a counterterrorist, countersabotage organization. We have no ambitions to power of our own; we exist to counterbalance the actions of evil around the globe. And son, we can use people like you."
"I... beg your pardon, sir?"
"You have morals. You think about what you do. You're extremely intelligent. I have, if you will excuse my mentioning it, seen your physique, and I know that no one develops strength and musculature like that unless they are very carefully and very thoroughly trained. I haven't seen you in action, of course, but I am willing to bet you are very good at that facet of your job. Is that not so?"
"Yes, it is," Illya said matter-of-factly. "I received consistently high ratings from my superiors throughout my three years with the KGB."
"I believe you. Well, son, what do you think?"
Illya stared. Waverly hadn't bitten into the rose by accident; he'd known the bee was there and had bitten specifically in order to find it. "Are you offering me a job, sir?"
"Possibly, son. Possibly. There are barriers. You are too young, by our standards, even though you're already spent some time in the profession. You would have to wait until you were twenty-one, as we are bound to comply with the laws of whichever country we are operating in. And we prefer our agents to have a college degree, though your lack of one is hardly your fault. I suspect that you have the equivalent of one in informal education. There would be certain tests... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Waverly looked meditative. "Then there would have to be a green card--that's a work permit, son. But that would be easy once you acquired a resident's visa. Of course, for that, since you have no family in the States, you would have to have a sponsor."
Illya swallowed.
"Sir, are you making an off--" He couldn't say it.
"The entry visa depends on the State Department and the CIA. I can't do much there directly. Mmm. You haven't any money to make the journey, have you?"
"None at all, sir."
"We can fix that. Clothes--are you all right, son?"
Illya was coughing, and for a while he couldn't stop long enough to breathe. When he did gasp some air in, it hurt. Waverly gave him a cup of water. It helped, but his chest still hurt. Waverly uncapped a bottle of something red and said, "The doctor left this syrup in case something like this developed. After that I'd better make myself quiet; I've talked you out of breath."
Illya opened his eyes. "Don't leave. Sir. Please."
"I've done enough talking, son, and so have you."
"Then I won't. But please, will you stay?" Why was he so willing to show his anxiety about being left alone in a hospital setting to Waverly, when he had never told anyone else?
Waverly didn't judge him. "If it makes you happy, son, I'll be happy to stay. You take this medicine, though, and then you ought to go to sleep. It's two capfuls. Here."
It was sweet, sticky and cherry-flavored, and Illya eagerly swallowed it. He liked it.
"All right, son. You lie down now and get some rest. I may not be here in the morning, but I'll come as soon as I can. All right?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll turn the room lights off and just keep this lamp on, if it won't bother you." Illya shook his head no. "It's enough to do the crossword by. Goodnight, son."
"Goodnight, sir," Illya said hoarsely. "Sir--thank you."
"It's a mutual feeling, son, I've enjoyed this as much as you have. Now go to sleep. That's an order."
Illya obeyed.
*******
He was in bed for three days. Waverly visited, Valdez visited, and once Boardman did. Bush kept the visits short. Illya mostly slept, alternating between fever and chills, coughing until his chest ached. On the evening of the second day he woke from a long nap to find he was feeling better. Bush pronounced his fever down to 100, and to celebrate he brought Illya a bowl of soup for dinner. As a reward for keeping it down, Illya was allowed to use the bathroom by himself and to wash his face and hands. He lathered enthusiastically and called it luxury. His two greatest ambitions at the moment were solid food and a bath.
At breakfast he was allowed toast along with his tea, and with his fever down to 99, Bush let him take a shower. Illya decided that that was close enough.
Nobody came to visit that morning or for most of the afternoon. Bored, Illya napped from time to time, then wandered about the infirmary and pestered Bush for something to do until the poor doctor finally coughed up a dog-eared paperback and said, "Here. Read this." Illya retreated to his bed and sat cross-legged on top of the covers, dutifully keeping his blue foam slippers on for warmth. The book was called Islandia, written by Austin Tappan Wright, and from the very first page Illya was entranced. It was the first science fiction he had ever read.
He read through lunch, munching the grilled cheese sandwiches and licking his fingers without noticing. He still coughed a lot, but it bothered him less. He had reached Chapter Six and the characters were in the middle of a picnic when Bush knocked on the doorframe--three times. It took that long to get his attention.
"Oh! Excuse me, doctor. I did not hear you."
"I noticed," Bush said drily. "I guess you didn't hear my phone ringing, either. The Ambassador's on his way down, and it sounded official."
Illya looked down at his pajamas. Still elegant, but he had had to roll up the sleeves and the bottom cuffs—he wasn’t as tall as Waverly—and it didn’t look, well, elegant. And there were those silly slippers, besides. He put the book down and scrambled to get under the covers. Leaning on his stack of pillows, blankets pulled up over his lap, he thought he looked rather dignified. "I am ready," he stated.
Bush's mouth twitched--what was so funny? "And just in time, too. Here they come."
They, indeed; not just Boardman. After him came McCoy and Raftery, and Illya got tense. After them came all three attachés, Comstock, Morgan and Valdez, all in a row like bowling pins. Valdez winked at him, which made him feel better. Waverly came last. He stood by the Ambassador's chair, smelling of a fresh pipeful of tobacco. The other two groups found standing room in corners. They were rather a crowd in such a small room.
"I'm glad you're feeling better, Mr. Kuryakin," Boardman began. "I've spent an incredible amount of time on the phone about you over the last few days. I have spoken with the State Department, the Secretary of State, the U.S.S.R. section chief at the CIA, his superior, the Soviet ambassador across town, the Swedish government and the Kremlin. There seems to be quite a ruckus going on in Moscow about you. The death of Colonel Vadim has aroused considerable ire, although some people seem to be privately cheering."
Were they? How splendid. Perhaps there was hope for Russia after all.
"You are being indicted back home for high treason, four counts of murder, various counts of assault on a superior and fellow officers--" That last, the plural, was unfair; he hadn't done anything to Marinskaya unless you counted spitting in her tea a few times when she wasn't looking “—and of wrongfully involving civilians in a military matter. I presume those are your two dockworkers."
Illya nodded mutely. Those two anonymous people would haunt him till the day he died.
"And, of course, illegal departure from the country. I realize that none of this will surprise you, Mr. Kuryakin, but I thought you'd like to know your position."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet; I'm not done. On the bright side, we may have a deal worked out which gets you to the United States. I repeat, may. Listen to the terms before you get excited. This would never have happened," he added, "if it weren't for my friend Alex. He seems in his incomprehensible way to have taken a liking to you and has decided to use his influence in your favor. He's also been on the phone a lot, especially today. The Secretary of State phoned me an hour ago with the decision. They will grant you an entry visa and favorable conditions for applying for permanent residence if you can fulfill the following conditions. One, you must have a sponsor. Alex has applied to act in that position--"
Illya's eyes shot to Waverly, hope breathless on his lips. Waverly smiled and gently indicated, listen.
"Secondly, you permanently renounce any loyalty you have to the Soviet Union, and you agree not to return there for seven years, which figure may be extended. Thirdly," and Boardman glanced at McCoy, "you debrief fully to the CIA when you get to New York--yes, Alex, after he's recovered, I told you they agreed to that. Stop worrying. Mr. Kuryakin, fully means fully; you cooperate, you answer the questions, you make yourself available to them without protest. That too may be extended into the future."
"And fully also means in exact detail," McCoy added. "Every mission, every detail, every contact, every bit of information, everything you know. Everything. They're going to pump you dry."
"I'm sorry to deprive you of the opportunity, Mr. McCoy," Illya said politely.
Somebody snickered--Valdez, he thought. Boardman cleared his throat and everyone got quiet.
"You can apply for citizenship after five years, just like everybody else," Boardman said, "but you will be in a better position to do so if you have cooperated with the CIA."
"Yes, sir."
"The Swedish government, which owes us a few favors, has agreed to stamp your passport with a retrodated entry visa, showing that you entered this country legally a few days ago. After that they will naturally feel no difficulty giving you a legal exit visa. Well, Mr. Kuryakin?"
He breathed in, as deeply as he could without coughing. An immense weight lifted off his shoulders. He didn't want to quibble, and besides, there was nothing to quibble about. He'd been lucky, and he knew it.
Very lucky.
"I agree to the terms, Mr. Ambassador. I will abide by all of the conditions."
Valdez smiled. Raftery scowled. Comstock nodded judiciously. Morgan looked sour. The Ambassador looked pleased. Waverly just stood there, but Illya felt the link between them, and it warmed him so much his eyes threatened to fill up.
"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Kuryakin, I truly am. I'll notify State and Mr. McCoy can notify his superiors. Miss Valdez, will you take Mr. Kuryakin's passport over to Swedish Immigration and get that entry stamp? I'll let them know you're on the way."
"Yes, sir." Valdez winked again and smiled at Illya, so kindly that Illya had to smile back at her. She marched out. Raftery leaned around the doorframe for a leering look at her rear end. McCoy kicked him in the ankle.
Boardman stood up. "I'll leave you and Alex together now. I expect you have a lot to talk about."
"Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. I appreciate your help very much."
"Ah, just doing my job." Boardman looked at the retreating CIA men and spoke in a lower tone. "Besides, it annoys the spooks."
Illya smiled, and Boardman gave him a friendly smile back and departed. Illya and Waverly were alone.
"Sir," Illya said. "I don't know how to thank you. I--"
"Thank me by surviving and thriving, son. I rescued you for my own reasons but for your purposes. Carry those out and I'll be satisfied."
"Then what are your reasons, sir? If I know them perhaps I can come closer to satisfying them."
"Mmm. We'll straighten out who is to satisfy whom later; that's a complex problem. My reasons. I have a large apartment in New York with no one to occupy it but Mrs. Handy and myself--Mrs. Handy is my housekeeper. It gets lonely at times. Too quiet. I live my life in order to give other people better lives; I hope I can help you towards one. I see a lot of talent in you which it would be a disservice to you not to develop and a shame to waste. And I like you."
"It is--it is a mutual feeling, sir."
"Is it? Well, now. That's nice." Waverly patted his pockets, then said, "Drat these doctors, won't let me smoke in here. Do you smoke, Illya?"
"No, sir. I have had cigarettes, but I do not like them."
"Very wise of you. Dreadful for the health. But you ought to know that I smoke a pipe, with a particularly strong blend of tobacco, and many people don't like the smell."
"I do, sir."
"Now don't flatter me, son. That won't do."
"I like the smell, sir," Illya said firmly.
"Mmm. Well, then, I imagine we'll get along splendidly. Let me see. My ship--ours--leaves day after tomorrow. I've changed the booking to a double cabin--no adjoining single cabins left, I'm afraid."
Illya had never had a room to himself in his life. "I am perfectly content to share, sir, if you are."
"Very well. Now then, as to baggage--"
"I haven't any, sir."
"That's why I mentioned it. Tomorrow morning we'll go shopping, get you a valise and some clothes to put in it. Keep your overcoat--there are few better--but I wouldn't advise wearing your uniform on board. It's an American ship."
"And Russian uniforms will not be welcome. I understand, sir."
"What did you bring with you, son?"
"The clothes on my back, my papers, my satchel and my weapons--will it be possible to get them back, sir? They are very good ones."
"I'll get them from Johnny. Mmm. You had better let me carry them on board; you don't have a U.S. weapons license, which would cause trouble at Customs, and I do."
"Thank you, sir."
"That's another thing. You can't go on calling me `sir' the rest of your life. You'll be my foster son, or close to it. Only my employees call me sir."
Illya swallowed. Foster son. "Sir--I mean--that is--" Oh, hell. "I'm honored by your calling me foster son. Very honored. But to use the word `father' is--I cannot--"
"Bit much to ask? Don't blame you. What about `uncle'?"
Illya had liked his uncles--much better than he'd liked his father. My father's grave I do not mind leaving behind me. "Uncle... uncle what?"
"Mmm. `Alexander' is a long thing to say every time you want me. `Hey, you' would be shorter, but rather rude..."
There aren't that many people left who call me Alex... We're old friends.
Illya said, "Uncle Alex."