Illya Kuryakin just sat and stared. The usually bright blue eyes had dulled slightly, his expression not just the usual unemotional mask. It was more like disdain, or torment...Napoleon couldn't tell for sure. It was something altogether new, he thought, sitting here in Mr. Waverly's office in a sort of damned to hell kind of trance. He wondered if he should be worried, but the news of this assignment wasn't that bad, or at least he didn't think it should be. Well, it wasn't for him anyway. It wasn't as though he were going to have to take ballet lessons and hop around in tights and little leather shoes.
"Mr. Kuryakin, are you getting all of this?" The old man was looking at the blond now, irritated at the lack of response by the sound of it. Still, Illya just sat there, expressionless and dazed. It was a nightmare, and perhaps if he ignored it he would wake up and the threat of this most imminent danger would be past. He could just go and blow something up, take out a Thrush satrap or punch someone. Like his partner, maybe, for maintaining that smug look on his face.
"Yes sir, I understand. I will begin lessons with Madame Karina tomorrow. Where will I be going for the instruction?" He hoped New Jersey.
"Why, right here, in the gym". Now there was some eye action, and Napoleon wondered if he had little lasers behind the sapphire colored cornea, because it looked like he could do damage with them.
"Here sir? Really?" Worse than just joining a ballet troupe, now he had to rehearse here and run the risk of everyone seeing him. He wasn't prepared for this, hadn't danced since he was a child. He would never live this down. It wasn't like gymnastics; that was at least viewed as a sport. Not since the stint on stage with that silly play had he felt so completely at a loss. Come to think of it, he'd had to wear tights for that one as well. He wondered if an enforcement agent could be typecast...
"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, here at our own gym. No one need know about this, although I can't imagine why you should care. Certainly with your background, the ballet is an accepted and exceptionally important cultural ingredient for the Russian people. And you, and you alone in all of this organization among the men, have some background in that art form. This mission is very important, and you are not being asked to perform, merely pose as an instructor; an assistant to Madame Karina, the director of the New Minsk Ballet Company. You will observe and live behind the scenes in order to capture the information that is being passed from some as yet unknown member of the Soviet group that she is hosting. Your assignment is to remain covert and pose successfully in this role. Is that clear?"
Loud and clear..."Yes sir".
Illya closed the door behind him and dropped down morosely into his chair, setting his chin into the open palms of his hands. The effect was always one of a petulant child, the blue eyes framed by pale blond hair that hung precariously down on the broad forehead. Napoleon came through the door, only marginally cautious concerning what was on the other side.
"Illya, tovarich, you mustn't be so glum. It's just some dancing, just another assignment. Why the attitude?" Napoleon needed to smooth things over. He didn't want his partner to sink into one of his Russian moods, not now. This really was an important mission, and the information that was being brought into the country was crucial to an ongoing affair. But, oh...this was bad. Look at that face. Whoa, now it was gone completely. Illya put his head face down onto the desk, his blond hair the only thing visible from within the framework of shoulders and arms.
"Illya, seriously...talk to me. What's really going on here?" This wasn't just about some sensitivity to the teasing that might ensue. A more serious consideration was involved, something the Russian didn't want to discuss, but for the success of the mission it might be necessary.
With great effort, he raised his head and leaned back in the chair, brushing his hair off of his face with one hand. He leveled a look at his partner and took a deep breath.
"Napoleon, I apologize for overreacting. The whole thing just sent me spiraling back to my youth, and the effect was...disarming". Napoleon knew that his friend hadn't had an easy time as a child. He had survived the Nazis and lost much of his family, and then had been taken in by the Soviet system as a "gifted" child. He really didn't know much else, because Illya never talked about his life in Russia. The assorted degrees were the only indication of where he had been and what he'd been doing. Otherwise, the man's former life was a complete mystery, even to him. Looking at him, beyond the determined exterior, the child was still peering out of those blue eyes; perhaps still afraid and unsure of his future. The man was deadly when on a mission, but right now he probably more closely resembled the kid in those disarming memories.
"Do you want to talk about it, Illya? You know I'm here for you...anytime". He meant it, too. No one person mattered more to him than this guy, and he always had to take a step back when the man's past raised itself up, reclaiming parts of his soul and requiring him to climb up out of the mire of his life in the Soviet Union. Certainly the specter of being called back hadn't ever left him. The ballet troupe was from Moscow, so perhaps he was uneasy about being with other Soviets, as there were sure to be KGB along. Now that he thought about it, what else was going on here? Surely Mr. Waverly understood the danger inherent in any situation where Illya had to deal with his old comrades from the other side of the Iron Curtain. He wondered if there was some danger for his partner, something that he was intuitively fighting against in his dread of the assignment. What else was involved here that the old man hadn't told them?
"Illya, what are the chances that you'll be dealing with KGB while the dance company is here?" The blond looked at him with a penetrating stare, his mind reeling at the prospect of meeting up with men who had tried to block his appointment to U.N.C.L.E. But, that had been so many years ago, and he was fulfilling his role as a Soviet representative to the organization. His head ached at the effort it took to keep himself calm, the professional cool for which he was known was suddenly not available. A tangible dread overtook him and he knew he didn't want this assignment, didn't want to tread back into the icy waters of Soviet intelligence and the men who dwelt there. Solo saw it. He witnessed uncharacteristic fear as the scenario played out in his mind; he would be vulnerable within that group.
"Very certain. They will be there, they always travel with these artistic ambassadors. They will undoubtedly be aware of my presence within hours, if not beforehand". Both men contemplated the repercussions, knowing all they could do was take it step by step.
By the time Madame Karina had arrived at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, Illya was already in the gym, dressed and ready to begin his lessons. He hadn't danced since he was around fourteen; it hadn't taken the instructors in his school very long to recognize the limitations of the boy's abilities. Still, they had endured him for two years, and most of that time he had suffered their harsh reproves and physical abuse. For someone to survive one of the Soviet special schools was to be assured of standing within the rarefied Soviet artistic community, and the lifestyle that was limited to the few who had enough talent and stamina to succeed. Illya had lacked the former, and the relief when they redirected him to gymnastics had liberated him for a time, guiding him to the University of Georgia in the Ukraine. Those years had been good, and he had established himself as an intellectual worthy of more investment, more favor. Ballet, though, and the people associated with it, had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Now, standing at the bar awaiting instructions, he felt the resentment return. This woman, this Madame Karina, was young for her role, he thought. She had long brown hair that had been tied back with a pink ribbon. She was pretty, and he didn't neglect to notice that she wasn't as condescending as were the crones of his memories. They had tormented him for his size and timidity, for his large feet. What did they expect? They had put him there; he had not sought them out.
Reviewing positions;" first, second, third, fourth fifth...hands out, fingers like this...not like a farm worker. Drape your arms, elegantly like this; point your toe, hold that for one, two, three, four...relax."
It went on for hours, and little by little his body remembered the positions, the nuances of dance, the dignity of Russian ballet. He was sweating profusely, and his legs were aching. His arms trembled at holding positions for too long until finally, she said "quit".
"ne ploho dlya 1, poka iz praktiki"
"Yes, I am badly out of practice". Illya laughed at himself, appreciating her smile as she chided him for his hard work.
"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, you have some ability, but clearly leaving the dance was a good move for you, yes". She looked at the blond, thinking he was well built, but not a dancer. She knew he had been a gymnast, and thought that suited him much better. Still, he was striking with his pale hair and the blue eyes, not unlike many others from their homeland. They were a handsome people, and this one especially so. ' It would be nice to do something with him besides this business', she was still imagining it when he spoke to her.
"So, Madame, how long do we go today? Might we possibly break for lunch?" He was starving, and he didn't need to work off any calories, in fact he felt as though if he didn't eat, the rest of the day would be lost to him. She looked him over, considering the proposition.
"Yes, you're right. You don't look as though you eat much, though. You are quite thin, Illya Nicovetch". She was teasing him, and he smiled in return with a shy look from beneath the blond bangs that fringed his forehead, adding to the appearance of being much younger than he was. Madame Karina would hate to see this one get hurt, and she hoped that he was good at his job...better than his dancing.
There was some flurry of activity around Wanda's station as Napoleon cruised by on his way to Mr. Waverly's office. He had cut through the girls' club and found the aforementioned Wanda, Denise from research, as well as Mr. Waverly's niece Maude. The three of them were giggling and talking about something or someone but stopped completely when he was within earshot of the conversation. He flattered himself that it was probably about him, having dated each of them at least once.
"Good morning girls". The smile was deadly, but they actually seemed to not want him to stop for any length of time.
"Hi Napoleon. Have a nice day...b'bye", Margo waved him on and cast a furtive glance as he passed between them. Odd.
When he was out of range, Maude continued:
"So, like I was saying, I passed by the gym today and it was locked. I barely got a look inside and there was a woman in there, in tights and a tunic, and this blond guy that I didn't recognize at first. He was in tights, and a sleeveless tee shirt that was soaked with sweat. You should know that he has an exquisite derriere, and his legs...like carved stone.' She paused for effect, the other two waiting but, she was certain, bound to not believe what came next.
"They were doing ballet. She must be a teacher, because she was counting off to music, yelling at him and generally giving him a really bad time. He had his back to me for a long time, and then he turned around and it was...Kuryakin". She said it in a breathy tone that fairly oozed with innuendo. A collective gasp came up from her two friends and she had them hooked.
"No way. Are you serious. Illya was dancing...ballet?" Wanda didn't believe it. Not the Russian.
"I believe it. He was enrolled in some Soviet state school when he was really young. Before they switched him to gymnastics, he studied ballet". The other two looked at Denise like she had a third eye in her forehead.
"I'm in research girls. Sometimes I actually do research on our own people. Sometimes...I peak". She blushed at that, not wanting to admit the huge crush she had on the blond agent. The thought of him in tights was almost more than she could handle.
"So, Maude, what else did you see in there?" Wanda wanted to know, although she didn't want to come off as too anxious. Still, the man's derriere was a pretty common topic of conversation among the girls at U.N.C.L.E.
"Let me tell you, his body is made for that get up. He's really taut and firm, no fat anywhere and in those tights...ev-er-y-thing shows. ". She pulled that word out as long as it would go, creating a slightly lascivious effect in the process. They all quit talking, each trying to get a mental picture of what ev-er-y-thing must look like. They all took a moment to let that sink in before the conversation started up again.
"Does Napoleon know?" Margo figured he must...
"Does Napoleon know what...? Sorry girls, I forgot something and certainly didn't mean to eavesdrop". The brown-eyed agent wasn't used to coming in second among the girls, and now he really wondered whom they were talking about.
"Oh, Mr. Solo, you know how we girls are, just silly". Maude tried to save them. Then again, it wouldn't hurt Napoleon to appreciate just how much competition his partner could give him if he really wanted to.
"I saw Illya practicing in the gym with a ballet instructor. We just wondered what type of assignment would require him to...do that". Napoleon was a little surprised, but he knew his partner had his fan club. It was mostly from a distance, but the mystery seemed to hold them enthrall even more so than if he actually responded to them. It was something he had yet to figure out.
Illya had spotted Maude Waverly peeking beneath the shades, watching him. He couldn't help it now if everyone found out. Certainly, some of the women wouldn't care, might even appreciate a man, well...him...doing this. He knew they watched him. He did understand the effect he had on women, and used it sparingly. There were precious few of them he actually wanted, and even less that he needed. His standards were higher, he reasoned, than those of his constantly searching partner. What he couldn't help was the utterly unpredictable moments when, caught off guard, he did something that elicited reactions that irritated the men but drew females to him like bees to honey. He knew he was honey, always had been. Choosing to be slurped up indiscriminately however, was not his style. And, regardless of what Solo thought, he did have some.
The little ballet company had been granted permission to travel in spite of its relative obscurity. This little troupe was an experiment of sorts, gathering students who hadn't made it to the upper echelon of Soviet life via the world famous Kirov. These lesser talents were still far and away better than most of what the rest of the world offered, according to the literature.
Under the guise of a dancer and instructor, Illya was set to join a local group who would be playing host to the Russians. Master classes and several performances would dot the itinerary of the visiting dancers as well as several social obligations. The UNCLE agent would be on hand for all of these events, closely watching and waiting for an expected contact from among the ballet troupe. As for his own participation, his whirlwind refresher course along with all of the preparation had left him feeling fairly confidant, certainly well toned from the workouts. He felt as though he was in better condition now than he had been previous to all of this. Certainly the secretarial pool agreed.
Before leaving New York headquarters, he had been teased and tormented by everyone at headquarters. The "girls" had become a fan club, of sorts, trying to sneak by the shield of privacy that had failed to protect him adequately. Some of the men had taken delight in adding this latest bit of evidence to their already prejudiced view of the Russian, assuming much and knowing very little. The majority of the ribbing had been good natured, however, and by the time his practice schedule had been discovered and no small amount of admiration had drifted his way, he was resigned to the task at hand and not entirely put off of dancing, the memories suddenly not as oppressive as he had originally remembered them to be.
There was no question that he would not have had any success in the dance world. He primarily needed to be able to help the dancers along in their own pursuits of excellence. That he could do, and his own instructress, Karina, had guided him through the process of finding the aesthetics and perspective necessary to make his role plausible. The old adage came to mind: those that can do, those that can't teach. He certainly qualified for that pithy saying.
The mission was simple: A member of the ballet troupe had information that could help stop the production of a new Thrush explosive. It was a radiated plastique that could boast of not only horrendous danger from impact, but the addition of producing radioactive poisons that would shut down life and industry in a radius of about 200 miles. That meant danger to cities large and small; one explosion could ruin life for thousands or even millions of citizens of any country in the world. As far as was known, the results indicated a finished product was not very close to completion, perhaps even as far off as eight or nine months.
The two agents working on this had tracked the scientist to London, but they had lost the trail over a month prior to Illya's assignment. By an extraordinary stroke of good luck or something like it, a message had gotten through to UNCLE about an informant in the Soviet Union who would be in the USA within the month. Somehow this individual had obtained the location of the lab and an accurate description of the explosive compound. There were no other details, leaving the powers in Section One to weigh the dangers and possible success in obtaining this potentially valuable item of intelligence. Without it the search could take months longer, the satrap was so heavily buried within the city. The risk was worth the hoped for result. So far, what was wanted in exchange for the information was unclear, however the likelihood of amnesty was high on the list of conjectures. The contact within the dance troupe had the information to get them to the lab, as well as details that would allow them to infiltrate it. It was simple. It should be simple. Illya hoped it would be simple.
When Illya walked into the practice room of the New Minsk Ballet Company, girls in tights and leotards were lined up on one side of the room at the barre. They were in various stages of stretches and positions, waiting for their dance instructress to arrive and set their paces for the next hour. The men, a smaller group but present nonetheless, were at the other end of the practice room, each of them curious as to the identity of the new assistant instructor. They had heard he was Russian, but otherwise none of them had actually seen him yet. Rumors were rampant, however, and the word was he was a defector who had been part of the great Kirov Ballet. If that were true, this must be a big let down for his career, and they wondered how he had ended up in this little company of dancers. They all supposed that it must be a contact with Karina, who was also Russian. Perhaps they had been lovers there...
He was dressed in the standard dancewear; dark grey tights, a sleeveless, scooped neck knit shirt and legwarmers. A ramie knit sweater topped all of this, and it draped loosely from one shoulder ever so slightly. He looked the part of a dancer as much or more so than the students who were watching him now. His blond hair and blue eyes completed the look of who they thought he might be; a Russian prince perhaps; the girls certainly thought so. He was exotic looking, even for New York.
There were two sessions in the morning, the first for stretching and exercises then working on technical aspects for each dancer. The next round of activity was punctuated by appraisals of individuals slotted for leads in the upcoming performances. Karina handled these while Illya took the second group, the non-leading dancers. By lunchtime the room had cleared and the accompanist had gone, leaving only Illya and Madame Karina. She eyed him over appraisingly, finally admitting to herself that he had done a decent job with her dancers. She was proud of her little dance troupe, and prouder still that they were to host her countrymen for the duration of their stay in America. To have become involved with this intrigue had not been in her plan, still she trusted this man and the information his Mr. Waverly had shared with her. If she could help stop the terror of that awful scientist's work, then they were welcome to create this ruse. She also realized that this blond one would be the subject of much speculation and gossiping. She had even overheard one of the comments about the two of them being involved romantically. It did not seem an altogether unpleasant idea.
"Alright, Illya, how do you think your morning went?" She smiled, knowing from their previous encounters that there had been some trepidation for him in this assignment. She had no doubts that this first hurdle would be the most difficult.
"I think they worked really hard, and seemed receptive to my...instruction. I hope you think it was satisfactory". His eyes met hers with a questioning expression. He had wanted to do well, hoping that his role here could somehow be successful.
"I observed all of you, and it seemed to be a productive morning. The company all appear to really like you. That is helpful".
"I appreciate that. They are all fine dancers. You seem to have an excellent program here, and I commend you for the work you've done. I am certain that they will be pleased with the performances of the New World Company. Most of them are themselves the same ages as your dancers. I look forward to seeing them onstage". That was true, as he was hoping that he would be able to see an entire performance after the exchange with the mysterious contact had been made.
Napoleon's role in all of this was to be, of necessity, quite different. Having no background or inclination towards dance unless it included dinner and drinks, he was on hand posing as an investor in the dance company. No one thought it unusual for someone like that to hang around and see how it all worked. So it was that he and Illya were allowed to converse and keep in touch very easily within the practice hall. If the CEA of UNCLE North America had any opinions about his partner in this current role, he kept it to himself. He found that he was a little surprised at the ease with which the blond had taken to it, and certainly admired his ability to do so. He also had to admit that it wasn't too hard to appreciate what it was about him that drew so many admiring glances and comments from the female employees at headquarters. It wasn't likely he would try and compete on this territory, however. This one he had to give to Illya, for now.
The day progressed under Karina's capable instruction and direction, Illya following her lead and developing a flow to the interaction with the dancers and their needs. Tempers occasionally flared and girls nursed sore feet from the excruciating toe shoes, something that Illya had never been able to comprehend. He even tended to one or two, administering whatever care he felt appropriate for his position. Karina watched all of it, taking in the ease with which he assimilated this character, so out of touch now with being a spy. As Napoleon played his part, making phone calls to no one and taking notes, pretending projections of expenses and profits, he also observed. The lovely ballet instructress had eyes for his little Russian friend, and he was probably the only one who didn't realize it. If it weren't for the business they were in, how far off was this scenario, he wondered.
The Soviet troupe was scheduled to arrive at 8 o'clock in the morning. The Aeroflot and its passengers would receive a bit of press, then the little troupe would proceed to their hotel in Manhattan. Decadence aside, it was considered inappropriate for Soviet artists to not be seen in the best surroundings, their excellence rewarded with American excess to reinforce their obvious Russian superiority. The dancers were delighted with the choice of the Plaza Hotel, that establishment's reputation known around the world. Nor did it impugn the integrity of the KGB agents who accompanied the dancers to stay in such capitalistic splendor.
Such was the nature of their responsibilities that any sacrifice was welcomed. There were two representatives of the Soviet government on this trip. Anatoly Putkin was a veteran of many years, and had seen superiors come and go. He remained steady, uncharacteristically unmotivated to achieve anything more than survival in this profession. He knew that this trip to New York would be a highlight of his career, a reward for patient and unobtrusive loyalty to the state. His colleague was less content, and saw this assignment as another stepping-stone in an already sparkling example of how to climb to the top. Nicholas Popov had a sense of impending action, and he was prepared for whatever might come across his path. His intelligence regarding this trip had yielded the possibility of information being passed from one of the dance troupe members. He didn't know who or even what nature of intelligence was involved...yet. Nor did he know for whom the information was designated. He was certain, however, that when it began to manifest, he would recognize them both.
Illya Kuryakin was certain that at some point he would be recognized by the Soviets. The KGB had yielded to his appointment to UNCLE, but there were some among them that hadn't approved. The fact that a Soviet citizen could be at home here in America, and not imbedded as an agent of their own was a rub that irked and inflamed some of the old guard. On the face of it, there had to be approval for his presence as a part of the multi-national intelligence agency. Under the surface, there were some who would dearly enjoy getting him back to the USSR for purposes he knew would prove fatal. He would need Napoleon at his back, and to be very careful once the New World troupe arrived.
While the Soviets settled into their hotel and were appraised of their schedules and limited access to New York, the New Minsk Ballet Company continued to practice, working on the roles they would have in solo as well as combined performances with their Soviet counterparts. Illya was pleased at what he witnessed, exceptionally glad that he was able to pull this off. The old memories were fading and being replaced by a new and genuine sense of enjoyment at what he was doing and how his body felt pushing to achieve motion and flexibility that he had forgotten about. The muscles remembered it seemed, and for all of the aches and discomfort that might come later, the freedom of moving like this was exhilarating to him. Karina took notice as well, thinking that he was improving, and that he might yet make a dancer.
Karina wanted to dance with Illya. She began to choreograph in her mind the perfect routine for them, hoping to engage him in something a little more advanced than what he thought he was capable of performing. What she was seeing in him was giving her an indication of just how hard he was willing to work in order to achieve a goal, and before this was over, she intended to know what it felt like for him to hold her. If dance were all they had, then it would be in the dance.
Napoleon had been in constant contact with people at the Plaza, section three agents who were there to observe and report on the personnel in the Soviet entourage. The KGB agents had been identified and their backgrounds were being checked against Illya's; if there was a connection between them it would be better to know of it now. They were also on the lookout for Thrush, for as surely as there were pigeons in New York, there were bound to be Thrush agents who had gotten wind of the information that was about to be passed to UNCLE. There was still no indication of the contact within the dance troupe, which was a positive as long as Thrush also remained ignorant. Not thinking the KGB would want to hinder the efforts to stop a weapon like the one in London, there was still the consideration of how they might react to UNCLE's own Russian. Napoleon had to protect his partner from all sides, and still make certain that they obtained the lab location from the mystery man among the dancers. He was beginning to feel the same type of dread that he'd seen in his friend; for different reasons perhaps, but dread just the same.
On the second day in New York, the New World Dance Company from Moscow loaded onto a bus for a trip to Brooklyn. It would take them through the city and across the landmarks with which they were only vaguely familiar. This first bus ride was their "tour", their opportunity to see some of the vastness of the American capitalistic dream. It was breathtaking to some, those whose ideals were not quite as concrete in Soviet pragmatism and rhetoric. To those who were stalwart in their repugnance at all things American, they shielded their eyes from the effrontery of such vulgar consumerism. It was art that had brought them here and it was the only reason to sully their aesthetics with the scenery they encountered. Still, they all wondered what it would be like...
As the bus finally arrived at it's destination in a decidedly less capitalistic looking neighborhood, the dancers began to disembark at the rehearsal hall and central hub of the New Minsk Dance Company. The name was not lost on them, for here they would find a fellow countryman, or woman; someone who had left the Soviet Union under circumstances they might never discover, but whose reputation was somehow not sullied so much as for the state to deny them this cultural exchange opportunity. There were some mysteries in life, to be sure. Better to not ask than to be found with illicit knowledge.
Illya was there to greet them. He had received the information gathered on the accompanying KGB agents, and was able to say confidently that he did not know them. Whether they might recognize him was another story, however. He had no way of knowing if he might still be a subject of interest to the two men. In addition to keeping an eye on these two, there was the added precaution of monitoring communication to the Soviet Embassy, and known Soviet agents within the city. All of this to protect the man who was of so much value to UNCLE, and the promise of information that might possibly save millions of lives. For Napoleon, the responsibility for keeping all of this in tandem, with all personnel in a heightened awareness and communications ongoing, was a test of his abilities. He was up to it, and the increased pressure to insure the safety of his partner only served to make him doubly cautious and exacting of the people under his command.
The sessions began and ended with a great deal of enthusiasm as both groups greeted, danced and encouraged each other. The sense of détente was certainly in evidence as the communion of artistic expression permeated their fledgling relationships. Karina and Illya met with the artistic director of the visiting group, all of them speaking in their native language and enjoying the exchange of ideas and histories. Although not much could be revealed by the two New Yorkers, the Soviet members embraced them and cheered them with whatever good news they could from their homeland. If Illya had thought to be somehow excluded from this, he was relieved at the warmth of this group; unlike the intelligence community, these dancers had a joy about them that refreshed his spirit. He had missed the inherent happiness that the Russian people were capable of showing; without the confines of political rhetoric, the dancers became one troupe with a single objective: to dance.
At the end of the day, as the Soviets were leaving, Illya and Karina retreated into her office to review everything. She found a small vase of roses with a single card. Even though the flowers were on her desk, the note was intended for the UNCLE agent and had a short message inside:
A pas de deux at midnight
"It seems that your contact has a way out from the scrutiny of his KGB escorts". Karina thought it extraordinary that a member of the Soviet group would risk trying to get away from the hotel in the middle of the night. Illya agreed and shook his head in disbelief. This was not just a dancer, perhaps.
"I will be here to receive him then. It is a relief to have it occur so quickly, I must admit". He was glad for it. The sooner they had the information the sooner that London Thrush laboratory could be shut down. He wondered if that would mean the end of his role-playing here...
"Will you remain with us even after the meeting?" The woman read his thoughts and echoed them with her own disappointment.
"I will need to check with Mr. Waverly, of course. If it will help you, I will perhaps be allowed to continue here...for a little while". He said it and was nearly disbelieving even as the words came out. Would he really stay and participate in this capacity as a dancer?
"We will know more after my midnight meeting". He had four hours until then, and he needed to contact his partner.
The dance had truly begun.
Kuryakin left the dance instructress in her office, his mind beginning to calculate a plan for the evening's meeting. After changing into jeans and a pullover sweater, he checked his watch and then raised Napoleon on the communicator before walking out of the studio, not wanting to be seen talking into a pen as he traveled the distance to the subway entrance.
Their ideas about how to handle this crucial appointment were completely in synch, as was typical of their working relationship. Illya would return to the studio at eleven thirty, a half hour before the note's suggested time. A pas de deux was a request for only the one UNCLE agent to be present, and Illya wondered how he had been identified so quickly. He had to consider the possibility of a KGB presence as well; the two officers accompanying the Russian troupe had seemed to not know him, but he knew only too well the acting abilities of most of his former comrades. If they recognized him and had an agenda of some sort, the midnight meeting would be a perfect opportunity to gain an advantage.
His mind was so preoccupied with all of these things that he might have missed his stop on the line, but training and an overactive sensibility to his surroundings guaranteed his ability to think and act on numerous prompts and subjects. As he exited the subway stairs, he had formulated his plan with the necessary safeguards and, if necessary, escape scenarios. Napoleon would be close by, monitoring the entire rendezvous from the microphone Illya would be wearing. If trouble were to arise, then he would be on the scene immediately.
When he arrived at his apartment, his partner was already inside sipping scotch and surveying the meager furnishings within.
"Ah, I see you have let yourself in. And, you've found the scotch". The blond smiled at his friend's guarded body language; the decidedly decadent American continued to marvel at his lack of excess in spite of the ability to have much more.
"Illya, when are you going to finally splurge and buy yourself something new? This sofa has seen better days...lots of them". The scowl he received in return was merely part of the game. Illya found his apartment comforting and sufficient. What more was necessary? Napoleon would never understand his own point of view in these things. Compared to where he had been in years past, this was excess.
"It never keeps you from drinking my scotch, so how bad can it be? You, my friend, are the poster child for American decadence. I have enough, and that is sufficiently decadent for me". How many times had they repeated these lines? Too many, and he would eventually grow weary of it. But, his friendship with the dark haired American was an anchor here in this country. That, he hoped, had the potential for great longevity.
"Have you decided how to proceed this evening? I mean, beyond what we discussed earlier..." Illya had the lead on this assignment, was taking the greater risk, and Napoleon would back him on whatever decisions he made short of recklessness. That was something they saved for their last ditch efforts; something they encountered too frequently to count.
"As we discussed, I will go in early, at eleven thirty. You will be on the street in your car, hopefully out of sight. I shall wear the microphone, and if trouble is visible to me, I will say 'Are there others about'. That is your signal to crash the party and be prepared for a battle. I hope it doesn't come to that. This individual has risked quite a lot to come here and deliver this information to us. I can't imagine how it is he hopes to evade the KGB agents that are with the company, but...we shall see". Illya marveled at the audacity to escape from under the KGB scrutiny.
"All right, Illya, I think that, once you have the information, you should just disappear from this scene. The longer you remain there, the more likely you are to become a target yourself". Illya ran a hand through his hair, a habit borne from years of defying the rigid rules of men's hairstyling, his blond bangs always falling forward rather than being tamed by gels and a barber's comb.
He had just finished telling Karina that he would stay, if possible. But, what Napoleon said was true, and he had no desire to get entangled in a KGB intrigue.
"You are, no doubt, correct in that. I had hoped to remain and help...the dance company". He decided to not name her, lest his friend begin a new round of teasing remarks concerning the pretty Karina. It wasn't romantic, but he did enjoy the companionship of someone who understood where he came from, how he formulated his ideas and opinions. That was something he missed here in the 'land of the free'. Most of the citizens had no idea what freedom meant, because they had never been without it.
Napoleon saw something cross the Russian's face, and he recognized the momentary lapse of control. It wasn't often that he could really read this man's emotions, but he was learning. It was a course in human nature that wasn't easy to master; only time and attention to detail was helping him in this study of the enigmatic blond. They had a friendship to accompany their partnership, but sometimes it was like opening a metal tin with your fingernails to get beneath the faade that Illya kept so firmly in place.
"Illya...I know you have enjoyed being among these...your countrymen. But, your position with UNCLE has to come first, and placing you in danger of abduction or...something worse..." Illya cut his eyes across the room to pin Napoleon's own as though shot through with a laser beam.
"There would not be anything worse than abduction by the KGB, trust me on that. I would sooner take a bullet than be shuttled back to Moscow and...well, it would not be a life I could now tolerate. In any event, they would most likely either shoot me or send me to Siberia to a labor camp. I don't think it's likely, but I don't want to risk it. You're right about that". He knew he would need to leave the dance company at the end of this evening's business meeting.
"So, we're settled on this? Once you have the information we go directly back to headquarters and proceed with dismantling the Thrush operation in London...right?" The cool exterior was back in place. No one could ever assume that Kuryakin wanted anything more than to serve the command.
"Yes, that is correct. We have time for dinner, I think". A chill breeze blew into the apartment at the same moment that he spoke those words. The doors had closed, and it was all business from here on out.
At exactly eleven thirty in the evening, Illya was unlocking the door to the ballet studio and making his way into the main rehearsal hall, and down the adjoining hallway. His footsteps were ghostly, barely a whisper against the wood floors as he walked along the empty corridors leading to Karina's office. He would start there, since the flowers had been delivered to that room. The building was lifeless at this time of night, a stream of light from the streetlamps became a type of spotlight through the large plate glass windows and traveled through the open spaces. He avoided the light as his path wound down towards his destination, farther into the old building. Once he was at the door of the office, he stopped to take a deep breath, checking for the UNCLE Special that was in the holster beneath his jacket. He knew it was there, but the act of touching had become a type of ritual in situations such as this; sort of like a prayer to a god he hadn't met.
In one smooth motion he pushed open the door and closed it behind him, and was startled to see a woman sitting at Karina's desk. He recognized her as one of the Russian dancers; not a lead but one of the corps de ballet. He recalled that her name was Yelena...
"Comrade Kuryakin, we are both a little earlier than either one of us anticipated'... She motioned for him to sit.
"Perhaps you are surprised to see me, I think". His mouth quirked into a half smile, his eyes never leaving hers. He sat across from her, keeping his hands below the desktop, every nerve on edge as he anticipated any move she might make.
"I am surprised that you have evaded the KGB agents who are tending to your company. I hope you were careful to take note of their whereabouts". He sincerely did hope that, and was still not certain that one or both of them weren't here in the building.
"I assure you, my presence is accounted for, and I will not be missed nor accused. Nicholas Andreivitch Popov is sleeping soundly...in my bed. He will not awake for several hours, by which time we will have concluded our business". This admission was somehow surprising to Illya; why had he assumed he was not dealing with a professional? This woman appeared to be an experienced operative, perhaps trained as he had been, from his youth.
"I will not ask you for details, Yelena, only the information. You have it with you, do you not". He wanted this to be over quickly. He didn't trust her estimation of the security she described to him.
"I have it here...' She began to reach into her jacket pocket, but he stopped her.
"Do not do that. Please, stand up...' He rounded the desk and stood in front of her, reaching with his left hand into the pocket she had indicated. He felt the envelope, eased it out as if it were an explosive. It could have been stationery, a letter home from the traveling dancer. He felt a slight sense of relief as he turned it over, considering opening it here on the spot.
"Sit down, Yelena. How is that you came to have this information?" He still had no clue as to her involvement in this, or why a Soviet citizen should be carrying information about a Thrush operation in London.
"I am not KGB, Illya. My brother is a chemist, and has been working for Thrush for the past decade. At first he thought they were a scientific organization, and that their research would have benefits for the world. By the time he understood what the hierarchy truly is, it was too late for him to escape. He did manage to get this information to me, however, with the request that I somehow deliver it to the U.N.C.L.E. I was unfamiliar with your organization, but after many months of covert communication, Uri was able to educate me. By that time, this trip had been planned, and I saw my opportunity. It has been grueling to make this work, and you can see by my presence here that I have made sacrifices".
Illya considered this tale, and decided that she was telling the truth. He also discerned that perhaps, she had something else on her agenda.
"What else is that you want from us, Yelena? Or, do you actually intend to go back to Russia?"
It wasn't hard to figure her desires in this situation. She had delivered valuable information for UNCLE in the war against Thrush. She must want something for herself.
"I have no intention of going back, and I am certain you have already determined that. So, the question remains, how will you protect me?"
Illya let out a sigh of resignation. Of course, it had to be this way. But, how to do this without jeopardizing the others, or the goodwill trip of which they were all a part ?
He reached for his communicator...
"Open channel D...Mr. Waverly please..."
"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. What do you have to report?"
"Sir, we have a situation".
It was obvious that Yelena could not go back to the Plaza, or to the dance company with which she had arrived in America. The first order of business would be to get her to UNCLE headquarters, as per Mr. Waverly's instructions, and then to notify the State Department of her intentions to defect from the Soviet Union.
What was not clear was whether or not Illya would remain with the New Minsk troupe, alongside Karina as her Russian instructor. The information that Yelena had brought to UNCLE would prove to be the answer to finding and destroying the London Thrush lab. The command would also have the task of bringing out her brother, Uri, from the bowels of the enemy. He also wanted to defect: from Thrush.
All of these things had yet to be determined and planned, but of immediate concern was getting out of the dance studio and back to HQ. Illya was risking his position and cover here, and didn't know whether he would be safe from the KGB when the doors opened in the morning. Even now, there was a possibility that Nicholas Popov was awake and looking for his bedmate, Yelena.
Waverly had given him the command: bring the girl back to headquarters and begin debriefing her. Get the information to the men in London, and summon Napoleon for a meeting in the old man's office. No one was getting any sleep tonight.
By the time Napoleon arrived at headquarters, Illya had sent the encrypted message to London concerning the Thrush lab. He had also set in motion a rescue plan for the retrieval of Uri, Yelena's brother. If her story were correct, both brother and sister wanted out of their current situations and planted safely within western, non Thrush, non Soviet environments. It was possible that Uri would find a place in UNCLE's labs, his expertise and knowledge of Thrush compounds and formulas being highly desirable. As for Yelena, she could, no doubt, find a place in one of the many ballet companies within the United States, if that was her desire. Russian dancers demanded and received many open doors to Western decadence.
"Illya, what's the status?"
The CEA of UNCLE Northwest walked into Waverly's office looking as though he had stepped from the stage of an Armani fashion show. The contrasting appearance of his blond partner was a constant amusement to their superior, and never more so than now.
Illya was in faded jeans and a tee shirt, black leather boots, and a scarf that hung around his neck, much in the fashion of the Europeans with whom he had been in company the past several days. His blond hair was in disarray, although that was not necessarily unusual; Waverly had never quite gotten used to the man's unorthodox hair styling preference. Tonight he looked decidedly the part of a Russian dancer, and he was aware of his secretary's lingering examination of the man. He supposed he had enjoyed his days of youthful expression as well; his mind's eye rolled back to some particularly pleasant memories, briefly reliving them before he shook himself back to the present dilemma.
Napoleon had been engaged in a midnight supper when he received the call. His date, although disappointed, was familiar with the often erratic schedule, she being a member of the New York staff. He had dressed and hailed a cab, making it to the UNCLE enclave in record time. He understood the urgency of this mission, and wondered now if his partner's cover had been blown wide open by this event.
"The status, Napoleon, is that we have a Soviet defector here among us. She has a brother who wants out of Thrush, which is, by the way, how we've come into possession of this information. She can't go back to the troupe, so we'll need to hand her over to the State Department, hopefully sooner than later. As for me, I am unsure of my next move. Mr. Waverly has not yet discussed it with me, although I am inclined to not continue...' he looked towards the man who would make that decision, realizing he had spoken out of turn, perhaps.
"I mean to say, sir, that I cannot see a purpose...if the cover is no longer useful..." A faint blush rose up from his neck as he reacted to his embarrassment. Just a few days in an artistic community had relaxed his sense of decorum, prompting him to think it was probably a good reason to not return.
Napoleon caught a glimmer of uncertainty. If nothing else, Illya had been enjoying the camaraderie of his countrymen and women. The artistic environment had also suited him, the freedom of being with people who weren't concerned with state secrets or world domination. If not for the KGB, the entire episode would have been very carefree for his friend. The man's appearance had not been lost on him, either. The bland grey walls of the room only served to make him appear more out of place. He wondered why Illya hadn't removed the scarf, then remembered seeing several of the dancers wearing a similar accessory, even indoors. The entire picture was so out of character for the normally staid and, frankly plain Russian. There was a spark of something now that belied the taciturn image that had been so carefully crafted. Something akin to sentimentality made the American wish that his Russian friend could remain like this; expressive and...free perhaps. So, why was he hedging regarding a return to the studio? It was a dichotomy of loyalties and desire; perhaps too much of one.
For Napoleon's part, he believed that Illya would need to return, in spite of whatever danger there might still be. Thrush most probably had someone inside, and that still needed to be taken care of. Yelena would be missed, and whoever Thrush had there would know why. Mr. Waverly might be able to work with the Soviet agents, regardless of the defection, but dealing with Thrush would be quite a different matter. Better to keep the agents inside until all questions were eliminated.
"Yes, well...ahem'... The old man understood the Russian's conflicting feelings; whether it would be safe for him to return was a question, as was the equally dangerous desire to be included in that group of dancers. He recognized the fleeting sense of freedom among his own people, although it was a false impression. They were only as free as the KGB agents allowed them to be; it was all an illusion. Illya knew that, of course, and Alexander Waverly was not insensitive to the younger man's yearnings regarding his homeland and heritage. But, the mission came first, and it was not yet completed. Mr. Kuryakin would need to regain his edge, and his perspective, in order to remain in charge of this experience.
"I believe, Mr. Kuryakin, that you will be returning to a real pot boiler, to be certain. The KGB are going to increase security, but I will be speaking with the ambassador. The details will not be completely divulged, but they will understand the dangers that are being eliminated by the information the defector has brought to us. I believe that will be quite enough for them to relinquish the woman...with some measure of grace. An acceptable story can be fabricated in order for them to save face".
Illya accepted this as an order for him to return, to remain in his role within the dance company. Karina would not need to know all of the details, but there would be an increased level of security regarding the inevitable activity of Thrush within the group. First, though, would be dealing with the KGB agents.
The blond head remained slightly down, his eyes just managing to peer up at his superior during this show of bravado in the face of Soviet threats and State Department lethargy. Yelena was still in the building, waiting for her escorts from state to appear. Alexander Waverly had already fronted the irate calls from the Soviet Embassy, their threatening verbal assault merely a ruse of political machinations in the face of the agency's obvious involvement. They would be watching Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin very carefully, yes they would. The U.N.C.L.E. should not think they could be party to such a thing as defection of a Soviet citizen, and continue to escape unscathed.
Mr. Waverly had attempted to persuade them that it was not of their doing, but that the episode had netted for them valuable information regarding a nefarious Thrush scheme that would, most probably, have impacted the Soviet Union just as dramatically as the United States, Great Britain or many other nations. Thrush was its own entity, its own supranational nightmare. They cared not whom they victimized.
As Illya and Napoleon had listened to these conversations, each of the men knew that the next phase of this operation would be to locate and eliminate the Thrush operatives that were more than likely within one or both of the dance troupes. Illya couldn't think of anyone to isolate as a suspect, and wondered if the threat would be from without, rather than within the two companies of dancers. Napoleon would be the most likely now to have any contact with a Thrush, since his business was handled outside of the creative elements. He began to go through the list of contributors, both financial and social. It was possible that he had encountered the individual, or group of individuals, in examining the financial and theatrical contacts. There was still a performance to be held at Carnegie Hall.
There were still three days to go before the Soviet troupe was on a plane back to their homeland.
In the bedroom of Yelena Ivanov, Nicholas Popov stirred in his sleep. He reached out to touch the woman who had been sleeping next to him, only to find an empty spot in the bed. That served to awaken the man, and his eyes surveyed the room until he was satisfied she was not there. He shot out of the bed, turned on the lights and dressed as quickly as his anger would allow him. He knew she was gone. She had played him, brought him here to secure her exit and, by the feel of his head, drugged him.
Kuryakin was probably involved in this, his own allegiance to the Soviet Union very much in doubt. Of course they knew he was an UNCLE agent, they had spotted him the first day. But, they hadn't counted on him interfering with Soviet citizens, certainly not aiding a defector; although, to be honest, he was just as much a one as the bitch, Yelena. Right under his nose!
Someone would pay for this, especially if they couldn't get her back.
Yelena was startled as the door to the interrogation room opened. The starkness of the room was uncomfortable for her, and she had a sense of dread, as though the KGB might be on the other side of that glass wall. To her relief, the man who came into the room was Illya Kuryakin, and she relaxed at the sight of the blond agent. She had not immediately spotted him upon first encountering the American dancers. He looked the part, and his being Russian had finally alerted her to his identity. That was the singular clue she had been given: one of your own. She had decided it couldn't be the woman, Karina, since the troupe was hers. It was, by elimination, Kuryakin.
"Are you all right in here?" The question was asked in Russian, and she appreciated that; perhaps it also meant the conversation would be private.
"I am fine, thank you. Are they making any progress towards my amnesty...my defection?" She knew it could collapse, that politicians and bureaucrats might still ruin her bid for escape from the Soviet Union. And what of her brother, Uri? How close were they to getting him away from Thrush?
Illya regretted that he had not yet heard of any arriving representatives from the Americans. He didn't want Yelena to see his irritation or worry. She had paid a price for all of this, and needed their protection. There was not much else that he could do, as the morning was approaching and the time for him to return to the dance studio and his role there was closing in.
"Yelena, I will be leaving here soon. Mr. Waverly is in touch with the appropriate people, and will make certain that you are protected and taken care of. You are safe here".
She believed him, trusted in the sincerity of the blue eyes as they bore into hers. She wished that she hadn't needed to bed Nicholas Popov in order to escape; wished instead that she had gone directly to this man and let him handle the details. She could be happy with a man such as this, but now...
"Will I see you again?" Her eyes were beginning to brim with tears as she waited for something from him. How foolish of her to think that in this short period of time she could become attached to him. It was the circumstance, the uncertainty that was flooding her.
"I do not know what your activities will be after this...after you leave here. UNCLE will no longer be involved in your placement. Yelena'...
He took her hand and looked as firm and unemotional as he was able...
"We are Russian, we survive. My life is uncertain and relationships are a luxury, which are not afforded easily to men such as I. You will find a new life in America, with new people. It doesn't all begin and end here, within these walls. Do you believe me?" She took a breath, nodded her head and acknowledged that she did. She couldn't bring herself to speak, the intensity of this decision she had made suddenly weighing in unbearably upon her. Nothing would ever be the same again; how she hoped that Uri would be able to join her here in this country.
"All right then, you will be taken care of...I promise you that".
Illya kissed her on each cheek, then took her hands in his and kissed the back of them as well. The enormity of the situation was not lost on him, the sense of aloneness that she faced was something he had also endured and, finally, overcome. At least, most of the time, he felt that he had. At moments like this he was reminded of how isolated he had felt for so long among these people. She would be fine, however. She would find a community of artists such as herself, and then life would begin to be good.
He turned and left the room, pausing on the other side of the door as it closed behind him. Passersby noted how he momentarily slumped against the door and closed his eyes before continuing on. It was brief, but Napoleon saw it from the other end of the corridor and wondered what was going through his friend's mind.
"Illya, wait up!"
Napoleon sprinted down the corridor towards his partner, hoping to firm up some details for the approaching day. He would be checking on the names he had encountered while going through Karina's roster of supporters. He didn't have any instinctive sense of optimism regarding that. He wanted to make certain that Illya was on guard, because he really felt that the Thrush threat would come from among the dancers.
"Call it intuition if you like, Illya, but I think most of the action is going to be coming in your direction. I've run a few checks on the people who have supported the New Minsk Ballet Company, and I don't smell a Thrush among them. It makes more sense to me that it will be one of the dancers. Is there anyone new who has come on since you've been there?"
Illya thought for a minute, and being new he, determined to check with Karina on the roster of dancers and how long they had been with her. "I shall discuss it with Karina. At first I thought you would be encountering our Thrush, but I tend, now, to agree with what you're saying. It would be much easier to infiltrate the company as one of the dancers...just as I have done.' He paused, as though in thought, then asked for an update. "Have you heard anything more about Uri, or when someone is coming for Yelena? She's very anxious about it".
Napoleon thought his friend was anxious as well, and wondered about his state of mind concerning all of this. Even a professional could become emotionally entangled in such a highly charged situation, especially when it mirrored his own experiences. "Illya, are you going to be all right...I mean, with everything that's going on?"
There was so much more than went on with the Russian than most people understood. Even Napoleon had to pay very close attention in order to catch the undercurrent, at times. Beneath that cool exterior was a moody and highly strung personality that worked very hard to keep an aloof appearance. Napoleon knew better; after everything they'd been through, it was his business to know.
"Yes...Napoleon, yes, it's all fine. I'm always fine". The line was standard issue denial from the staid agent. Napoleon would be doubly sure to watch closely, and keep his partner safe.
At five o'clock in the morning, Illya finally left headquarters and headed for his apartment. He would take a quick shower and change, then head back to the studio. He needed to be there early enough to check out the entire building, and make a plan of action for the day. Karina would need to know a little about Yelena's situation, and then prepare for the inevitability of replacing her. She and her Soviet counterpart would probably have a long day ahead, considering the developments surrounding Yelena's departure.
He entered his building with his usual perusal of the street, the hallway and, finally, the stairwell up to his floor. Nothing seemed out of place, and he approached his door with nothing on his radar. When he reached for the doorknob, however, a twinge of uncertainty sent a surge of adrenaline through him that immediately had him flattened against the wall. Someone had entered his apartment, he knew it. He reached beneath his coat and started to withdraw the Walther that rested reassuringly within its holster. Just as he was withdrawing the weapon, something smashed into his skull and blackness crowded out any thoughts he had of the next few seconds of his life.
When Illya regained consciousness, it was amid the pounding of dozens of little hammers in his head that were drumming out a rhythm of irregular beats, like nails being driven into wood without purpose. His face was shoved into the carpet, and he could feel a trickle of blood behind his ear. Whatever had attacked him had enough force behind it to break the skin, and he wondered if he could get the blood out of his hair.
Once his vision cleared, he noted the pair of brown shoes in front of him, then his eyes traveled up the length of a pair of cheaply tailored trousers, to the sitting figure of Nicholas Popov of the KGB. He couldn't quite move yet, then he realized why: his wrists were handcuffed, his arms pulled behind him as he lay there.
He quelled the sense of danger and dread just long enough to try and adjust to this new situation. He should have been expecting Popov to show up, especially considering that Yelena had tricked him in order to escape the hotel for their meeting. He hoped this lapse in judgment could be overcome somehow. In the din of noise in his wretched skull, he also wondered if Napoleon were nearby, ready to rescue him before he suffered any additional injury at the hands of this very angry KGB agent.
"So, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin... I seem to have you at a disadvantage. It is just as I like it, you traitorous dog. Where is Yelena Ivanov?"
There was no doubting the man's anger, and Illya realized that, for the moment, he would be the recipient for all of the man's ire at the loss of his dancer. At least he was in his own home, and if he could just get up he might be able to gain an advantage, unlikely as it seemed. He made a motion to try and sit up, but Popov kicked him with a suddenness that left him breathless. He thought he felt his rib give slightly, as though it had cracked.
"Stay where you are, traitor. You are no longer Soviet, I can see that now. You are part of the decadent, capitalistic system of western politics. I do not care if the U.N.C.L.E. says it is multi-national. They are a tool of the Americans, and now you are also a tool of that corrupt system. What have you done with Yelena Ivanov?"
The KGB agent kicked his prey from behind, causing a blinding light to shroud Illya's vision. He had to get up somehow; the longer he stayed down on the floor, the more likely it was he would never get up.
"I do not have her. She is with the Americans. Have you not spoken with your superiors?"
Illya's voice was betrayed by the pain his body was experiencing, but he thought perhaps that question might slow down his tormentor's pace. The man did have authorities over him with whom he had to deal, after all.
"You have humiliated me, stolen a dancer from this company and now you feign innocence, and call my loyalties into account? You are a dog, and you will pay for this, Comrade Kuryakin!" The man's anger was overwhelming his judgment, and this time he aimed his foot for the blond head.
Before he could finish the motion that would have landed at Illya's skull, the man was felled by a sleep dart from Napoleon's gun. He had entered through the unlocked door while Popov was ranting, granting his partner's wish for a timely rescue. Relief at having averted a worse beating than what he suspected had already occurred caused the CEA of UNCLE Northwest to send up a thank you to whatever fueled his instincts. Following Illya home had been a risk of partner etiquette, but one he would gladly own up to however many times it worked.
The handcuffs were removed and Napoleon attempted to help his partner out of the position he'd been in during the attack from the KGB agent. He helped him straighten up, but the motion obviously caused pain. "Illya, how badly are you hurt?" The blond winced noticeably as he tried to lift his body from off the floor. He had endured much worse, however. This could be overcome...would be overcome. They would need to do something with Popov.
"I'm fine". Napoleon rolled his eyes, the phrase again that covered every situation for his partner. "Yes, tovarich, of course you are. What are we going to do with this one?" He motioned towards the fallen Soviet agent, then to his partner. Illya was holding his midsection, trying to remain upright. Ribs.
"Is it broken?" Illya tried to take a deep breath and caught himself, the pain ending the bravado of pretense. "Yes, I think so. I don't suppose I can dance with a broken rib". He actually smiled at that, although it hardly seemed worth it to endure another broken rib in order to escape the dance.
"I think I have adequate bandages in my bathroom for you to bind this up for me...I'm not going back to medical". Napoleon recognized the look, and acquiesced to playing medic. The stubborn Russian would have to make do with whatever he got, for the time being.
Napoleon tightened the bandage around his partner's damaged torso, wincing along with the Russian at the pain that inevitably caused.
Illya had showered before receiving this attention, the hot water soothing away some of the discomfort of his recent beating. His back now sported a large purple bruise where Popov had kicked him, and he wondered how long it would be before there were signs of kidney damage. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to wonder what life might have been like had he worked a little harder at ballet. "No, I would have never been good enough. This is how my life was always going to be". The voice was his own, but the sentiment lacked conviction somehow. If there were such a thing as destiny, why would anyone be pushed into this line of work?
He had wrapped a towel around his hips and headed out to where Napoleon was waiting with the bandages. He knew that they had both endured much worse treatment, but it somehow never lessened the aches of the most current abuse. Pain was a bitch, and Illya looked like hell.
"Hey, you know you should go back to medical and let them check you out. Your back is one big spot of purple. There might be some serious damage..."
"Don't, Napoleon. You and I both know we're not heading back to HQ, so just stop now. Karina needs to know what has happened, and we need to do something about comrade Popov. I can't leave him here in my apartment".
Napoleon thought for a minute, then decided to call in the situation to Mr. Waverly. He had waited this long in order to discuss it with Illya, but now there seemed to alternative to alerting their boss to the situation. He'd deal with the Soviets. They needed to find a Thrush, and it needed to be today.
"Open channel D...Solo here". The familiar sounds of the console answered with a sweet southern drawl...
"Mr. Solo, we've been wonderin' where you are. Mr. Waverly wants to talk to you..."
"Hello Shirley Ann. I would like to speak to Mr. Waverly. Can you do that for me?" He liked that little southern belle, and made a quick decision to ask her for a night of dining and dancing...a little southern comfort to ease the stress of this affair.
"Mr. Solo, what do you have to report?" Mr. Waverly's voice cut into the American's vision of sweet Shirley Ann on the dance floor...
"Yes sir. I am with Illya, and we have a KGB agent lying here in his apartment. He had Mr. Kuryakin tied up and did some damage to him, sir. I think we need someone to come and...clean up a bit". He could visualize the old man now, pipe in hand and a scowl on his face as he contemplated the Soviet response to their man lying unconscious in his agent's apartment.
"Indeed, Mr. Solo. And, why, may I ask, was this Soviet agent inside of Mr. Kuryakin's apartment?"
"Well, he wanted to question him about Yelena Ivanov, and he wanted to beat Illya senseless, I believe. As it is, he has a broken rib that will need some treatment after we've been to the dance studio. He won't come in right now, sir". Maybe he shouldn't have said that, but it never paid to withhold information from Alexander Waverly...ever.
"Very well. I agree that you need to alert Madame Karina to the situation, and you still need to find that Thrush agent. He's bound to be in there among the dancers. That's all, Mr. Solo. Er...Please be careful, and... tell Mr. Kuryakin to try and not provoke the enemy any more than necessary. Waverly out".
With that, they had their orders. Napoleon finished binding up his partner, who then dressed and returned, ready to head out the door.
"Say, when did you last eat anything?" It was amazing that his partner could devour enough food for three or four people when he sat down to a meal, but would also go a day without anything. His metabolism must read like a voltage meter.
"I...I don't remember. Yesterday sometime. I guess breakfast might be in order, if we can get it to go".
So, having agreed on that, they grabbed some egg sandwiches from the diner on the corner, and headed back to Brooklyn.
By the time the two agents arrived at Karina's dance studio, the traffic had done its work and both men were irritated and more on edge than either would have liked to be. The instructress was already inside, preparing to greet the Russian dancers who were expected within minutes. Illya, upon seeing the woman, greeted her and nodded his head, indicating that she should follow him. Napoleon stayed close to the entrance, determining silently what course of action to take. He and Illya agreed that one of the dancers must be a Thrush. There didn't seem any other likely scenario; it was only a matter of deciding whether it would be a Russian or an American.
As Karina followed Illya back into the office, she was aware of a tension from both of the UNCLE agents that she hadn't felt before. Something had happened, and she braced herself for any number of bad situations that might confront her now. She also noted that Illya's posture was more slumped than normal, his breath catching periodically as though to offset something painful.
"Illya, are you all right? You appear to have..."
He cut her off.
"I'm fine, but there are some things you need to know. Yelena Ivanov has defected, and the KGB knows about it". He looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction, find some hint of emotion concerning this news. He didn't see any.
"I am not surprised. It was inevitable that at least one of the dancers would do this. Was she the informant?" She suddenly caught the implications of the defection. Of course, it was connected and now Illya was hurt. The situation was becoming dangerous, especially if the KGB were involved. What would the Soviets do, she wondered.
"Napoleon and I will be keeping a close watch on everyone today. We haven't gotten any indication of who the Thrush agent is, but there has to be one among these people. Thrush would never let this information get to us without trying to stop it. If they are unaware who Yelena is, about the defection or her reasons, then there is a good possibility that whoever it is may still try and stop the messenger from getting to me. I've no doubt that they have identified me, and possibly Napoleon, by now".
The sounds of people coming in the front door began to reach them, causing Illya to turn suddenly. The motion caught the injured rib before he could stop himself and he gasped at the pain it produced. Karina reached out to help but he put up his hand, indicating she not touch him.
"Please, I thank you for wanting to help but, no. You should tend to your dancers, Karina". With that she was dismissed. Feeling cut off, Karina left the agent in her office, and headed towards the arriving dancers. The Russians had also arrived and were walking in, their spirits tempered by news of Yelena's absence. No one had said it was a defection, but they knew. Some of them even envied her the courage to do it, but the dance had to go on, and the performance was going to be on their minds now, not defecting...not quitting.
Adding to the morning's mood was the absence of agent Popov. He hadn't been in the morning briefings, nor did he join them on the bus over. That was curious, and some among the group wondered if he hadn't also defected. It wouldn't be the first time a KGB officer had disappeared, although no one spoke of it openly. Perhaps the two had gone together.
Napoleon stood near the door as the big commuter bus pulled up to the curb and the doors swung open. The young dancers emerged into the chill of the morning, the one lone KGB officer watching as each one stepped cautiously down to the sidewalk. He never let on to a curiosity about his missing comrade, nor did anyone ask him about it. The event would remain in the darkness, like so many other subjects. By the end of the day there would, no doubt, be answers. For now it was enough to do his job, just as he always had. No questions, no controversy; only the job.
The dark haired UNCLE agent smiled at the girls, nodding to the young men as they entered. How would he be able to spot a Thrush among them, he wondered. None of them looked the part, and each of them had a dossier that was full of nothing save their history of schools and training. He doubted that any of them were the person he sought.
"Mr. Solo, you are here early today. Did you come in with Illya Nickovetch?" Karina stepped up beside him as she spoke, her soft approach in keeping with the dancer's grace of movement. Napoleon thought her to be a very pretty woman, and wondered at his partner's ability to fend off female advances. He, for one, would have already surrendered to one as pretty as she.
"Yes, we had an early start. Has he apprised you of the current situation?"
She nodded her head, not wanting to converse about the subject here. Too risky, she thought.
"Perhaps we will have opportunity later in the day...lunch?" There it was. He had asked her to lunch. If Illya was too lazy to romance her, he had no qualms now about a simple lunch date. After all, he had just saved his partner's life, most probably. Illya owed him a little for that.
"Napoleon, lunch sounds like a very good idea. Will Illya be joining us?" She hadn't given up on him yet.
The smile appeared even though his thoughts darkened momentarily.
"I will certainly ask him, if you wish". There, it was up to her.
"I do, if you don't mind. I think we all three have much to discuss".
As long as she put it that way, he determined to not see the door closing, although it was swinging rather freely.
"Lunch then. In the meantime, I see your dancers have gathered in anticipation of beginning. Will you be conducting a dress rehearsal today?"
"Mmm...yes, actually. After lunch we will go to the venue and stage a full dress rehearsal. I hope you will be joining us there".
Napoleon admitted he wasn't usually very keen on ballet, but this one, he admitted, would be a pleasure to watch.
"Yes, and I'm very much looking forward to it. Until lunch, then..."
He took her hand and kissed it, aware that many of the waiting dancers were watching him. He turned towards the hallway that led to her office, winking at the assemblage as he passed them. A few of the girls laughed appreciatively, wishing they were the object of his attentions.
When Nicholas Popov awoke from the effects of the UNCLE sleep dart, he found himself facing his superior, comrade Petr Andreivich Gorchov. This man was the highest ranking KGB officer in New York, both to be feared and admired. This posting was one of the best to be offered to a Soviet, and to be in this man's presence, under these circumstances, was immediately regarded as a bad omen to Popov's future.
"Comrade Popov, it is so good to have you awake now. Perhaps you will tell me how it is you came to be in the apartment of UNCLE agent Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. And why, especially, you were attempting to kill him. I am particularly anxious to hear your explanation". He smiled a vague sort of smile, and it chilled Popov to his very core. His carefully crafted career was now in danger, as was his very life. He suddenly hated New York, Kuryakin and the ballet. He especially despised Yelena Ivanov. All of these had conspired to ruin him, and his end now loomed eminent in the presence of this man.
"Sir, Comrade Gorchov... I thought he had information concerning the defecting..."
"Ah, a defector. Another explanation you must present to me, comrade Popov. I believe the circumstances are such that you are going to bear the blame alone. How is it that this dancer, this Yelena Ivanov, lured you into her bed, comrade?'
Popov strained to keep his fear and dread in check. Perhaps there would be a way out of this, although it seemed a slim hope indeed.
"I believe we will be here a very long while..."
Anatoly Putkin watched as each member of the dance company stepped down from the bus, his eyes scanning each face as he counted off the numbers. One of them was gone, the informant. He hadn't suspected her, for some reason. No one had known of the connection between her and their Russian scientist in London. It was an unfortunate development for him that his sister had, by means of her defection, alerted Thrush to her identity, and heightened the search for the mole within the London laboratory. Once the researchers had uncovered the familial tie, his destiny had been assured. Uri Ivanov had little warning of his death, and only a last memory of his sister and a hope that she had escaped ushered him into eternity.
Illya was observing the last of the dancers as they began the process of breaking for lunch. He had been unable to be of assistance to Karina, his ribs and back a cause of unrelenting discomfort. He hadn't dressed out, remaining in his jeans and white shirt throughout the morning. He was aware that the KGB agent Putkin was watching him, never letting his eyes wander far from the blond agent. It was inevitable, he supposed, for the KGB to consider him the cause of Yelena's defection, or at the very least, the facilitator of that move.
She had been picked up by two representatives from the State Department earlier that morning. He felt confident that she would be safe now, and preparations for her debriefing were already in progress. It would be weeks before they let her back into society, and from UNCLE's point of view, she shouldn't reappear until they had closed up the London Thrush operation she had exposed.
As the Russians disappeared once more onto their bus, their destination the famed Carnegie Hall, Napoleon came into sight alongside Karina, who had changed clothes and was now wearing a slim black skirt and a pale blue cotton blouse. Her flat shoes caused her to be just a few inches short of Illya's height as she approached him, taking his face in her hands as she kissed first one cheek and then the other.
"Illyusha, you are in pain. I can see it on your face and in your movements. I had hoped we might find choreography to share, but now..."
He was taken aback by her suggestion that he was capable of sharing the dance with her. He lacked the confidence, never mind the skill.
"Karina, you are saying it now because you know it is impossible with this...' He indicated his ribs, a half smile on the otherwise somber face.
"No, I tell you the truth. I had thought it possible. You have made much improvement". Her smile was infectious, and the reserved Russian ducked his head slightly before laughing at her ridiculous proposition.
"You, Karina, who come from the Vaganova Academy, surely cannot consider me competent to dance alongside. I never attended such a grand place as that, and my dismissal from even my own sorry academy should be enough to close the subject. I am no good, although the workout has been very beneficial".
"Ty, moi_ belokuryi_ lisy ochen_ hitryi_"
"Fox indeed. I am better at that role than a prancing nutcracker. Perhaps Napoleon..." Karina's blond fox looked at his partner, blue eyes bright in an uncharacteristic display of abandon.
Napoleon suddenly felt as if he were the one on foreign soil. These two shared something that he never could with his partner. They had a history of which he knew so little, and an ease of communication that stemmed not just from their common language, but from knowledge of where each of them came from. She recognized, had known from the accounts of others perhaps, some of the secrets of Illya's past and whatever hardship he had endured. And he understood her training and love of an art form that had been a small part of his own youth.
"Say, you two are hungry, aren't you? I say let's get to our reservation and then you can...entertain us".
They both looked at him, smiles erupting onto their faces as they recognized a too seldom occurrence: Napoleon was feeling insecure between the two of them and their Russian memories.
"All right, tovarich, we will have our lunch and then we will find a dance for you!"
The dark eyes glinted with amusement as he recognized the attempt to placate him now and include him. In addition to the dance he knew he would never perform, they had other pressing issues at hand.
"We will also need to discuss who our Thrush agent might be. But first, we'll enjoy our meal".
Napoleon Solo was not a man given to sentimentality when it came to women. He loved them for many reasons, but found himself either unwilling or unable to consider a lifetime commitment to one. Perhaps it was the job, or his wrenching separation from Clara all of those years ago...he didn't bother to analyze how he felt. He only knew that his affections were genuine, but not to be counted on for the long haul.
As he looked at Karina, however, he felt that twinge of remorse at not having someone to welcome him home in the evenings or at the end of a particularly grueling mission. He wondered, wistfully almost, how it would feel to have her arms welcome him...
"...and so then I leapt onstage from the wings and tried to rescue the other dancer. I am afraid it was too late, as the entire production just fell apart after that. Even in Russia, sometimes, we have artistic failings".
Karina and Illya were laughing, and Napoleon had been lost in his own thoughts and missed the point of the story. He feigned a hollow laugh and tried to hide his inattention.
"Napoleon, have you ever been on stage?" She was speaking to him now, and he shook himself mentally to re-enter the conversation.
"Ah...well, a bit. I did have a few encounters with Shakespeare many years ago. It is not my first love, however". That was true, and at least he wasn't lying to her...yet.
"My friend here is a very good actor. He has put those skills to work on numerous occasions, sometimes for the purpose of saving my life. I consider him to be worthy of an award".
Illya was smiling, his obvious pleasure in the company of his Russian dancer flowing over into the words he spoke. Illya happy. The American thought that was a fairly worthwhile achievement, and decided to make a point of thanking Karina for that. It had been a surprise benefit to this otherwise challenging assignment.
"I hate to break up the jolly time we're having here...' Napoleon looked from one to the other of his lunch companions...
"we should compare our thoughts on who the Thrush agent might be. We don't seem to have made any real progress on that point. Illya?"
The blond crimped his eyebrows into an expression Napoleon recognized as one of concentration as he assessed their company of dancers and the entourage they supported.
"I am quite frustrated by this, as I suspect you are'... He directed that to his UNCLE partner and superior.
"I had thought to find the Thrush among the dancers, but that seems to be a dead end. I can't see any of them in that role, nor do their activities point to any involvement with our feathered friends. The performance is tomorrow night, and without Yelena among them, the Thrush must certainly know by now that she is the informant. If it were me, I would simply remove myself and consider it a failed mission. There really is no point to hanging on here if the information has been passed. Unless, of course, this person can't leave..."
Not a dancer, but still attached to the group...they all three considered this as their plates were cleared away by the waiter.
Karina was more knowledgeable about these things than either agent might guess her to be. She hadn't told either of them any of her history, or why she should be in America and still in good favor with the Soviet Union; enough so to play hostess to the New World Ballet company. Certainly they had wondered, although neither of them had asked, merely accepting her based on Mr. Waverly's command.
"Illya, Napoleon...perhaps you have wondered, but being gentlemen resisted the curiosity..."
They both looked at her, waiting for her to finish and curious as to where this was leading.
"This a little difficult, and there is only one way to say this...I am a Soviet agent".
Suddenly a lot of things made sense, like how she was able to remain in good standing even though she had left the Soviet Union, and why she should be chosen to host this event...why she continued to be calm and composed during the course of the mission.
Illya remained stoic, his expression turning into that unreadable mask that he wore too frequently. The truth of it too easily accepted, as though he had anticipated it and now had his confirmation. Nothing was ever easy, no one what he or she might seem. Life really was just as he had always thought it to be, and Karina merely a player in the larger performance. Just as he had been, she was trained from an early age and funneled into the most appropriate role for her talents and intellect. Now he could understand everything, and so he put his feelings back into the box where he kept them.
Napoleon, however, was stunned. His earlier romantic thoughts about her came crashing about him, and suddenly the warm embrace he had imagined was interrupted by an armed KGB agent greeting him at the door. It was amazing how quickly dreams could die...
Karina took in their reactions and reached across the table to try and take Illya's hand. He removed it deftly, not wishing to make an obvious show of it, but unwilling to engage the emotional pretense.
"Does anyone else know who you are? I mean, the two agents who traveled with the dancers...do they know?"
Napoleon needed to get this back on track. Whatever else this meant to them personally, regarding this mission her revelation might have answers that they needed right now.
"I am an unknown to them. My assignment has always been to run this school, receive other Soviet travelers and agents when needed and...in cases like this, cooperate with agencies such as UNCLE. I am not KGB, not a mole...I merely work for my government. It is no different from you working for the U.N.C.L.E. I have my job, just as your have yours".
As she said this she was looking at Illya, her fears of discovery now confirmed. It was illogical of him to not accept this from her; it was a double standard, considering his line of work. Why should he disparage her commitment to her country?
Napoleon was seeing all of this in the few minutes in which it transpired. They didn't have time for personal issues; there was a Thrush agent among them and still the possibility of a dangerous encounter. Added to that, they should uncover whoever it might be and eliminate yet another enemy from their midst. If Karina was a Soviet agent, she might have more information than they concerning the dance company.
"Karina, what else can you tell us about this group? And, what about the people with them. Do you have any ideas?"
She folded her hands in front of her, thoughtful about Napoleon's question, and avoiding Illya's vacant expression.
"I do not believe it to be any of the dancers...neither mine nor...the Soviets. The two uncertainties are the KGB agents, and based on what has happened with Popov, it is doubtful anyone will be hearing from him for a very long time".
Illya looked up at that, the knowledge of how failures were treated still sharply etched in his own memories. In spite of his encounter with the man, he had understood why he did it. To think that it might now be the cause of imprisonment or even death did nothing to make this conversation any easier. He started to comment, willing himself to be professional with nothing remaining of his disappointment.
At that moment, Napoleon's communicator began to sound. He pulled it out and opened up the channel...
"Solo, here. Yes sir...I see. Yes, I do believe that will help in determining who our Thrush agent is. Thank you, sir...Solo out".
Illya was continuing the conversation, able now to look Karina in the eye, his reserve intact.
"Putkin then, do you think he could be Thrush?" The idea of a KGB agent being aligned with Thrush seemed nearly impossible, but certainly if he were careful it might work in his favor to be within the government system. Thrush wanted the entire world, and they were just arrogant enough to believe it possible to take down even the Soviet Union.
"Possible and, at this point, probable". Napoleon looked somber as he continued.
"Uri Ivanov, Yelena's brother, was found dead in a London alley. He was executed. Thrush knows, and there are only a handful of people, including us, who could have passed on that information". He looked at both of the people sitting at his table, knowing it would be neither him nor his partner.
"Napoleon...Illya, I promise you it was not me. I am not Thrush". Karina looked stricken by the thought of an accusation from these men. Certainly they could not believe...
"No, Karina. It has to be Putkin. That's the only thing that makes sense".
Napoleon looked to his Russian partner now, hoping to gain some insight to his thoughts. One look from Illya told him what he needed to know. Now it was a matter of catching the enemy agent and proving him to be a traitor to the Soviet Union. That would have to be how it was handled. They couldn't afford to kill a KGB agent, and they couldn't allow him to go back to Russia and remain active with Thrush.
They needed to act quickly, to formulate their plan before the performance tomorrow night. The Thrush man had to be stopped, and it would have to be soon.
For the remainder of the lunch meeting, Karina felt the wall between her and Illya rise high enough to present an obstacle as impassable as the one separating the city of Berlin. She also recognized that, much like that now infamous wall, her ability to travel past its ominous presence would be nearly impossible, the effect deadly. A Russian within the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement would be unable to engage in a relationship with a Soviet agent. The possibility of a compromise on his part, or even the appearance of one, could ruin his position and, most likely, be the cause of his removal back to the Soviet Union.
All of these things went through her mind as she sat with the two men, their conversation dwelling on the possible scenarios in which Putkin might be exposed. Her own sense of professionalism was drawing her back into the plans as she relinquished whatever hopes she might have entertained regarding her blond countryman.
"I don't think we're going to solve this dilemma sitting here, Napoleon. The rest of the company is at Carnegie Hall, waiting for Karina and the start of the dress rehearsal. I should be there...' He looked at her, his eyebrows skewed into a questioning expression that she recognized as a plea to be excused from that event.
"You don't need to come, Illya. I am more than able to handle this; my other teachers are on hand. Please...what you and Napoleon need to do regarding a strategy is of more importance. And, you both look as though you could use some sleep".
The waiter returned with a check and hopes for a large tip, considering the amount of time these three had been here. He must have missed at least one other table full of customers, and that was cash in his pocket.
Napoleon took out his wallet to pay, his easy manner and casual conversation with the man a sure way to ease any unbidden hostilities over their very long lunch. They were discussing baseball and the perfect stadium hot dog as his partner turned to Karina.
"Karina, I...' She put a finger up to his lips, shooshing him to stop.
"Illyusha, no... I understand. You weren't expecting to find another spy, at least not in ballet shoes'. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested his desire to smile at that. Why was life as it was? Why was it so futile to ask why?
"Our world cannot allow for the improprieties that we would represent should we... if we were to..."
He took her hand and kissed it, lingering a little longer than he might have several hours ago. When he looked up again into her eyes, the color reminded her of the Caspian Sea, deep and undulating; secrets that would never surface were hidden beneath the calm. Inwardly, she cried for him, knowing as only someone who had lived the same life could, just how many secrets there were.
Napoleon turned around from his business with the waiter to see this scene in progress. He was surprised at the catch in his throat, and the sudden pinch in his stomach, as though it were his own heart being broken.
The rest of the day saw the two UNCLE agents tending to their plan. Neither of them had had any sleep since the night before last, and in spite of their heightened abilities under most circumstances, the lack of it was beginning to show. Mr. Waverly had requested a report on their progress, and so found them in his presence, waiting for an opportunity to put on the table the inevitable question concerning the identity of the Soviet agent, Karina.
As they sat in their respective seats, waiting for the ritual of tamping tobacco and feigned inattention to their presence, Napoleon and Illya each considered their response to whatever answers their boss might give them. They had discussed the probability that the old man knew about Karina, and had sent them into this with more information than they had been given. Illya was unsure of how he would respond if this were confirmed; Napoleon was attempting to contain his anger at the situation. He was CEA, he should have been made aware. At the very least, it might have compromised his partner, and that was unacceptable.
Finally, having completed the round of preliminary activities that always surrounded the beginning of these meetings, Alexander Waverly turned to his two top agents and, clearing his throat twice, began to speak:
"Mr. Solo, what do you have to report?"
Napoleon cut his eyes in a quick glance to his partner before beginning.
"We have determined, sir, that the KGB agent Putkin is our Thrush. All indications are that he alerted the operation in London of Yelena's defection, and the resulting death of her brother Uri was due to the information that only Putkin would have had. We have eliminated all of the dancers, and the staff who work with Karina. And, as you probably know... Karina herself is a member of Soviet intelligence".
There, he had said it. Illya blanched at the nearly accusatory tone in Solo's delivery of that sentence. Taunting the enemy was one thing, but to do so with Waverly...
The head of UNCLE Northwest set his eyes on Napoleon, the steel grey beneath his wiry eyebrows reflecting the walls that surrounded the men at that table.
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Solo...Mr. Kuryakin. I have been aware of her position since this affair began. I would not have sent you into this environment without having thoroughly investigated the personnel, especially the woman in charge. It has been to your advantage, I assure you, for her to hold the position that she does. Am I to take it that you disapprove?"
Napoleon held the old man's gaze as he quickly formulated his response. He suddenly couldn't recall why he had been upset about this.
"No...um..no sir. I do not. Karina has been very helpful, insightful even. We were just...surprised, I suppose...when she told us about her..job".
Illya spoke up now, his interest in this was obviously personal as well as professional. He wasn't even certain there was a difference any longer.
"Sir, I was initially concerned due to...well, the implications. I felt as though there might be a misunderstanding about the nature of..."
Waverly held up his hand to stop him. Shaking his head, he knew how his agent had viewed this.
"Mr. Kuryakin, I assure you that there is no need for concern. I sent you into this with full knowledge of the woman's position with her government...your government. No one is watching. You are quite safe from outside scrutiny".
The blond head nodded in understanding. It wouldn't change the rules, of course. After this affair, there could be no further contact with Karina.
"Mr. Solo, do you have a plan for handling Mr. Putkin? Less than 24 hours remain before the performance of the two dance companies at Carnegie Hall. The man must be exposed to the Soviet authorities as a Thrush agent before anyone sets foot on that stage. He is responsible, not only for infiltrating a member country, but for the death of Uri Ivanov. His sister has taken the news very badly, and, in fact, has asked to see you, Mr. Kuryakin. Unfortunately, for now, that is impossible. I do not relish the idea of retribution, as it were, but leaving Mr. Putkin to the Soviet process of...justice...will be good enough for this man. That is all, gentlemen".
With that, they were dismissed.
Hours later the two men in charge of this affair were satisfied with their plans for the next day. Copious amounts of scotch and vodka had fueled their abilities as they set down the steps they would follow; but now the effects threatened to flatten all resolve to action. Each man was weary and sleep deprived; something that alcohol conspired with as the clock ticked past midnight. Napoleon stretched out on his sofa and fell very soundly asleep, even as his friend lay on the floor, his face lovingly embraced by the luxurious fingers of the shag carpet. Neither of them woke during the remaining night hours, and only daylight and their perfectly wound internal clocks prodded them into wakefulness and the din of nearly identical hangovers.
"Chyort!"
Illya was a mass of clinched muscles, none of them cooperating with his efforts to emerge from the position he'd slept in. No carpet was plush enough to make a floor truly comfortable for six hours, and the still untended rib injury from yesterday meant he would pay the ultimate price today. Not good planning, considering the importance of what they were facing.
By the time Napoleon had showered and changed, Illya had made the trip back to his apartment and done the same. He was waiting at the curb for his partner to pick him up when he detected something, or someone, approaching from the stoop of the neighboring building. In spite of the previous night's vodka and the lack of a good night's sleep, his senses were on alert as he prepared to respond to whatever was coming. At the sound of footsteps he turned, every motion producing a sliver of pain in his ribcage and head.
It was a child, heading for school and blissfully unaware of the un-played scene in the blond man's mind. Illya watched the boy as he headed down the block, his hand clutching a metal lunchbox decorated with characters from a much loved television show.
"Pishchi. Mne nuzhna pishcha". The lunchbox reminded him that his stomach was empty. Food would help him to concentrate.
He was considering breakfast options as Napoleon pulled up in front of him. He carefully ducked into the front seat, the grating of the injured rib now combining with the growling in his empty stomach. So far, it was a completely miserable day.
"I'm escorting you to medical, Illya. No arguments".
He wasn't going to get any. They knew what had to be done today, and living with the pain wouldn't help them accomplish their task.
"I need to eat". Simply stated, Napoleon recognized his partner's approaching plunge into a foul mood.
"The canteen will be open. Medical first..."
Illya let his head rest on the seat back, the hunger arguing with pain over which of them would gain the first round of attention. He reasoned that the hunger was making his ribs more uncomfortable, so food should be his first order of business.
"I need to eat. Go and get us some breakfast and we can eat in your office after I get my ribs wrapped. We still have things to discuss concerning today's activities".
Napoleon thought that a reasonable course of action, so after escorting his partner to Medical, he headed for the canteen to order some breakfast and then check in with Mr. Waverly. He was impressed that so much was being accomplished within the first half hour at headquarters. If this were an indication of how the remainder of the day would go, he felt confident that everything was going to work like a charm.
Dr. Morgan was on duty. He scowled at the approaching man, knowing full well that if he was coming in voluntarily, he must be in pain. If he were in pain, regardless of the doctor's efforts to help him, the Russian's moods were never pleasant when he was in for treatment or salvaging. He was, by all staff reports, the worst patient in the entirety of UNCLE. What a bad omen for the day's potential.
"Mr. Kuryakin, you look a little worse for wear. Why..."
"I think I have a broken rib. It happened yesterday". The doctor motioned for him to take off his shirt and was not surprised to see evidence of more than an injured ribcage.
"That's quite a bruise you have on your back, Illya. Have you passed any blood..."
Once again he was cut off. Speed and less talk was preferred.
"No, doctor. No blood. Just the rib, and as quickly as we can make this. I'm in the middle of something rather urgent".
"You should have x-rays".
The physician watched as the blond head came fully up from the hunched posture, blue eyes boring into his with purpose and...was that threatening?
"Jack...Dr. Morgan...I promise you I will return and let you x-ray, probe and otherwise invade my body for the purpose of healing me of whatever is broken. But, not today. I just need you to wrap this up so that I am at less risk than I am at present'...
Not threatening. Tired and determined.
"I promise you. Just, please, today let's make it simple".
Jack Morgan knew when to relinquish control to these men. The mission superseded personal well being, and he recognized that now was one of those times.
"All right, but I want to see you back here as soon as you are finished in the field. Do you understand?"
A nod...
"Yes, doctor. I understand".
Illya met Napoleon as they had planned, and his breakfast was laid out and ready to be consumed. His torso was so tightly bandaged that now he wondered if he could eat more than a few bites. He had allowed for one painkiller, but nothing that would interfere with the day's work. As the two men sat and ate, they reviewed the plan from the previous evening. There were only a few things that needed coordinating from here at headquarters.
"Oh, just out of curiosity'... Illya had been wondering about something, but had never had time to question his partner.
"The other night, when I was collecting Yelena, you were supposed to be waiting for me. How is it that you came into headquarters from a date?" Not that it mattered now, but must Napoleon always be testing his patience on this particular subject?
The brown eyes took on a wounded expression, as though he were being accused of something truly sinister.
"Why, Illya, I was waiting outside...well, down the block. I was with Eloise, from translation. I didn't see any reason why I couldn't wait with someone pleasant. Besides, I was hungry, and you only had to signal me. She understood I might need to leave, so..."
Illya rolled his eyes, which made his head hurt even more.
"Napoleon..."
It didn't matter. Today was what mattered, and by the end of the day, KGB agent Anatoly Petreivich Putkin would be exposed as a Thrush operative, subject to the whims of Soviet discipline and justice. Illya wondered if the man truly deserved such a fate, but then recalled Yelena and her dead brother. Thrush had claimed the scientist and then disposed of him, and Putkin was the agent who had provided the death sentence.
"Yes, he deserves his fate".
"What was that?" Napoleon looked across the desk to his stern looking partner.
"Oh, I was thinking of Putkin, and what he has ahead of him. It is a grim future, if any at all".
"He does deserve his fate. Hardly anyone connected with Thrush isn't deserving of whatever he or she gets. Don't waste time on...I know you have reservations about sending anyone into the hands of the KGB, but there isn't any point to it'. Napoleon did understand some of what his friend was thinking, and how he had dreaded this assignment from the beginning. They didn't have time for it.
"Now, how early will Karina and the others arrive at the venue?"
Napoleon was down to the plan, and they were going to need every minute of this day in order to execute it properly.
Anatoly Putkin was certain of only a few things in life. The choices he had made and the path he had followed were not of his own choosing for the most part. He was owned by the Soviet Union and would live or die based on his performance and loyalty to that government. He was equally in bondage to Thrush, and in fear of retribution for any act of betrayal or incompetence that might threaten that hierarchy in its quest for world domination.
At least he understood both of the governing powers in his life, and made every effort to stand in good stead, albeit in a low profile. People who made the big plays suffered the greatest defeats. His entire life's goal had been to remain unseen.
That dubious accomplishment was in the process of being reversed by a system he had successfully avoided up until now: justice.
After breakfast and another meeting with Mr. Waverly, the two partners who comprised UNCLE's top team were on the road once again. By now Karina would be at Carnegie, checking the sets and running through the program in the Main Hall. This performance was sold out, and the list of dignitaries and celebrities was impressive. If nothing else, the appearance of a Soviet ballet company had the effect of bringing out the elite and curious. Illya wondered how much a love of the arts entered in to the decision to attend.
As they headed uptown, Napoleon decided to broach the subject of Karina's involvement in this sting they had planned. If his partner had feelings for the woman, it might influence him regarding how he reacted to whatever happened later that night.
"Illya, I have to ask this, because it might be relevant to how this all turns out; I hope you'll not take it wrong".
The blond head turned and his expression was unreadable, even though Napoleon could sometimes guess what the Russian was thinking.
"I am not in love with her".
Napoleon hadn't expected that. He wondered when it was ever going to be his turn to sneak up on his friend.
"I thought I had observed something..."
"You observed two adults who, under different circumstances, might have enjoyed each others...company. I was surprised at her announcement, that is all. I live under different rules from yours, Napoleon. You may have your dalliances with Angelique and Serena, or any number of our enemy. I, on the other hand, remain at risk of being returned to the Soviet Union should I slip up and have any curious acquaintances or even conversations with the wrong people. Karina and I might have ventured into something, how shall I say it? Intimate, I suppose. But, under these circumstances, it is impossible. That was what I responded to, my friend. Not because I am in love, but because I am reminded once again of how fragile my existence here still is".
The American kept his eyes on the road as he maneuvered through the traffic. He should have known, should have been more aware of how tenuous things remained for Illya. In this land of the free, he was a man who was still in a type of bondage. Saving the world from tyranny, but not yourself. That had to be a difficult road to travel.
"I needed to know. If this plan of ours trips over anything, we need to be prepared and still ready to carry on'... He hesitated, hating that the stoicism of his friend still held up a wall between them.
"Illya, why don't you simply defect?"
He didn't dare look too closely, driving at this time of day being its own type of hazard. The second one was sitting next to him.
"There is nothing simple about it, Napoleon. I am Russian, and whether or not I can completely endorse how my comrades in government do things, I have come here as part of an agreement that I cannot breach with an act of treason. It is enough that I live here, relatively free and without the restraints that would rule my life were I still home...still in Russia. Being careful is a small price to pay for such luxury".
He couldn't actually explain this to his friend and superior. It was enough that he was trusted by him, and their friendship above nationalistic boundaries.
"Hey, we're here. Let me find a parking spot and...'
He couldn't respond to what Illya said. It was inane of him to segue into talking about a parking place, but...
"It's fine, tovarich. We'll keep you safe and uncompromised. I promise you that".
And, as they both knew, Napoleon always kept his promise.
It was decided that Illya would enter the auditorium first. His was the role that demanded a presence among the dancers, and in spite of his injuries, he would make himself appear available for whatever was needed. Karina saw him first and motioned for him to come onstage.
"Illya, you have been missed. Tell me, where have you been?"
The dialogue was intended for Putkin, who sat in the first row, his observation the necessity of his role as a KGB officer. His curiosity was that of a Thrush operative, however, and he wondered that Karina had not known the whereabouts of Kuryakin. He leaned in automatically, his attention now on the conversation on stage.
Illya approached Karina, kissing her on each cheek in greeting. He winked, the nuance unseen by the observer below.
"I had an appointment that would not wait, but am here now and ready to work".
An appointment, indeed. Putkin knew that Kuryakin had been injured by his missing partner, Nicholas Popov. The replacement who had come in his place was at the back of this auditorium, his eyes searching for any movement that a dancer might make that was not choreographed for the dance. No one else would defect on this watch.
As Illya and Karina continued to discuss the night's performance, their voices became more hushed and they eventually drifted off stage. Napoleon entered from the lobby and began to descend towards the front row where Putkin was sitting. He slid in beside him without a sound, surprising the normally astute Soviet agent.
"Hello, comrade Putkin. How is it going here today? I hope we're all on schedule".
The smile on the American's face was a repugnant reminder of everything Putkin hoped to gain. Solo was at ease, and his manner full of confidence, lacking any of the trepidation that plagued the KGB man daily. He had lost Yelena Ivanov, and felt certain this man had been involved somehow.
"Mr. Solo, you are full of stealth, it seems. Is that because of your other job?"
Napoleon feigned his most quizzical expression, appearing to be at a loss to the man's reference.
"My only job is to insure that Karina's ballet company succeeds. To what are you referring?"
"You and Mr. Kuryakin... I know who you are, and for whom you work. Do you deny it?"
This was the moment, and Napoleon was ready to let the game begin...
"Ah, you seem to have made a mistake. Mr. Kuryakin and I are...well, how to say it? We are not working for the same people".
Putkin was startled, and began to form a reply but found he was unable to phrase the question he wanted to ask.
"You don't know?'
Napoleon had him now...
"Mr. Kuryakin, or perhaps I should say, Comrade Kuryakin, is a Soviet agent. I take it your superiors did not inform you of this".
Putkin sputtered something illegible to Napoleon; Russian swearing that he hadn't yet heard from his own partner. He then turned to Napoleon...
"And, you Mr. Solo...for whom do you work? The CIA, perhaps. No, wait...you work for the U.N.C.L.E. And I happen to know that your partner works for that organization as well. Just who do you think you are dealing with? I am well versed in the personnel here".
He felt somewhat relieved that his response was one of confidence, for in truth, he was not completely sure of himself and the facts any longer.
"Ah, yes... that has been the general impression. Unfortunately for Mr. Kuryakin, UNCLE knows he is dealing directly with the Soviets these days, and his time in New York is running out. I only tell you this because...'
Putkin was on the edge of his seat now, waiting for the man to continue.
"Well, we are looking for a Thrush mole. It was thought that, perhaps, it might be Mr. Kuryakin. However, with recent developments, we are also looking at... others".
Napoleon turned his head to take in the activity on the stage, nodding at one of the dancers who waved at him, her expression hopeful.
"So, what is it that makes you believe you have a...a mole? And, what has Thrush to do with this business?"
At that he waved his hand to take in the theater, indicating the dance companies, what they were now observing.
"Are you suggesting that Thrush is involved somehow with these people? I find it highly unlikely".
He hoped he wasn't sweating. A sudden surge of fear began to invade his recent calm.
"You may be correct, agent Putkin. However, with the recent defection and, ah...some other incidents that you don't need to know about...we are certain there is a Thrush operative here in our midst. It's nothing for you to worry about, however. UNCLE is handling it. We will either find evidence against Mr. Kuryakin or Miss... well, in any event, we will find it".
Putkin tried to not look gleeful, but his relief at not being the target of their inquiry was almost more than he could contain. A well trained agent was capable of deceit and subterfuge, and now was a time for him to be expert at both.
"Well, Mr. Solo, it is very disturbing. I have heard of the wickedness of this Thrush, and will help you in any way I can. Please, consider me an ally in your efforts to catch the mole".
"Thank you, Comrade Putkin. You know, this type of cooperation is what we hope for at UNCLE. I will be certain your efforts are mentioned".
Napoleon smiled his most charming smile and rose to leave. The seed had been planted, and now they had to wait for Putkin to make his move. And, no doubt, the man would have one.
As he watched the UNCLE agent depart, KGB officer Anatoly Putkin was formulating a plan to frame Illya Kuryakin as a Thrush mole. If UNCLE were already suspicious of the man, then a few pieces of well placed evidence should be all that was needed to seal his fate. If he should be killed in a confrontation, so much the better. Solo had started to mention a woman...perhaps Madame Karina. Her story was a mystery, and not one of which he had not been informed. Why should they suspect her? No matter, Kuryakin was the better candidate for his plan. All that was needed now was the right item placed in a most inappropriate place. If Mr. Solo didn't kill the Russian, Putkin considered it something he could easily do. His loyalties were not linked to nationalistic pride, but rather to the secret account that held the money he had been collecting from Thrush for the past five years.
Yes, Mr. Kuryakin would make a good sacrifice for the good of Anatoly Putkin.
The two Russians were huddled near the artists' entrance of the backstage area. Their heads were nearly touching as they compared their roles in the forthcoming drama. Karina had been vaguely implicated by now, thanks to Napoleon's artful allusion to a woman in this intrigue. It was, doubtless, Illya who would be the target however. Putkin was too regimented to do something outside of the obvious, his lack of imagination reflected in the lack of ascension through either of the organizations who employed him. The man would do that which provided the easiest access to his goal, and framing the UNCLE agent with the evidence that could prove his own guilt was the quick path to his safe removal from New York.
"Illya, you will be careful...please". The woman's voice carried real concern, and her eyes pleaded with his to be safe. He held back the temptation to take her in his arms and whisper reassurances about his intentions to remain alive for many years. Instead, reluctantly, he maintained his professional veneer, the cool blue eyes seemingly unaffected by her unspoken entreaties.
"Napoleon has stirred the waters for me, and agent Putkin will jump in soon, unaware that he is a drowning man. I will be fine".
He didn't add his usual mantra, a response by rote...'I am always fine'.
Anatoly Putkin had in his possession, fortuitously he reckoned, a communiqué from Thrush regarding this mission. He had kept it, unsure of how to dispose of the inconvenient evidence. Now it would be used to incriminate the other Russian. He had come to loathe the man, living here as he did in the luxuries of the West. He pretended to be Soviet, but it was obvious how lax the man had become in his lifestyle here among the decadence and excesses the KGB man was witnessing. It was of no consequence to his dislike of Kuryakin that there was a numbered account with the money he, himself, had collected from Thrush.
There was a difference, he reasoned, between insuring one's future and living in the manner of the capitalists he had been trained to disdain. It would be a simple thing to implicate the traitor; a type of justice. He rationalized it, putting it in its proper place. Kill or be killed. The choice was not difficult.
Napoleon had headed back to headquarters after his chat with Putkin. He felt as though enough of a seed had been planted to expect some type of sprout from the unscrupulous KGB/Thrush agent.
"What a combination". The agent's thoughts were on his lips before he knew it, causing at least one female head to turn in his direction.
He smiled as he passed down the corridor, by the communications room, fully aware that eyes followed him whether he was talking to himself or not. He was looking forward to that date with...well, he'd remember after all of this was wrapped up. By tomorrow they would be out of the dance business and back into whatever else Mr. Waverly could throw at them.
It was not a surprise to anyone involved with this affair to receive an anonymous tip concerning a mole inside of the U.N.C.L.E. The information promised to reveal the identity of the traitor by providing documentation of a damning nature from Thrush itself. The person providing this luminous revelation would not need to be acknowledged, rather the satisfaction of knowing another member of that nefarious organization would be stopped from further activity was quite enough.
So it was that Napoleon Solo began the process of arranging to obtain this document, the purpose of which was, he supposed, to expose his own partner as the Thrush mole. He authorized a return message to the anonymous citizen, the method of which had been carefully detailed. An agent was to be dispatched immediately to an address not far from the Carnegie Hall location in which the New Minsk and New World ballet companies were currently rehearsing for the evening's performance. It was, thought the American, quite convenient. Especially for agent Putkin who was, he knew, needing to stay close to the venue in order to keep in compliance with his duties as KGB escort to the Russian group.
A section three agent was drafted for the mission and sent out with a reply from Napoleon Solo, CEA Northwest:
The information offered is indeed something that the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement is anxious to obtain. We are willing to pay for this document, if those are the terms. Please respond with further instructions. NSolo
Having sent the message, Napoleon settled into his chair and contemplated the events as they might occur that evening. Illya had remained at the theater with Karina under the pretext of continuing to help her with staging this production. His injuries were limiting to him, however, and he was most likely prowling around the theater in an effort to keep an eye on the rogue KGB agent. Putkin wasn't exactly a maverick, however. He did his job for the Soviets, he had just added moonlighting for Thrush as a means of making some extra money probably. Napoleon shook his head at the thought of Putkin having to defend himself to his superiors... any of them. He didn't give him good odds on surviving.
Illya was keeping an eye on the KGB agents from a spot in the wings from which he had an excellent vantage point. The new fellow, Sergei, was diligent in a way only the Soviets could be. It made him shudder involuntarily to think that it might have been him in this role, working at keeping people from defecting, guarding the entrance to a free world. No matter how much he loved his country and missed home, he had no love for that type of scrutiny and control. He hoped it would change...someday.
He caught sight of Putkin as the man emerged from out of the shadows of a doorway. Napoleon had contacted his partner and filled him in on all of the details of the message, as well as what he had written in reply and where it was being delivered. Illya decided to follow Putkin when he went to meet the courier. The man was attempting to frame him, so he might as well be on top of the situation. Once again he was grateful to be working for UNCLE, and Mr. Waverly. In another organization, the frame-up might work.
Anatoly Putkin felt very confident about this plan. He already had the perfect tools to ruin Illya Kuryakin; the communiqué from Thrush had not mentioned him by name, thereby making it easy to implicate the UNCLE agent. Solo seemed willing enough to believe it, and Thrush might actually reward him for getting rid of at least one of those two. He might need to consider shifting his emphasis from the KGB to a full time assignment with Thrush. They certainly paid better, and he was certain they would facilitate his extraction from the grim walls of the Kremlin.
As he slipped past the rows of seats and up through the lobby doors, he nodded to his new partner and indicated his intentions to head outside for a few minutes. This man had proven to be efficient, but was still junior to his own rank. That was allowing him to move about as he wished for short periods of time. It was all about appearances here, and he was a master at that; it was how he had survived for so many years in the KGB.
Illya was following at a discreet distance while he surreptitiously caught every movement, every nuance that the KGB agent generated. His movements were so obviously borne of his profession that, to another of the same ilk, they betrayed his intentions to deceive. The intelligence community was adept at fooling everyone except the others in their field. The glances, the subtle gestures were only unseen by the uninitiated. Putkin was too obvious, his trail easy to follow. Illya wondered if it were purposeful, and ducked into a doorway and watched the man travel to the appointed rendezvous. He recognized the section three agent who was carefully placing a parcel in a trash receptacle. Scott Manning was a nondescript looking fellow, with dark blond hair above a face that was forgotten minutes after meeting him. He made the perfect spy, and would be section two before the year was out.
Manning set the parcel down inside the trash can, then slowly began to walk away. He knew he was being watched, so his movements became deliberately nonchalant. When he merged into a crowd of people, it was nearly impossible to see him slide inside a doorway, then move to the window to take his position and watch for Putkin. The Russian missed that move, and when he reached into the trash to retrieve the item that had been left for him, he didn't observe the UNCLE agent focus a miniature camera to record every movement.
Illya continued to watch as Putkin wadded up the paper and deposited it back into the trash from which it had come. As he walked away, he allowed himself a small smile; something he wouldn't have done had he seen Scott Manning emerge from his hiding spot and retrieve the cast off message.
Putkin's trip down to the end of the neighboring block and back again had taken less than twenty minutes. Nothing in that to alert anyone to his activities, and certainly not enough time to cause Sergei any concern. The day's business was handling itself very well, he thought, and by the end of the evening he would be clear of any suspicion on the part of UNCLE, still in good standing with his own government and, hopefully, in line for a bigger role with Thrush. He looked for Kuryakin, hoping to isolate him somewhere dark and deserted. If he could "find him in the act" of something or other, no one would question him for shooting the man. It would certainly save the U.N.C.L.E. from having to prosecute him, and the Soviets from facing the disgrace of welcoming home a villainous traitor.
It was nearing time for the dancers and their entourage to break for the afternoon. The Russian dancers were directed onto a waiting bus and the short trip back to the Plaza Hotel. At three in the afternoon, they still had five hours before curtain call, and were anxious to rest a few hours and, for a few of them, to eat something light before returning to the theater. Karina's dancers had apartments close by and took their individual modes of transportation back to whatever would fill the remainder of the afternoon.
Karina was still concerned about how the evening would play out. Putkin was a trained KGB officer, and not to be dismissed so easily. If the UNCLE agents weren't careful, the wily Russian might still evade their trap, or Thrush might have someone else who could help him escape if all else failed.
She saw Putkin as he talked with the Russian group, but noticed that he did not get on the bus. His new man boarded with the dancers and their various attendants, but he remained on the sidewalk, waiving them away. She hadn't seen Illya in the past hour and wondered if he, too, were watching this scene. Putkin had something in mind, that much was obvious. He didn't have any reason to stay behind; there was nothing here for him to do.
Illya hadn't gone directly back to the theater; when he saw Putkin turning into the artist's entrance, he decided to make a call back to headquarters. By the time the curtain rose on tonight's performance, Manning's pictures would be developed and added to the note Putkin had sent under the guise of an anonymous tipster. All they needed now was the communiqué from Thrush that would confirm Putkin's involvement with that group. If Illya could get his hands on it sooner than later, so much the better. It was something he wanted confirmed, however. They were close, and he didn't want to ruin their plan by acting out of turn or without back up. They needed to catch this man red handed.
"Open channel D...Kuryakin here"
"Illya, what's going on up there?"
"Putkin has returned to the theater, but has not gone on the bus with the others. I think he's busy trying to plant evidence"
That last sentence sent a slight twitch to work at the corner of his mouth, the idea of the KGB man being set up to set him up.
"You're probably right. We have Scott's camera down in the lab. Early reports are he did a very fine job...he's a good man"
The CEA was already considering the future of Agent Manning, it seemed.
"I am going to stay here and keep an eye on Putkin...but out of sight. Have you gotten any other information from him? He hasn't actually given you the communiqué yet, has he?"
"No, no...I believe that will be his last move. For now, he wants us to be ready to intercept a message that is supposedly going to be delivered to you. I'm not sure how he's going to manage that, but...Illya, be careful. At this point, he might try anything to get himself clear of this situation. He can't go back to the Soviet Union without making certain that you're blamed for all of this".
Illya took a deep breath, a sudden twinge of apprehension as he considered the possibility that the KGB could conceivably be called in on this. Putkin was no fool; he had survived for years within the Soviet framework, and managed to work for Thrush as well. Perhaps they had been too quick to think of him as somehow less competent than they were.
"I will, Napoleon. I won't underestimate the man".
He heard his friend's sigh, a signal that perhaps he had been thinking the same thing.
"Okay then, lay low and I'll be there around six. If he has anything else for us before then, I'll let you know"
"Right...until then".
As each man closed his communicator, he was considering the possibility of more than one conclusion to this affair. If things went as they should, Putkin would be exposed as the Thrush agent and sent back to Russia as a traitor. If, somehow, the KGB agent was successful in shifting the blame onto Illya, then UNCLE would need to step in and pull him back into a safe place until Waverly could placate the Soviets and convince them that it was their own man who had turned.
UNCLE had no proof that it was Putkin unless their plan worked.
Illya had no idea why Putkin would stay behind, unless it was to meet someone else here at the theater. But who? Neither he nor Napoleon had spotted anyone looking like a Thrush agent; no reports of one from any of the other UNCLE agents in place among the hotel and theater personnel. Perhaps he merely wanted to remain on site in preparation for whatever he thought was going to happen that evening.
Not satisfied with just sitting and waiting, UNCLE's only Russian decided to hail a taxi and go check out Putkin's room at the Plaza. He knew it was shared by the new man, Sergei, but thought it might be worthwhile to try and get in and look around. If Sergei were about, a disturbance of some sort shouldn't be too difficult to stage. He knew what he had in his pockets, and that satisfied him that a plan could be concocted on the ride to the hotel.
He slipped past one of the section three men who was posing as a maintenance worker at Carnegie Hall, letting one name escape his lips: Putkin. That was enough to let the man know to keep an eye on the KGB agent. With Illya, the less said, the better. He liked it that way.
Napoleon was running names and numbers through a computer program designed to match known Thrush agents to points on the globe. Once that was done, language and skills were highlighted, creating a database of the enemy's activities in a given area. Here in New York, it was necessary to have a higher class goon; or, in some cases, truly sophisticated adversaries. As the names began to show up on long sheets of paper that spewed from the printers, Napoleon's eyes nearly popped at one of them. He tore off the section he needed and headed back to his office, ready to bite someone's head off for negligence. How had this been missed? He was furious at someone, but he didn't know yet whom to blame for this oversight.
Right here, right now in New York City, one of the top Thrush operatives was staying at the Plaza Hotel. As he researched further, he found her name on the list of ticket holders for tonight's performance and, unsure whether to bang his head against the wall or call for reservations at 21, he instead picked up his communicator to call his partner.
"Open channel D...Illya..."
"Yes, Napoleon. What is it?"
"I just found something that, uh...will probably affect how things go from now on."
He could hear his partner drawing in a breath, could see his eyebrows pinching together as a scowl formed.
"Exactly what have you found?"
His voice dropped into a cave when he asked that question.
"Serena is staying at the Plaza. She's been here since yesterday, and I just got that information. Someone should have caught this earlier, but for now we will need to handle it. I'm a little uncertain as to what it means, for us. She..."
"She's trouble, that's what she is; like all of your ladies from Thrush, Napoleon. We need to take her out of the picture, and that means you need to handle her. What exactly do you have in mind? Assuming you do have a plan, that is".
Napoleon extended his arm slightly to look at the faux pen in his hand, his expression one of exasperation as he considered his partner's sudden bad mood.
"Look, Illya, I will handle it. But...where exactly are you, anyway?"
"Me? I am on my way to the Plaza. I had intended to search Putkin's room, and see if the communiqué is perhaps there. Now I have to keep an eye out for Serena as well".
"Hey, it's not my fault. At least we know now that she is here. Just...be careful. No matter who might catch you, you'll be in trouble. I don't think the KGB is going to look too kindly on a snoopy UNCLE agent...especially one who used to be in their ranks".
Perhaps he shouldn't have said that last bit.
"Look, Illya, just be careful. This affair has gone from relatively simple to an internationally sensitive scenario. We got Yelena out, and we identified a Thrush agent among the Soviets. Serena is a diversion of some sort, and possibly here to take out Putkin. He must be considered a wild card now".
The blond head began to sag, and his eyes watered as the hiss of gas permeated the cab. Sometime during his conversation with the CEA, the barrier between the front and back had been closed, the doors locked tight.
"Na...pleon...Thrush...gas...".
"Illya! Illya, where..."
Static hung in the air as Napoleon tried to summon a response from his friend. He knew who had engineered this. Putkin didn't have enough influence to summon this type of operation.
"Serena"
Head throbbing, eyes blurry...waking up from a dose of Thrush gas was an agony with which Illya Kuryakin was only too familiar. As he raised his head from the surface on which he lay, a figure began to materialize before him. Dressed in white, the voluptuous outline of a woman became more clearly defined as he blinked once, twice...Serena.
She was smiling at him, her full lips now tantalizingly drawn into an expression that told him she was confidant and in charge of the situation. Her eyes took in the slim agent from his shaggy blond hair down to the boots he wore. Everything in between met her approval as she considered how different he was from her sometimes lover; his partner, Napoleon Solo.
"So, Mr. Kuryakin, it seems we have something in common. I apologize for abducting you in this manner, but I am truly not your enemy...for now".
Illya squinted at the woman, his brow furrowed at the statement she made. His head was still spinning from the gas, but he thought he was hearing her correctly.
"What, exactly, do you want with me, Serena?"
Nothing would ever make him feel at ease with these women from Thrush. He wondered, yet again, that his partner could so easily bed them without fear of their real intentions. Perhaps they were all slightly insane, more than dangerously perverse.
"May I call you Illya? You will notice that you are not tied up in any way, and I am not pointing a gun at you. We are, temporarily, on the same side in this situation. I imagine you know to what I refer".
Her expression was guileless, the words intended to disarm the Russian in the presence of such a beautiful adversary. Serena was a beautiful woman, and Illya realized what she said was true; he was not constrained in any way. Not in any way he could see or feel. He imagined, just briefly, what Napoleon would have done in this situation. He instantly decided to not go that route. It wasn't the nature of his relationship with this woman...couldn't be.
"I suppose you are referring to your agent, Anatoly Putkin. Should I assume that you are attempting to stop me from dealing with him?"
What other reason could there be for waking up here, with her? The room was sumptuous, obviously one of the premiere suites here at the Plaza. Silk draperies hung in lavish folds at the windows that held a view of the city. The furnishings were the stuff of American dreams, and Soviet disdain. He knew he was caught somewhere in the middle; not quite Soviet and not nearly American. His world was not so clearly defined as either of those cultures required. This woman clearly demanded the finer things in life.
"Illya, you must understand our position in this ...situation".
Her accent was softly punctuated by her Austrian upbringing. Much like him, her travels and various stops in a variety of countries had produced an accent that was not immediately recognizable. There was something elegantly exotic about her, and he began to wonder what it would be like...
"I think you should educate me about the situation. Putkin is KGB, and he works for Thrush. In the case of the former, we have nothing to do with that. About the latter, he has been implicated in the death of someone related to a Soviet defector. That happened in his role as a Thrush operative, and we intend to stop him, or expose him to his government. I have to assume you wish to stop us, or me, in the pursuit of this".
Serena smiled. She rose up from the chair in which she had been seated and walked to the oversized chaise lounge on which Illya was half reclined, still recovering from the effects of the gas. He watched her as she approached, moving only slightly as she sat down beside him, capturing him between her body and the back of the plush cushion. Her ample breasts were within inches of his face; a sudden impulse to take advantage of that not easily squelched as he remembered that it was not his style or choice to consort with the enemy as his partner was inclined to do. Still, just a little closer...
"Illya, you must understand something...from our point of view. This Putkin has been useful to us, on occasion. However, we do not feel that his prolonged employment is necessary to our needs, or our plans. I am going to give you something to aid your efforts to be rid of him completely".
She smiled again, this time bending her face closer to his. His eyes reluctantly withdrew from the vantage point he held, traveling from the generous décolletage of the cool brunette up to her eyes, deep and brown beneath extravagant lashes. He was almost drawn into them completely, almost reached out to her enticement.
Suddenly, he eased himself away from her and sat up a little straighter. She smiled at that, understanding how close he had come to submitting to her seduction. This one was different, evasive. He was unwilling to be caught until he deemed it was time. She respected that; he was more like her than he would ever admit.
"I have a piece of evidence that will shut the door on agent Putkin. His Soviet superiors will need nothing else to convince them of his actions, his involvement with Thrush. However, I need something from you".
That took Illya by surprise. He hadn't considered that there might be a trade off involved. Something for each side.
"What is it, Serena? It is suspicious enough that you are willing to hand this man over to us. If the price is too high, I will find my own evidence. But, I think you know that".
She shrugged slightly, and the slender strap to her dress fell from her shoulder causing a gap in the fit of her bodice. The curve of her breast was now needing little in the way of imagination, and the man next to her was finding himself less inclined to refuse what she seemed to be offering. For a moment he wondered why it was he so resolutely refused to engage in these little affairs. This woman was intoxicating, and he felt himself reaching towards her to straighten the wayward strap, then without thinking his hand slipped beneath the fabric, stroking a firm nipple as she lowered herself into his body and their mouths caught each other's breath.
This was a mistake, and his mind was racing through the various reasons why he shouldn't take her. She was Thrush, she was dangerous...she was Napoleon's. But it was already too far along for him to be concerned about any of that. She was sucking on his tongue, her hand already setting him free from the constraints of his jeans. Pulsing, sucking...she was manipulating him with a finesse that he now welcomed and his body demanded.
He attempted to sit up, to gain the advantage, but she held him down. Somehow, she was managing to unbutton his shirt, remove his jeans and boots...all of it in a whirl of intoxicating motion and images.
Without realizing how, he was naked beneath her, the satin fabric of her dress caressing his thighs while her hand worked him into a state of aching, longing... His brain seemed to not know how to stop any of it, and his body wouldn't allow it in any case.
Her dress had slipped from her body and now she plunged one breast and then the other into his open, hungry mouth. Like a bird waiting to be fed, he lay there and begged for more. His hands traversed her thighs, firm and smooth. His fingers found her and teased, the clitoris already firm with anticipation as he played her like the strings of a guitar. Her own gasps of delight only served to make him harder, the strain of desire causing an intensity that he knew would require release, perhaps very soon.
She sensed his urgency and took his hands in hers, placing them on her breasts as she changed positions and mounted him, ready to take control. She found the spot and eased him inside, eliciting a groan from the recently reluctant Russian. All thoughts of retreat were futile. She began to ride him, her forward motion accentuated by the tightening of her sphincter muscles around his penis until he thought his eyeballs might permanently roll back into his head. Roll and tighten, over and over again.
He began to pinch and roll her nipples between his thumbs and fingers, sending spasms of velvety indulgence through her body, her own pleasure now completely joined to his own. At precisely the right moment he rolled her beneath him, caught her legs up and pulled them over his shoulders while he began to thrust with a vehemence that sent her into a series of shudders and cries so intense that he thought he would come immediately in response to it. He didn't. He held on, thrusting and grinding until she thought she couldn't bear it any longer and then, in an explosion of color and sounds, they both came with an intensity that was borne, not only of the moment, but also of the denial he had been subject to for so long.
He collapsed on top of her, unable to move. Her breathing was ragged and deep, and the extravagant fullness of her breasts an invitation to his mouth once more. He licked and then gently sucked on each nipple, easing her into a dreamy, satisfied slumber.
As he turned onto his back, his body slicked with perspiration and the evidence of their intercourse, he gave only a cursory thought to what had just transpired. The irony of the situation was not lost on him in this moment. Karina, to whom he sincerely wished to make love, was out of bounds because she was Soviet. Serena, who was an enemy agent, was fair game in the pursuit of a piece of information.
The world was insane. And so, perhaps, was he.
Illya Kuryakin woke up in sumptuous surroundings, next to a beautiful woman who, under other circumstances, might be considered a danger to his health rather than the recent recipient of his considerable skills as a lover.
He wondered if this was how Napoleon felt most of the time. There was something to be said for not always being the one waiting on the stairs.
He eased out of the bed and made his way to the bathroom; a hot shower and a clear head was what he needed now. Serena had made a deal with him, his body had been the bargaining tool; this was something that was neither completely new, nor entirely comfortable. It was exactly the type of thing he usually avoided, passing these kinds of opportunities, such as they were, on to his partner. Their views on this type of liaison differed, although his opposition was not quite so staunch at the moment.
He made quick work of the shower, drying off inside the bathroom rather than risking more exposure to Serena. He wanted the information she had promised and nothing more. In spite of the pleasure they had shared, and it was pleasurable, it was getting late. Napoleon had probably been sweeping the city to try and locate him, perhaps had even checked the hotel. He stopped momentarily, looking at his reflection in the large mirror.
He wondered if Napoleon would know; he knew Serena, therefore it was likely he would hazard a guess at her methods of securing something in exchange for the promised piece of evidence.
Why should that be a problem? It seemed unlikely that his partner carried any real emotional attachment to the woman. Still, he might not approve.
"Maybe he'll understand how I feel about these things".
The reflected image didn't respond verbally, but instead raised an eyebrow and assumed a look of censure.
"You're losing it, Kuryakin. It was sex...it was business".
He finished dressing, finger combing his hair as he exited the bathroom. Serena was curled up in the chair where he had originally encountered her. Her robe hung precariously over her body, an animal like sensuality so pervasive that he had to make a determination to not get too close. Once was enough, and he needed to conclude this transaction. They had a deal.
"Illya, you look as though you are not inclined to linger here with me. We could, perhaps, call for a meal to be brought to the room..."
It was almost a question, but with a small shake of his head she saw that the man was back to business. Pity, she had found him a very able lover and wondered when or if they might meet again.
"Serena, you made mention of a piece of evidence that would be useful to ending agent Putkin's career with the KGB. Now would be a good time, I think, for me to take possession of it. I believe I have fulfilled my part of our...for lack of a better word...bargain".
She raised an eyebrow and smiled at him; full lips conveying another bargain was available if he so desired. When she noted his lowered eyes, his body posture that spoke louder than words, she relented and deemed the episode satisfactory but, sadly, over.
"Yes, Illya, you are right about that. I will give you the evidence, but not now. Tonight, at the performance".
She almost laughed at the momentary surprise on his face; it disappeared too quickly and she was reminded of his self-control; it permeated everything about him.
"I should have known better than to think a Thrush agent would be as compliant as to simply surrender the agreed upon document. Perhaps you are waiting to seduce Napoleon as well".
Did he sound petulant, disturbed? She thought so, and it made her feel powerful and satisfied that there was, perhaps, a twinge of jealousy that might someday work in her favor.
"I have every intention of handing over the information to you. However, it will be much more effective to wait until tonight. Putkin feels very confident at the moment, and believes that he has outwitted you and all of UNCLE. He thinks that he is laying a trap for you, my love. It will be a most satisfying experience for all of us to wait and confront him later. I promise you. You trust me that much, surely".
Illya thought he must be mad, because he did trust her to do this thing. She had no reason to betray him; his instincts assured him she would not.
"Serena..."
"Yes, Illya"
"It was a pleasure"
"Yes...it certainly was"
Napoleon had been concerned when he lost contact with his partner. He knew Serena was involved, but it didn't make any sense for her to injure Illya. He had a hunch that Thrush was making plans to eliminate the Soviet agent; his usefulness was probably at an end with Yelena's defection and her brother's death. There was an element of incompetence that both of his masters would need to address, and Thrush would probably do so sooner than later. They would have no wish for the Soviet government to know a Thrush agent had been operating within their system; it would hinder any efforts at future recruitment. Thinking about it, he was surprised that the man hadn't been eliminated by now.
The Northwest CEA alerted his agents at the Plaza Hotel, hoping the eyes and ears of the staff might lend information about the missing Russian. It seemed unlikely that he could be sneaked into the hotel unconscious without anyone knowing about it. He also had people at the theater go over every inch; no one had anything to report.
If Serena were involved, there wouldn't be any sleazy dumps or rundown establishments. One thing he could depend on where she was concerned was her absolute insistence on being in the most posh place in the city. All indicators would seem to point to the Plaza, but no one had seen anything unusual. The Russian dancers had returned there, but no sign of the Austrian beauty or the blond agent had been reported.
Napoleon was perplexed and only slightly suspicious of his Thrush paramour; she might have a plan of some sort that involved...
No, not Illya. He knew her type, and his reticent partner was not it. It had to be something else; something that only Illya could deliver.
He decided to go to the Plaza himself. If Serena were there, he would find her and in turn, he would locate his partner. This affair had so many surprises, he supposed one more would be par for the course.
Illya had been turned into a ballet dancer; Karina had turned out to be a Soviet agent. A KGB officer was a Thrush operative, and Serena was in town, meddling in the middle of all of it. What else could possibly turn up in this case?
As Napoleon entered the lobby of the hotel, he was taken aback to see his partner exiting the elevator. He looked fine, but his hair was damp. He knew what Illya's hair looked like in any and all conditions, and it was definitely...
"Illya!"
The blond turned at the sound of his partner's voice.
"Chyort"
"Illya, are you all right? What happened to you, who...?"
"Yes, Napoleon. I am fine...really...fine. There was gas in the taxi, and I slept a little. Everything is fine".
Napoleon stepped back and examined his friend. Okay, he looked fine, but there was the damp hair. And, he looked...
"You had sex with her, didn't you".
It was blunt and to the point. He knew Serena well enough to know how easily she could seduce a man into her bed. Knowing Illya, however, there had to have been a point to it; something regarding their business with the ballet and Putkin.
"What kind of a deal did you make with her, tovarich? I know something happened up there".
He smiled. It was a knowing smile born of vast experience with mataharis like Serena and Angelique. Illya usually avoided them, but every once in a while the wily Russian used his body just like any other spy had to in order to get something useful.
Illya showed no emotion, his expression completely and predictably blank.
"It seems you are determined to know some of the details, so I will tell you that she has a document that will, according to her, be all the evidence we need to expose Putkin. She is bringing it to the performance tonight. That is all, Napoleon".
The American looked smug, his body posture speaking volumes to the blond about what he knew and how he knew what he knew. Sometimes, it would be nice to be one step ahead on matters such as this.
This exchange took only minutes, followed by a quick exit onto the street. Napoleon motioned to a waiting taxi to pull forward; it was an UNCLE agent this time. There would be no more surprises in taxis from here on out. It was six o'clock, and only two hours until the curtain came up on the combined ballet companies of the New Minsk and the New World.
On the ride back to headquarters, the two men discussed their plan for the evening, including the part Serena would play. What she had told Illya he now relayed to his partner as they set the stage for Comrade Putkin's final curtain call.
Illya joined Karina and the entire cast of the evening's performance at the artist's entrance. He had managed to arrive just as the Soviet dancers were emerging from their chartered bus, the chatter and excitement beginning to build among the young artists. Many of Karina's company had also arrived and were scurrying around backstage and in the dressing rooms, preparing for what they perceived as perhaps their most important performance. This union of Soviet and American dancers could do much for the relations between the two nations represented; it was a fervent hope of many that this would prove to be true.
As the Russian UNCLE agent approached his female counterpart, she studied him carefully, attempting to gauge his temperament this evening. Even though they had reached their particular agreement, her heart still managed to flutter almost imperceptibly at the sight of the blond. This was not supposed to happen to her; she was a professional, and her commitment to her duty was the only thing that mattered tonight. She knew the same was true of Illya Kuryakin, and that he would never violate his vows to the agency that had brought him here to America. Politics were, she reasoned, a curse they were forced to live with.
Illya walked up to her and took her elbow in his hand, guiding her into a corner that he felt would be free of listening ears.
"Karina, something has changed. Putkin has allowed himself to become unwittingly exposed, and we will be retrieving the necessary information this evening. You must do your job, do not betray what you know or get involved in whatever may happen here. Do you understand?"
His intensity was enough to convince Karina that he wouldn't tolerate any deviation from these instructions. Still, she was a trained agent, and she might be able to help...
"Illya, what if I can't avoid getting involved? I might be of some use to you and Napo..."
"No, just do as I say! You must remain ignorant of whatever we are doing. I don't want you compromised in any way".
She saw it then, a glimmer of some concern for her; affection even, if she could venture to wish it so.
"I understand, Illyusha. But you must understand this: if I see you in danger, I will step in and save you if necessary. I am a woman, but I am also well trained".
He smiled at that, and nodded his head appreciatively.
"Yes, all right then. But, only if I need saving, which is doubtful to be the case. Napoleon will be close by, as well as... we will be safe".
He didn't need to bring Serena into this. Karina didn't need to know what had transpired between them, even if she might understand the need for it.
Napoleon was in the foyer of the great hall, his eyes taking in the magnificent architecture and elegant appointments. As he turned to look up at a piece of artwork, Serena appeared in front of him. He hadn't noticed her come in, and her presence elicited from him a slightly startled look that mixed with an enduring appreciation for the woman's beauty. She smiled that luxurious smile at him, her eyes gleaming beneath the crystal chandeliers.
"Napoleon, you look more handsome than ever. How do you manage this little trick?"
He smiled, his automatically charming demeanor matching hers.
"Ah, Serena. You, my dear, are all flattery tonight. I must say, you look as luscious as ever".
She was pleased at the compliment; it's obvious intention matching her own seductive overtures.
"I trust you have been made aware of my gift to you. Mr. Kuryakin was very agreeable to accepting my terms, and I have come with the promised documents".
He should have been jealous, and did experience a twinge of discomfort at Serena's obvious tactic. He knew she was not above using today's encounter with his partner as a tool for driving a wedge between them. It wouldn't work, but he had no doubt it was part of her plan for something in the future. Serena was never simply what she appeared to be.
"I am pleased to know you are a woman of your word, Serena. As I am sure my partner will be".
Something in his tone caused a chill to invade the beauty's faade. She knew what Solo was capable of, just as he knew her commitment to Thrush. Not trusting someone merely added another level of excitement to the game.
People were beginning to fill up the lobby, the conversation becoming louder as acquaintances were made or renewed, hands clasped in earnest admissions of forgotten names or faces. A few actually knew each other well; some of the couples were actually married to one another.
A social event in New York held more than one type of fascination for the lucky participant. It was sometimes more interesting before the performance began, netting the week's gossip or a glimmer of leverage to be used at the appropriate time.
Serena let the conversation pause momentarily as a man tried to introduce himself while extending his business card; he thought that perhaps they knew one another, or so he said. In truth, the stunning woman was simply too much to resist and his ego to large to accommodate the possibility she didn't feel the same.
"Oh, I am certain I could not forget you, but sadly I will be leaving in the morning. Perhaps next time I am in the city".
He walked away a disappointed man, envious of the good looking one who stepped back into her light. Napoleon knew he could have found any number of interesting women with whom to spend an evening, but tonight was all about Serena and the impending judgment that was about to envelope Anatoly Putkin.
"Agent Putkin has a numbered Swiss bank account that holds all of his earnings from Thrush. I find it incredible that the Soviets have not discovered it, however, for years our accountants have been depositing impressive sums of money into this hidden account. I have the combination to unlock this treasure, Napoleon. I give it to you and leave it up to UNCLE as to how it will be revealed to his superiors in the KGB".
Napoleon mouthed 'wow' before he realized it, a sly grin sliding into place as he imagined the horror that would overtake the slippery Soviet agent. Serena smiled coyly, her own mission now nearly complete.
"You understand, Napoleon, I have nothing personal against this man. However, Thrush Central has determined that he is no longer of use to us, and as he has committed some deeds that your organization find...hmm...distasteful...Well, we give him to you with our thanks for taking him off our hands. He doesn't know enough to be a danger to us, so we have no qualms about what you do with him".
That was it, then. She reached into her sequined bag and produced a white card, elegantly inscribed with her name and what appeared to be a phone number; only it wasn't, and Napoleon tucked Putkin's future into his breast pocket as he gave Serena one last kiss on the cheek.
Backstage, dancers were warming up in various spots; wardrobe people were working on last minute details and repairing loose beading or stubborn zippers.
Karina was all business as she went over the list of dancers and their respective places in the program. The Russians were heard in their language, the Americans in English, French and a few others that ebbed and flowed along with the excitement and anxiety.
At exactly eight o'clock, the lights dimmed and the orchestra, having warmed up for the past twenty minutes, began the opening strains of La Sylphide. Illya contemplated only briefly the story that was told in this ballet; a young man who wanders away from his true love in order to chase after a mythical creature, ultimately causing her death even as he loses the woman he would have married if not for his impetuous and fickle actions.
It was a very telling tale, he thought. Certainly each of them, Napoleon, Karina and himself, might all be very much like the errant James.
Karina came upon him just then, and realized the irony of the dance she had brought to this stage. It was a timeless, romantic ode to the foolishness of people when they didn't seize the opportunities at happiness that came all too infrequently.
Illya saw her approach and smiled, holding out his hand to her as she joined him in watching the performance from the left wing.
"They look wonderful, Rina. You have accomplished an impressive feat with this company of dancers. In spite of all of the business that has gone on, the ballet triumphs in the end, does it not".
She was pleased with the compliment, and with the use of her name's derivative. How often would she meet someone who made her feel like this; as though a future could be had that was not burdened with politics and secrecy. But, they were both servants of that system, so all they had was a dream, much like the one being danced on the stage. It would only end in tragedy, much like the Sylphide. One or both of them would lose their wings and eventually die.
"It is good, Illya. I'm very proud of them all".
Illya and Napoleon had spoken briefly before the curtain was raised, so the Russian knew of the bank account, and the secret code for accessing it. The numerical key had been passed on, already, to a courier who had taken it to headquarters.
Even now, Alexander Waverly was beginning the process of conveying this information to the head of the KGB in New York. Two agents had been lost to them in the past 48 hours, an unprecedented display of ineptitude and treachery. The repercussions would be felt both here and in Moscow; someone had let this man operate as a double agent for years. It stopped now, but now without taking a few heads in the hunt for answers.
At this moment agent Putkin was sitting in the back of the theater, his eyes trying to catch sight of the American UNCLE agent. He had seen him with Serena, and recognized the woman as one of the Thrush elite; an agent who seemed to not be subject to normal protocols or directives. That she had been conversing with Solo seemed odd, but then spies were an odd lot and one could never really be certain why they did anything...or with whom.
Kuryakin, he knew, was still backstage with the Russian woman. He needed a reason to join them, to place his hand literally to the task of eliminating the man who would take the blame for his own duplicitous activity.
As the ballet shifted from La Sylphide to the white act of La Bayadere, Putkin eased himself out of the auditorium and through the double doors into the foyer. He followed a familiar path around and through various corridors until he found himself near the backstage area where Karina and Illya were watching the performance.
The Soviet had brought the incriminating evidence with him, and intended to plant it on the other Russian; a simple but effective plan, he thought. Within minutes he would approach the blond agent and take his hand in a false act of congratulations for the excellence of the program. As he covered the unsuspecting agent's left hand with his right one, fully clasping and enclosing it, he would prick it with a hidden needle filled with a quick acting sedative.
When the Russian faltered, Putkin would take the opportunity to plant the evidence, insuring that when the man awoke from his drugged stupor, he would be the prime suspect in this hunt being conducted by the U.N.C.L.E.
He crept forward, avoiding a ballerina as she whizzed past him with a male dancer close behind. He loathed these artistic types, with their superior attitudes and condescending words for the lowly state controlled KGB. In spite of whatever fear was engendered, their art still caused a rift between them and everyone else, and a hedge of protection as long as they behaved. Soon Putkin would be away from all of it, and his money would insure that he lived well while in exile from the Soviet landscape. He would not miss it.
Illya was standing apart from Karina now, making it much easier for him to carry out his little scene. The woman was glued to her spot, watching her dancers and letting her body move with them; finding it hard to resist the impulse.
As Putkin approached his target, the American agent appeared, seemingly, from nowhere. The heavy curtains were coming down on this last offering, and the dancers were held in place as it was lowered to the worn, wooden stage floor . He needed to move now, making the most of his moment and guaranteeing the outcome. He had to risk it, or perhaps lose the opportunity forever.
"Ah, Comrade Kuryakin, you have reason to be pleased..."
He reached out his hand to shake Kuryakin's, following what was so firmly entrenched in his mind's eye. Illya hesitated, then reached out to receive the handshake. As Putkin grasped the smaller man's hand he covered it with his own right hand, fully engaging him in the plot. Too late, Illya felt the slight nick of a needle on the top of his hand and knew he had to alert his partner.
The formula was quick, though, and as he began to falter, his words were not heard. Napoleon saw his friend begin to sag and then collapse to the floor; Putkin was pushed aside, making it impossible to plant the piece of paper inside of Illya's pocket. He needed to get out before anyone suspected him. The sedative was going to last less than thirty minutes, in which time he could be questioned or searched.
As Karina cooed in Russian over the blond, Napoleon stood up and set his eyes on Putkin. There was no doubt now; the KGB man started backing away, trying to ascertain a means of escaping. He finally bolted for the door that led to the alley behind the venue, his only thought now to escape the wrath of UNCLE's top agent. He still had the money, and he would find a way to get out of this country and out of the KGB.
He had no choice but to run, and that's what he did.
The steps leading down to the pavement were slicked by a light rain that was falling incessantly now, a larger storm due by the early morning. As Putkin tried to put distance between himself and the illustrious Carnegie Hall, his mind was racing faster than his body would go. Out onto the street, he dodged taxis and random cars, looking over his should only once to gain a view of the relentless pursuer.
Napoleon could see the Soviet, and he was certain he could outrun him. One of the section three agents had seen Solo running away from the theater and began his own foot race with the KGB man. Now there were two UNCLE agents chasing the sometime Thrush agent, his chances of escape suddenly seeming dim in comparison to the city lights under which he was an easy target.
"Putkin! Stop, we already have evidence against you. Stop now!"
Napoleon shouted as he ran, hoping to persuade the man to just quit and give himself up. So far it wasn't working, and he increased his speed as he avoided collisions with several irate drivers and their vehicles.
The other UNCLE agent was drawing closer to the CEA, willing himself to be part of the capture. It was only as he came alongside Napoleon that the older agent recognized him.
"Agent Manning...he's not going to stop. Cut him off, will you...he's heading...'
Scott Manning saw their target turn south and cut in between two buildings, looking for a way to lose the damned UNCLE agents.
"I see him sir...I'll take the back way in".
Both men took off at top speed as Putkin began to hesitate, looking for openings and feeling the burn in his lungs as his less fit body began to heave and tremble from the effects of his sudden physical activity.
When Putkin, breathless and faltering, emerged from the alley between a delicatessen and a boutique, Scott Manning was waiting for him. The KGB agent was stunned; he turned as if to go back the other way only to encounter Solo closing in on him. He panicked at that moment, opting for a solution that he had dreaded ever since entering the service of the Soviet state. He produced a pill from somewhere and bit down...hard.
By the time Napoleon reached him, he was beginning to enter the throes of a cyanide death. The scene was a cliché from a spy movie: the bad guy succumbing to the death pill while the good guys stood helpless and horrified at the desperation and finality of the act.
Napoleon couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the man, in spite of what he knew of him. He pulled out his communicator and put in the call.
"Open channel D...this is Solo"
"Yes, Mr. Solo. What has happened?"
"Sir, Putkin is dead. He ... he had a cyanide capsule and..."
"Yes, I see. That is quite disturbing, but out of our hands now. I'm certain you did all you could, Mr. Solo".
"Mr. Kuryakin is still at the theater. Agent Putkin did something...injected him, I think..."
"You had better return then, and see to your partner. I will send medical there, just in case. Waverly out".
Agent Manning watched as Solo replaced his communicator and heaved a sigh big enough to fill a balloon.
"Scott, stay here...call in the location for a clean up. I'm going back...Good job, by the way".
"Thank you, sir. I'm glad I was able to help. Well, even though he did...well..."
"Yeah, it's ok. We don't make those decisions for them".
Napoleon sprinted back to Carnegie, his tuxedo barely affected by the rain or the physical exertion. When he finally located Illya, the Russian had been moved into a dressing room and Karina was close by, her eyes puffy and red from crying. She hadn't known she could react like this, but when Illya had gone down she feared he was dead. His breathing had remained steady and strong, however, and she realized it was merely a sedative. Now she was waiting for it to wear off, hoping that Napoleon would return unharmed. Too many emotions for her to endure and still think of herself as a professional. For the first time in her life, Karina wondered about what she did for her country.
"Karina, is he awake yet?"
Napoleon's voice held concern but not panic. He couldn't let himself drift into something maudlin at this point. One man was already dead, his partner wouldn't join him.
"Oh, Napoleon, what happened? Where is Putkin?"
"He's dead, Karina. He took a suicide pill...cyanide".
She gasped at that, betraying whatever calm remained within her. This evening should have been nothing but triumph and celebration. Now a man was dead, Illya was drugged and, without a doubt, the freedom she had been enjoying in this country would probably be curtailed because of this one man's actions. Putkin had, she now conjectured, ruined everything. And, he was dead, depriving her of the pleasure of killing him herself.
Just then, Illya began to emerge from his drug-induced sleep. He tried to sit up, but his head was still fuzzy, his throat almost too dry to talk.
"What happened?"
"Illya, you missed the action, and the end of our little story'...
Napoleon still shuddered at the memory of the Soviet agent seizing in that alleyway as the cyanide invaded his body, depriving him of oxygen until the heart gave out. Sometimes this business...
"What? Where's Putkin?"
The blond was paler than usual, but the effects were wearing off and he wanted some answers. This day had been full of unexpected incidents, and he was certain another one was going to be detailed for him now.
"Putkin is dead...suicide. Cyanide. It's all over".
Illya was stunned. The KGB agent had been squirreling away money for years, and to just quit...
"Are you all right?"
The American looked drained, strangely unanimated.
Napoleon wondered how many times they could get hit on the head, ingest toxic agents or breath noxious fumes. How many years of this?
"Yes, just... like you, tovarich. I'm fine".
Two hours later they were seated at the round table over which Mr. Waverly reigned as the head of UNCLE Northwest, and for the most part, all of UNCLE. No one else ranked higher than the old man, no one engendered more reverential fear than the man who had helmed it since time began. Or, so it seemed.
"Gentlemen, this has been an extraordinarily difficult day, and the death of Mr. Putkin has put everyone on edge. The Soviets want a full scale investigation into this incident and have requested the right to question each of you".
Napoleon was shocked at the prospect of a Soviet inquiry, but Illya had blanched to a new shade of pale at the suggestion.
"Sir, is this going to be allowed?"
After all of this, would it come down to being interrogated by the Soviets, here, in this country. He was an UNCLE agent, surely...
"No, it will not, Mr. Kuryakin. We do not serve the needs of the Soviet internal networks. They will have to deal with it themselves, and come to terms with the actions of their agent. You will not need to encounter these men; not while you're under my direction".
An uncharacteristic show of paternal care escaped from the usually staid and unemotional Number One. Napoleon and Illya each recognized it for what it was and were grateful to be under his protection.
"Thank you, sir".
Both men chimed together, each of them thankful for his own reasons.
Neither man had stayed for the remainder of the performance at Carnegie Hall. Their duty demanded that they return to UNCLE headquarters, leaving Karina to immerse herself in her own responsibilities; deciding to not alert the dancers to Putkin's death or the turmoil that had surrounded this event.
She was so entirely focused on the successful completion of this program, and the well being of her company that she was able to rise above the trauma of the deception and eventual death of Anatoly Putkin, and her personal disappointments. Illya Kuryakin would go into the file labeled 'what if'. They would not meet again.
Serena knew of Putkin's death before Alexander Waverly did. Her people were close by when the man was apprehended and took his fatal dose. As soon as she was alerted to it, she left the theater and entered the limo that was waiting to take her to the airport, where a private jet was waiting to fly her to London. She had business there, and knew she would see Napoleon sooner than he would have believed or anticipated.
Illya still had a little bit of a headache, while Napoleon was emotionally weary. In the midst of so much beauty and creativity, this ugliness had crept in and made him feel melancholy and sad. What he needed was a drink. Even the prospect of a beautiful woman wasn't going to cure him of this blue state of mind.
"Hey, you want to get something..."
"To drink?"
Yeah, he needed his partner. He didn't even have to finish his sentences for the rest of the night.
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