Cost Accounting

by

Patricia J. Foley

 

 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

August 3rd, 1965

Wednesday, 8:30 a.m. 

 

Solo hastily paged through the paperwork that had built up on his desk during the last two weeks, interested only in acquainting himself with any documents Waverly might question him about at their morning briefing.  He was still a little out of favor with his boss for nearly botching the reactor mission.  In such circumstances, Waverly would sometimes take a subtle revenge at these meetings by displaying his Chief Enforcement Agent's ignorance of current affairs.

Fortunately, after years in the CEA position, he had as good an idea concerning what Waverly considered important as a student knows the testing style of a familiar teacher.  He skimmed the mission reports from Section Two, wishing he was reading Illya's neat synopses instead of scanning the actual reports.  He gave an even briefer glance over the summaries from Section Three.  He shoved department circulars, memos, newsletters and unclassified intelligence reports to one side, but pulled out the budget reports. 

He was no accountant, in fact, he had hired one to handle his own personal affairs.  What he had chosen to escape at home came back to haunt him at Headquarters.  Waverly, often irritated with what he considered to be his CEA's wasteful expenditures on missions, would frequently interrogate his future successor on budget matters.  Since he didn't need to incur more of his superior's wrath, Solo shook out the multi-columned sheets and began to squint over the tiny rows of figures.  Then he sat back in his desk chair as the implications of the report in his hands hit home.

As a Section Head, he oversaw a good many budget reports.  As Waverly's second, he had access to not only the reports from his own section, but details for North American U.N.C.L.E., as well as summaries for U.N.C.L.E. worldwide.

But it was a detail from the North American budget that had caught his eye.

He'd have to be blind to miss that many zeros.

A substantial deposit, the very day Illya Kuryakin blew up the Soviet nuclear plant.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

He'd joked to Waverly, before the mission had barely begun, about the price Kuryakin could had gotten for his services on the open market.  The CIA had deep pockets and were not adverse to delving into them when the occasion merited it.

But there had been nothing about payment in the contract he'd read regarding lending Kuryakin's services to the CIA.  Waverly had bristled at the very mention of monetary compensation, claiming U.N.C.L.E. would be 'paid in another coin'.

Whatever coins U.N.C.L.E. had been paid in, they added up to a very tidy sum.

The implications were very clear.  All Waverly's high brow claims aside, someone had paid U.N.C.L.E. for the services of Illya Kuryakin.

That someone had to be the CIA.

The very day they'd tried to frame him, possibly kill him.

Blood money?

 

                                                                            ***

 

 

9:00 a.m.

 

Solo sat through the morning briefing, keeping his anger to himself.  Illya looked a little pale to his eyes, a combination of post-mission stress and his previous late night at class catching up with him.  The Russian agent was surprisingly cheerful though, occasionally cracking a smile, obviously having worked through any personal conflicts regarding his actions against his former country.  Perhaps he had caught the feeling from Waverly -- the Section One Chief also seemed in an unusually genial frame of mind, not deigning to castigate Solo for any lack in his hastily acquired information.  Only Solo spoiled the atmosphere in the office, like a thundercloud in an otherwise clear sky.

He could see that his superior noted his attitude but was choosing to ignore it, probably thinking he was still smarting over his recent reprimand.  Illya in a cheerful mood was almost impossible to repress.

While he, himself, was in a quandary.  Speak, or not speak?  Challenge Waverly with the budget information, or try and reach some understanding on his own.  He glanced over at Illya and decided to shelve his discontent for the moment.

Waverly stacked the case folders they had just discussed into a neat pile, and nodded.  "Very well, Mr. Solo.  I'll expect you and Mr. Kuryakin's final reports on the Reactor Affair by this afternoon."

"Yes, sir," Solo rose from the table.  At times, he firmly believed the worst aspect of a mission wasn't the part in the field, but the inevitable paperwork afterwards.  So life in Headquarters was to go on as usual, at least in Waverly's eyes.  And in his own?  He watched as Illya folded his glasses and stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

Misreading Solo's gloomy look, Kuryakin grinned.  "I'll help you write yours, Napoleon."

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Kuryakin,"  Waverly corrected.  "Besides it being against procedure for you to produce another operative's report,"  Kuryakin tried unsuccessfully to wipe the expression from his face, since everyone in the room, Waverly included, knew Solo routinely caged his partner into doing his paperwork for him, "you have another obligation.  It seems Dr. Lawrence has complained you have missed two appointments for a post-mission checkup.  Please see to it at once.  You know I don't care to have my time wasted in dealing with these minor internal procedures."

Napoleon almost had to smile himself, seeing Illya's mood abruptly deflate.

"Yes, sir," Kuryakin said.  "I'm sorry you were bothered.  I did mean to --"

"Yes, quite,"  Waverly said, waving an abrupt hand in dismissal.  "I'm not interested in excuses, gentlemen.  You have been in your positions long enough that I should not have to be remind you of standard operations.  Your mission reports are to be completed today, Mr. Solo, as soon as possible.  And you, Mr. Kuryakin, are to endeavor to get our medical chief off my back.  That's all."

Solo walked out by his partner's side, scarcely noticing where they were going until the commissary server asked him what he wanted.  He took a cup of coffee, his stomach not up to anything more.  Next to him, Kuryakin was arguing with another cafeteria employee.

"What do you mean you don't have any apples?"

The girl behind the counter was flustered over the normally reticent Section Two agent's unusual request.  "I'm sorry, sir, but we're out -- "

Kuryakin didn't seem interested in excuses.  "That's impossible.  How can we be out of apples when dozens of fruit peddlers are outside impeding traffic in the streets of New York?"

Solo leaned his head into the conversation.  "Give him one out of the VIP fruit baskets -- "

"But those are for the meeting -- " the server stopped abruptly at Solo's slow smile.  "Oh, all right."  She disappeared into the back.  There was an audible rustling of cellophane before she returned, the fruit in her hand.

"Thanks,"  Solo gave one of his trademarked smiles guaranteed to dazzle anything lacking a Y chromosome.  It didn't fail him now.

"Not at all, Mr. Solo.  Always happy to oblige." She smiled back.

"I'm sure you are,"  Solo said suggestively, leaning slightly over the counter, before a yank on his arm abruptly jerked him away.

"Must you always do that?"  Kuryakin complained.

"It wouldn't hurt you to try it,"  Solo said.  "You can get more bees with honey --"

"I'm allergic to bees.  And flowers."  Kuryakin replied.

"Some flowers are worth it.  You should get shots,"  Solo said absently, still smiling at the commissary server across the room.

"I get shot enough."

Solo was gratified when the girl rewarded his continued interest with a small wave.  After the last two weeks, a little female diversion would be only too welcome.  He didn't think she was new, but he didn't remember noticing her before.  Still, U.N.C.L.E. HQ had quite a few female employees.  Even he could be forgiven for taking a while to get to know all the eligible ones.  He thought pleasurably of how to acquaint himself with this one.  But when the focus of his attention moved to help another customer, Solo turned back to his partner. 

Illya had recovered his equanimity and was now good-naturedly complaining about his lack of souvenirs from their recent trip to bring to Norman Graham's Soviet-born wife.

"I wanted to bring Trish something.  A present.  Two trips I've taken home, Napoleon, and I never get to go shopping."

Napoleon had to look twice to realize that Illya wasn't referring to his 'adopted' home in D.C., but was actually meant his former country.  "What the hell can you buy in the Soviet Union?"  Solo growled, sliding into a chair, thinking about how ironic it was that Kuryakin was feeling disappointment over failing to acquire a trinket or two, when Waverly had gained a few tidy millions for U.N.C.L.E.'s bank account.  And feeling more than a little chilled to hear Illya blithely refer to the Soviet Union as home, practically in the same breath as he spoke of his family in D.C.  Surely the two weren't linked that closely in his mind.  And if they were, Napoleon didn't want to hear of it.

 Kuryakin mock scowled at him.  "What would you know?  You are only a dumb American.  If your Russian was better, you could have hunted something up for me while I was busy."

This was more than he could stand.  "Yeah, I'm really going to go souvenir hunting while you're being grilled by the KGB."

His partner grinned again, "Why not?  A suitable diversion."

"There's probably more Russian stuff available to buy in New York City than in all of the Soviet Union."

"It can be difficult to find things in regular Soviet stores,"  Kuryakin agreed, "but on the black market, almost anything can be had, for a price.  Of course, it can be quite a price --"

Napoleon pushed back his chair, unable to take any more.  "Excuse me,"  he said thickly, "I just thought of something I have to do."

Illya squinted up at him over his coffee.  "I told you I'd help you with your report, Napoleon.  It won't take that long."

"What?  No, this isn't about that,"  Solo said.  "I'll talk to you later.  And don't forget to see Sam."

"I won't need to after this,"  Kuryakin said mischievously, waving the apple which was diminished almost down to the core.

Solo paused, "What do you mean?"

"You know the American saying.   'An apple a day -- '"

"'Keeps the doctor away',"  Solo finished sourly.  "I don't think Sam is going to buy that, Illya.  Nor Mr. Waverly."

"Humph,"  Kuryakin stared down at the apple core.  "I knew it was just more American propaganda."

 

                                                                            ***

 

10:00 a.m.

 

Solo entered Waverly's office without preamble, the incriminating item in his hand.  He strode toward the old man behind the desk and slapped the document before him.  Waverly looked up from the file he was studying and stared at Solo quizzically.

"Try to explain that," Solo demanded.

The Section One chief peered at the page.  "It appears to be a budget report."  He pushed it aside.  "If Accounting has made some error, Mr. Solo, there is no reason to bring it to my attention.  You may take it to one of the young ladies in that area -- you are certainly not unfamiliar with them."

"I wish it were an error, but I doubt it.  How do you explain this deposit?"

Frowning, Waverly glanced at the figure, then looked back at his Section Two Chief.  "You needn't concern yourself with that particular line item."

"Why?  Don't I have clearance for blood money?"  Solo challenged, feeling a malicious sense of justice in making the accusation.  In taking Waverly off guard.  In controlling the situation.

"There is no cause for dramatics," the U.N.C.L.E. chief reproved. 

"So it does have something to do with Illya's CIA assignment."  Solo sat down abruptly, the wind taken from his sails.  He had been right, but he didn't feel any victory in it.  He had enjoyed accusing the U.N.C.L.E. chief, in turning the tables and demanding accountability from Waverly, as his boss has so often required it of him.  But now that he had done it, he only felt a sense of loss.

"Really, Mr. Solo, I should seriously doubt your qualifications for Chief Enforcement Agent if I was required to inform you of that," Waverly continued impatiently.  "Now that your curiosity has been satisfied, I do have --"

"I don't understand you," Solo interrupted.  "How can you not find a problem with this?  I can accept that every operative on assignment is expendable.  I can even accept that when an operative is compromised, as Illya was when Jud Carter kidnapped him, that U.N.C.L.E. might not pursue the investigation if it endangered this organization or the agent's cover.  But to deliberately sell an operative who has sworn his life to this agency, for money --"

"I did not sell Mr. Kuryakin to the CIA," Waverly cut him off.

"No?  Not at first, perhaps.  Not blatantly.  But you did suspect Illya would be framed.  Certainly that they'd try to betray him.  Perhaps even kill him, or strand him back in the Soviet Union for the KGB to find.  I was your insurance to bring Illya back out with the proof of what had been done to him.  And you had already decided on what to do, hadn't you?  What your bribe was going to be,"  Solo's eyes narrowed as Waverly rose from his desk, his face pinched with anger, and turned to stare out his window.  But Solo noticed he wasn't denying anything and that added fuel to his fire.  "You had it all planned in advance, didn't you?  Did you really care about that mission, or was it all a plot to swell U.N.C.L.E.'s empty coffers?  What's next, are you going to offer him to the KGB for a price and then rely on me to kidnap him between the payoff and the time they shoot him?"

Waverly turned back, his movement abrupt.  "That's enough, Mr. Solo.  You forget yourself."

Solo bit back an angry retort,  breathing hard.

Waverly came back to his desk and sat down behind it, stacking a few files ponderously.  His voice, when he spoke, was calm and resigned.  "I make what choices I must for this agency and its operatives.  Mr. Kuryakin's mission was a valid one in maintaining the balance of power in the proliferation of nuclear arms between the two superpowers.  It was in U.N.C.L.E.'s best interest, the best interests of world stability, to provide the CIA support in that regard.  Nor are you are so naive as to believe that the CIA's actions regarding Mr. Kuryakin were completely straightforward, or that if I had reasonable proof of that duplicity, that I would not extract compensation.  The reputation of U.N.C.L.E. alone, regardless of my valuation of Mr. Kuryakin, would not allow me to disregard such treachery."

"It seems to me U.N.C.L.E.'s reputation hardly gained anything by that transaction," Solo said darkly.  "And I think I understand only too well the value you place upon Mr. Kuryakin.  I see it before me, in nine figures, no less. I suppose his life, as well as U.N.C.L.E.'s integrity, didn't have a chance against a ransom like that."

"You are missing the larger picture, Mr. Solo.  Thinking merely like an operative's partner, and not like the Chief Enforcement Agent of this organization."

"You made him my partner!"  Solo thundered.  "You saddled me with him, against my protests.  It's a little late for you to complain about that now.  I never wanted a partner to begin with."

"Nor do you deserve one, if you would sacrifice this organization for a partner's welfare.  Your attitude is dangerous for an operative, but even more distressing in a Chief Enforcement Agent.  Every operative is supported by this organization, not just your partner --"

"I know that,"  Solo growled. 


"I am not finished.  Every member nation who has put their trust in us to safeguard the world deserves your consideration, not just your partner.  An operative who thinks only of his partner, or of some naive standard of conduct unrealistic with the realities of this business, is unworthy of this organization."  Waverly studied his CEA.  "I am somewhat surprised that you are new to these considerations, but then I believe you have always held a certain ... naivete ... regarding your partners.  It appears it extends further than that."

"I have never favored Illya,"  Solo said hotly.  "I send him into danger regularly.  We have a very successful mission ratio, as you well know.  But this last mission, what you did, what you planned -- that was not a normal mission.  Not an ethical action."

"Nonsense," Waverly scoffed and then studied his CEA closely, and seeing he was unconvinced, sighed.  "Perhaps this is a necessary learning experience for every potential head of Section One: the compromises, the necessities one must take for the greater good.  I had not expected you to be quite so unaware of this.  Indeed, it is a serious oversight on my part that I was unaware of your attitude.  It is one you need to reconsider.  I believe there are few experienced operatives in Section Two, including, your partner, who cling to such outmoded standards.    I suggest you strongly review your priorities in regard to this organization, Mr. Solo."  Waverly pulled a folder in front of him.  "You are dismissed."

 

                                                                            ***

 

 

10:15 a.m.

 

 

 

Illya Kuryakin stood in front of Sam Lawrence's office door, returning the open smile of the physician with a terrible glare. "I could have taken you out three times before you even looked up from your work," the Section Two agent challenged.  "So tell me why I need to be here?"

"Nice to see you, too,"  Lawrence said unperturbed, and picked up a chart that was entirely too handy on the physician's desk.  "Come on in; I can see you're impatient to get this over with."

"If we must,"  Kuryakin said shortly.  "I've been poked and prodded by enough physicians in the last two weeks to take me through the next several years.

Lawrence motioned him into an exam cubicle and handed him a robe.  "That's a typical month in the life of an enforcement agent.  Two weeks in the field and two weeks in the infirmary, interspersed with writing up reports.  Strip and change."

Kuryakin drew in a deep breath and blew it out soundlessly in a telling display of strained compliance, before removing his tie with almost savage precision.  Lawrence slouched on a corner cabinet, stretched his long legs out and crossed them casually at the ankles.  Idly paging through the file in his hands, he surreptitiously watched the agent's movements, looking for incriminating hesitations that would warn him of strained muscles or other injuries the agent might be reluctant to reveal.

"You can stop pretending to be interested in the fact that I had pneumonia at sixteen," Kuryakin said, biting off the words testily and shrugging into the infirmary gown.  "I know what you are doing."

Lawrence chuckled a little, straightened up and laid the chart aside.  "With pleasure, if you'll agree to be as honest during your exam."

"Do I have a choice?"  the agent asked bitterly.

"Of course.  You can cooperate, tell me the truth, and you'll be out of here in a few minutes.  Or be difficult and spend the afternoon here."  The physician gestured to the exam table.

Kuryakin didn't deign to comment, hitching himself up and staring blankly ahead as if to a firing squad.

With this particular agent especially, Lawrence always tried to follow a set procedure during physical exams, taking vital signs such as pulse, pressure, and temperature in the same order and the same manner.  The standard routine and familiar practices always seemed to help get through the worst of the defenses.  By the time he had the thermometer in Kuryakin's mouth, the young man had dropped some of his tight core of tension.  When Lawrence finally removed it, checked the temperature, showed the normal reading to Kuryakin, and was scribbling the figure on the agent's chart, Illya was rubbing one hand across his forehead as if to ward off an incipient headache.  As Lawrence turned back to him, he met the physician's eyes for the first time, his gaze apologetic.  When Lawrence put the chart down, Illya let out a deep sigh.

"Feeling better, now?"  Lawrence enquired.

Kuryakin shrugged, his mouth twisting slightly in a regretful grimace.  "I'm sorry, Sam."

"Save it for the day you actually deck me before you settle down.  And while you're at it, tell me why you ducked two appointments and came in here strung up like a taut wire.  According to the reports from the physician at the military hospital in Germany, and Dr. Abrams at the CIA, you should be in reasonably good health."

"I am."

"Uh-huh,"  Lawrence waited expectantly for a moment then shrugged as Kuryakin stayed closed-mouthed.  "Still not talking, huh?  Well, let's see if you are fine.  We'll just do this the slow and thorough way."

Illya swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and laid back.  Lawrence went over the agent carefully, from the roots of his hair down to his toenails.  Considering the investment U.N.C.L.E. had in every Section Two agent, he had a valuable property on his exam table.  While Waverly might be able, in his role as head of Section One, to squander talent as he chose, Lawrence was always conscious of the need to keep the field agents, U.N.C.L.E.'s most valuable assets, functioning as both people and operatives.  And considering that his patient was Number Two of Section Two, and one of Waverly's prized proteges, the responsibility was even greater.

But his search for problems seemed in vain.  Kuryakin, was, indeed, in reasonably good health.  In spite of the mild concussion, his pupils were nicely reactive.  The bruise on his cheek was leaching to an unattractive color, but Lawrence found no loose teeth in the jaw underneath, not even so much as a cut inside the mouth from the tender skin being pushed against sharp molars. The odd bruises on his ribs, arms and legs indicated quite a few heavy things had fallen on the agent, but none had resulted in any dangerous internal injuries.  Lawrence poked and prodded, watching his patient for any change of expression or tension in the long muscles, but Kuryakin seemed to be hiding no internal injuries.  Lawrence gave a cursory inspection to the soles of the Russian's feet, but although Illya flinched a little at his gentle touch, he seemed to find the contact ticklish rather than painful.

Kuryakin's lips and eyes were tightly closed during the necessary internal exam, but clearly it was distaste for the procedure and not apprehension.  Every agent, male or female, had to be checked for signs of rape after a field assignment.  While some were indifferent, most loathed the procedure and needed a moment to recover, and in this, Kuryakin was no different than his colleagues.  The physician stripped off his gloves thoughtfully and washed his hands, giving his patient a break before he continued.

Taking up a stethoscope from the instrument cabinet, Lawrence turned back to his patient, who was lying quietly, his eyes still closed, his breathing even.  "You can sit up, Illya.  I want to listen to your heart and lungs again."

Kuryakin complied, but frowned.  "You did that once already."

"Just perfunctorily.  I know you are breathing,"  Lawrence grinned cheerfully.  "Now, I want to see how well."

He spent a long time on the process, moving the stethoscope around to various places and asking his patient repeatedly to breathe and cough.  Lungs were always critical.  Agents were forever being exposed to toxic gases, breathing smoke from fires and explosions.  Too many of them, like the patient before him, had taken a bullet through the fragile organs.  He had been forced to retire more than one otherwise perfectly useful Section Two or Three agent because their lungs had been too compromised for the ordeals of the position.

Kuryakin's lungs had always bounced back, but he had recently been exposed again to smoke, fire and heated gases, and Lawrence didn't like the disturbing rattle he could clearly hear.  Nothing serious, yet, but definitely compromising for the moment.  He checked the trache incision with gentle fingers, was satisfied that it was healing well, not likely to even leave much of a scar, and reached for a penlight again.

"Open wide."

"You did this already, too,"  Kuryakin accused.

"And I discovered the KGB didn't cut your tongue out.  Now I want to look at your throat.

"This is a waste of time," the Section Two agent complained.

Lawrence pulled back a little and fixed him with a commanding glare.  "Do it."

Kuryakin did, but he wasn't happy about it.  Lawrence could feel the resistance in his patient as he held his chin and peered at the still reddened throat, larynx and vocal cords.  Again, nothing serious, but the bronchial tubes were undoubtably equally affected.  Kuryakin was obviously barely holding onto his patience as his physician listened to his respiration again, trying to memorize the faint rattling.  At the next exam, Lawrence knew he would need to know if the rattle had lessened or increased.  When he was satisfied he'd be able to identify any change, he put down the stethoscope and scribbled his findings on the chart.

Kuryakin instantly became alarmed, craning his head to see.  "What are you writing?  I told you, I am fine."

"So, you are,"  Lawrence said, continuing his scribbles.  "Pretty fine.  Not perfect, but not bad."

Illya, who had relaxed at Lawrence's first words, straightened up again. "There is nothing wrong with me."

"I understand Dr. Abrams gave you a prescription for antibiotics,"  Lawrence asked casually, still scribbling.  "What was the drug?"

At the silence, Lawrence looked up from the chart to meet his patient's gaze.  Kuryakin had a sheeted look in his eyes that told Lawrence he knew he had been well and truly caught, and was trying to decide on how damning a lie would be in their relationship.

"When was the last time you took the medication?"  Lawrence continued.  He poised his pen as if to take down the answer.  "Did you take the medication?"

The agent let out a held breath in a gust of exasperation.  "Do you think I am crazy?"

"They were antibiotics, Illya."  Lawrence opened the chart to the forwarding report from the physician.  "Penicillin, to be exact."

"They were capsules!"  Kuryakin expounded.  "Do you think I would take capsules given to me by the CIA?"

"If you had looked at them --"

"Oh, I don't care what they were stamped,"  Kuryakin said derisively.  "Anything can be put in a capsule.  I am not that much of a fool."

"No, you're just foolish enough to ignore one physician's prescription, duck another physician's exam, and risk pneumonia,"  Lawrence shook his head.  "Do you still have them?"

"I flushed them down the toilet five minutes after I received them,"  Kuryakin said coldly.  "As any prudent person would do."

"Before you even got out of Langley?" the physician asked incredulously, and then seeing by the stubborn look on Kuryakin's face there was no point belaboring the issue, he turned to the supply cabinet in the room and removing a vial and a syringe, began preparing an injection, squinting a little as he drew in the correct amount and squirted the excess out of the needle.

"What is that for?"  Kuryakin asked suspiciously.

"What do you think?  Penicillin, of course.  Unless you would rather risk pneumonia.  Turn over."

"Are you sure this is necessary?"  Kuryakin protested, looking anxiously over his shoulder.  "Ouch!"

Lawrence half smiled as Illya made a pained sound, winced artistically, and rubbed his hand over the injection site.

"Anyone would think you aren't a trained field agent, capable of standing up to incredible tortures."

"Usually promulgated by U.N.C.L.E.'s chief physician,"  Illya complained, sitting back up with every indication he found the action distinctly uncomfortable.  "I really hate you, Sam."

"It serves you right, for dumping your meds and avoiding me."

"You told on me to Mr. Waverly,"  Kuryakin accused.

"Damn straight.  I don't have time to chase you all over HQ.  You know better than to play those kind of tricks.  What's happened to you anyway?"

Kuryakin said nothing, staring uncomfortably at the physician.

"What is it?"  Lawrence continued.  "That trip back to the Soviet Union make you regress?  Are you sorry you took on the mission?"  Lawrence waited a bit. "Sorry you came back here?  Is it the problems you had with the CIA?"

"No."  Kuryakin finally met Lawrence's eyes.  "I am okay with it, Sam."

Lawrence sat down on the cabinet across from his patient.  "What are you okay with?"

"I thought I might not be,"  Kuryakin seemed to be talking almost as much to himself as his companion, his English oddly stilted.  "But I have considered it, and I am okay with it."

"With what you did?"

"Yes,"  Kuryakin looked back up.  "The first time I went home, you remember, I was investigating some missiles that were threatening the grain crop."

"Yes, I remember."

"Then, I was working for my country.  But this last time, I was working against it."

Lawrence nodded, not betraying by a flicker his mental wince at hearing Illya refer to the Soviet Union as his own country.  What the CIA would make of that, he knew all too well.

"And that bothered you," he prompted.

"At first it did."

"On the mission?"  Sam asked cautiously.  He had worried about Kuryakin going on that mission.  Worried enough to challenge Waverly on it.  And he had been right.  He had imagined all the possible problems of sending an agent, a recent defector hostilely received by the CIA, on a CIA mission against his former country.  Waverly had rejected his concerns, but they had been valid.  To think that Illya had been in the Soviet Union with second thoughts about his mission!  Sam was enough of an psychiatrist and U.N.C.L.E. operative himself to keep his expression neutral, but inside his stomach clenched at what might have happened.

Kuryakin nodded, watching the doctor's eyes for any negative reaction.  "And afterwards, a bit too, when I woke up at CIA.  But now, here, I have had time to think.  It is really no different than what I did before I came to U.N.C.L.E., when I passed on information to Mr. Waverly."

"When you were an 'agent-in-place' for Mr. Waverly, but still working for the KGB."

"Yes.  Then I passed information, and here I destroyed something.  But information also can destroy.  What I did was really no different."

"Does it bother you?"

Kuryakin shrugged.  "I do what I must.  I trust I am doing for good."  He met the physician's eyes. "I am okay, Sam.  It is all right.  I did the right thing."

"I'm sure you did, Illya,"  Lawrence said carefully.  "You know Alexander would never send you on a mission that was really against your own country, however it might have seemed outwardly."

The relief and trust in his patient's eyes was almost painful for Lawrence to see. 

"I know.  I am satisfied."  Kuryakin hesitated a bit, then continued.  "So I am okay."  He made it sound like a question, but the force of his intentions was clear.  "You do not need to write anything down."

"No.  Except for one thing,"  Lawrence grinned at the worried cast to the agent's features.  "A new prescription for antibiotics.  Capsules, again.  And unless you want a needle in your ... well, you know what I mean, you had better take them."

Kuryakin sighed, but nodded.

"Go on and get dressed."  Lawrence picked up the chart.  "I'll get your pills."

After dispensing the drug and seeing the young Russian on his way, Lawrence sat down again at his desk, the chart staring at him accusingly.  Unfortunately, he was now the one lying to his patient.  He did, indeed, have a lot to write down. 

And then he had to talk to Waverly.         

 

 

                                                                            ***

 

11:15 a.m.

 

"He sold you to the CIA, Illya."

Kuryakin sat down in Solo's office, looking puzzled.  Solo had caught him at his desk where he had been hurriedly finalizing the past mission report and pulled him into the Chief Enforcement Agent's private office.  Then, after turning off the security monitors, a luxury only allotted to Waverly and the CEA, who often had to review and discuss matters too confidential to be recorded, he briefly explained what he had found, but Illya apparently didn't share his sense of outrage. 

"I don't think so,"  the Russian was saying,  "And if he did, I am his to sell anyway."

Solo frowned at him.  "Don't say things like that.  It worries me when you say things like that.  Don't you understand the difference between the Soviet Union and the United States yet?  More importantly, the difference between U.N.C.L.E. and the KGB?  Just because you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent doesn't give Waverly unlimited rights over what he can do with you.  Yes, you're an operative.  Yes, we're all expendable.  But there's a difference between assigning an operative to a mission and deliberately putting one blindly in the enemy's hands for a price."

"But didn't you just say that's exactly what he did?"  Illya said, still sounding puzzled rather than angry.

Solo frowned at this evidence that Illya still found anything Waverly did to be above reproach.  "If he did, that doesn't make it right.  U.N.C.L.E. is not supposed to be run like the CIA, much less the KGB." 

Kuryakin looked amused.  "You only prove to me how little you understand the KGB when you draw parallels like that.  In no way can U.N.C.L.E. even slightly compare.  But this has nothing to do with U.N.C.L.E..  My obligations to Mr. Waverly go far beyond being an U.N.C.L.E. operative."

"That was a long time ago, Illya," Solo said impatiently.  "Just because he arranged your defection doesn't give him unlimited powers over the rest of your life."

"But our history goes back far before my defection.  He has saved my life at least twice.  If he and his men had not been there when my father was assassinated, they would have killed me too."

"You don't know that."

"It was Thrush.  We know they do not leave loose ends.  If he had not been present, I would have been killed.  And when I was sixteen, he took me in again, sent me to U.N.C.L.E. survival school, made me an agent-in-place."

"For which you richly repaid him by providing him with information."

"Is information the same as a life?"  Kuryakin pushed his bangs away from his forehead.  "Sometimes it saves a life.  Sometimes it takes a life.  But it is not the same, Napoleon.  And then, if he had not arranged my abduction, I could not have gone on in the course my life had taken.  Either I would have taken my life deliberately, or I would have done something to make another take it.  Alexander Waverly saved me.  And he did so much more.  He gave me a job, a purpose, and work in which I can believe.  He sent me to the Grahams: gave me a home, and a family.  I have never had so many riches in my life and Mr. Waverly made them all possible."

Solo was quiet, shaking his head.  "I think you are making more of his involvement than is there.  Yes, he arranged your abduction.  You were an undercover agent, so to speak, for U.N.C.L.E. and he had a responsibility toward you when your cover became untenable.  He arranges a lot of defections."

"He helped me."  Kuryakin looked stubborn, irritation beginning to show.  "Not many people have done so much for me."

"For himself, Illya.  He brought a talented Soviet-trained agent into the Network, once that agent first proved his mettle as an agent-in-place.  He'd been negotiating with the Soviet Union for years to get a legitimate agent, and you were his fail-safe in case the deal fell through.  He never gave a damn about you."

The expression on the Russian's face was troubled.  "You weren't there, Napoleon.  You don't understand."

"I understand better than you.  He realized he either changed your assignment or lost his agent.  You were a business deal, Illya.  He bought and sold you to U.N.C.L.E. then, just as he sold you to the CIA now.  We're all nothing but commodities to him.  And the sooner you get over your hero-worship and realize that, the better off you'll be."

Kuryakin's usually pale eyes were dark with anger but his voice was rigidly controlled.  "I do not want to hear any more.  I appreciate your concern, Napoleon, and I value our partnership and your friendship.  But it is you who does not understand.  It does not matter to me what Mr. Waverly thinks of me, it is my obligation to him that matters."

"That is the most stupid --  I can't believe after two years of being my partner, you still talk like some naive Komsomol scout who just fell off a Ukrainian turnip truck."

Color flooded the Russian's face at the insult, but he kept his temper.  "It is you who are naive, Napoleon,"  Illya bit the words off shortly.  "You speak to me of rights that I own, and responsibilities that others have toward me, but that is all Western propaganda -- fairy tales your country has taught you to believe in as if they were reality.  I believe no such dreams.  If you have only found out now that they are not true, than I am sorry for you, but it was not I that misled you.  Nor, I suspect, did Mr. Waverly."

"Damn it, Illya, you do have rights.  I have rights.  Every citizen in this country, including you--"

"No." Illya's voice was cold.  "There are people with power and they have those which serve them.  If one if fortunate, one can choose a service which works for good.  If one is unfortunate, one works against good, or chooses death.  I have been on both sides, Napoleon.  I know this better than you, who have never been caught like an animal in a trap, forced to chew off a limb in order to escape.  I am grateful that you have never been put in the positions I have been placed in, but that is your luck and good fortune, and nothing else.  And it was Alexander Waverly who helped me, who saved me.  I lost my family, my country, my language.  I lost the oaths I made in the past and the integrity that went with them."

"Illya --"

"No," the Russian responded, ignoring Solo's horrified expression.  "You do not understand.  I regret nothing.  For people like myself, the options are limited." 

"As long as you keep that attitude, you are going to continue to be placed in those situations.  You're just asking to be used by people like Mr. Waverly.  The fact that U.N.C.L.E.'s aims are for good doesn't make what he did right.  No U.N.C.L.E. chief has the right to use an operative the way he set you up to be used.  He ought to answer for it.  Both the CIA and U.N.C.L.E. ought to answer for it."

"No!"  Illya rose to his feet, breathing heavily.  "I will have no part of this.  Do not speak to me about it again.  I am an U.N.C.L.E. operative first.  I will not be used against a service which has done nothing but good, or against the man who created it.  Not even for you, Napoleon.  Before I am even your partner, I am an agent for Alexander Waverly, for U.N.C.L.E.  I will not speak against him and I will not hear this."

Solo opened his mouth, but Kuryakin turned his back and left him alone in the room.

 

                                                                            ***

 

 

Noon

 

Lawrence stuck his head in the Section One Chief's office.  "Got a moment, Alexander?"

"No."  Waverly didn't look up from his work.

"I need to talk to you, right away."

The U.N.C.L.E. chief scribbled his name across one document, filed it, and opened another folder.  "Do you not understand the word 'No'?  And how is it you have gotten past my secretary? I left strict orders not to be disturbed."

"It concerns Mr. Kuryakin."

Waverly still refused to acknowledge the physician.  "I have told the young man to visit your section for his physical.  If he has not appeared, you have my permission to have Security track him down and escort him to your offices.  But kindly leave me out of these petty problems.  I have far more to do than deal with issues involving Mr. Kuryakin."

"He's had his physical, Alexander.  That's what I want to talk to you about."

Waverly slammed the folder shut and swiveled to face the physician.  "Oh, very well.  I can see that I will get no peace until you have made your report.  What is the problem?  It was my understanding, from both Mr. Solo's and the CIA's accounts of the incident, that Mr. Kuryakin's injuries were minor."

Lawrence slid into a chair.  "They are, relatively speaking."

"Is he field certified?"  Waverly demanded.  "That is my primary interest."

"No,"  Lawrence said testily.  "Of course not.  Outside of the fact that he just came back from a very stressful mission -- "

"You know I cannot involve myself -- "

"Let me finish, Alexander.  He is also suffering from smoke inhalation, and his lungs aren't in the best shape."  Lawrence could see he had the U.N.C.L.E. chief's full attention at that.  An agent who couldn't breathe, couldn't fight or run.  "He'll need a few days on antibiotics, as the CIA report indicated.  I'd say he'll be field ready inside of a week."

Waverly's face relaxed.  "Excellent.  Then I see no reason for concern.  Nor for this meeting for that matter.  You could have included it on your regular report."

"There's another issue we need to resolve.  It has to do with the discussion we had before you assigned Kuryakin to this mission."

The U.N.C.L.E. chief rose.  Lawrence noted the reaction with a touch of appreciation.  As old as Waverly was, decades removed from his own days in active field work, he still was an agent deep at heart.  When he perceived a threat, his first move was to open ground, to gain maneuverability, to be free to strike.  Now he looked down at his chief physician from his full height.  "If you are referring to your decision to pull Mr. Kuryakin for a psychological evaluation after the mission, we had resolved that issue."

Although no field agent, Lawrence had been around the breed long enough to know how to attack in force.  "He had second thoughts, Alexander.  On the mission.  In the Soviet Union."

Waverly turned, his anger plain.  "Do you know what you are saying?  Have you proof?"

"He told me not an hour ago.  In my office."

Waverly's fist came down on the desk, startling them both.  Lawrence looked at it, and then back to Waverly.

"Was the session recorded?"  Oddly enough, Waverly actually sounded resigned.

"Of course."  Lawrence said, surprised. "You know that --"

Waverly cut him off abruptly, and hit the intercom button to his secretary.  "Get me George Dennel.  Immediately."

"Alexander--"

"A moment, Samuel."

The intercom whistled and the Security Section chief came through.  "Dennel here, sir."

"Mr. Dennel.  I want the security films for Section Six for the entire afternoon."

"Section Six.  Yes, sir."  Dennel hesitated.  "Is there a problem I need to be aware of?"

"Section Six, Mr. Dennel.  In my office.  Immediately."  Waverly cut the connection.

"That's not the answer, Alexander.  Sweeping the problem under the rug won't make it go away."

"What, exactly, did Mr. Kuryakin say to you?  Precisely."

"I asked him if he had any problems related to the mission.  He indicated he had some concerns regarding working 'against' his country.  But he went through with the mission, and on consideration, he had recently decided that he did the right thing."  Lawrence tried to read Waverly's face, but the U.N.C.L.E. chief had turned away from him.

"He said nothing else?"

"No."  The intercom buzzed, and after a moment, Dennel appeared in the room, several tape cases under his arm.

"This is all of Section Six, Mr. Dennel?"

"Yes, sir."  Dennel looked from Waverly to Lawrence in confusion, then at Lawrence's gesture, began stacking the cannisters on the table.

"Very good.  You will log this as a malfunction in the recording equipment, Mr. Dennel.  That is all."

Dennel swallowed.  "Yes, sir."

Lawrence watched Dennel leave and then looked through the reels, finding the one for the medical section.  He held it loosely in his hands, thinking of the hesitant confession it held.  "What are you planning to do, Alexander?"

"I did not notice anything in the CIA medical reports, or the general debriefing, concerning this,"  Waverly said thoughtfully.

Lawrence snorted.  "Do you honestly think Illya would say a word at Langley?  He wouldn't even take the antibiotics he was given there.  That's why he was avoiding me -- he had dumped them."

"Good."  Waverly was calmer now, purposed.  "I will review the session in question.  It may be that there is not a problem."

"I think he could use some counseling, Alexander."

"Absolutely not.  Do not make more of this than there is."

"Me?  I'm not the one that had the head of Security pull the surveillance films for an entire section."

"A section is a good compromise.  Obviously I do not want to pull them for the entire headquarters.  But if I pull only the medical complex films, the focus becomes obvious.  In Security and Personnel there are frequent breaches of confidentiality among the less classified employees, and films are often classified from the Security section."

"Alexander, Illya needs some professional counseling.  He referred to the Soviet Union as his own country.  He's a defector and an American citizen and an intelligence agent under frequent surveillance.  Innocent at the remark sounded, it could be construed as an indication of a double agent.  He could be arrested by the FBI for very little more than that statement.  And once they have a reason to reopen his case, he'd have to prove his allegience.  He can't be put through that.  There's a limit to how many times, and in how many ways, a man has to prove himself, and Illya has been pushed enough.  U.N.C.L.E. can't afford the risk, either.  A little counseling is small insurance against that event."

"He said this to you."  Waverly replied coldly, ignoring his physician's argument.  "How interesting that Mr. Kuryakin would raise this issue with you, when it was you who broached the concern prior to the mission.  Perhaps you wish to reopen your original agenda.  Certainly, he has not had these sorts of conversations with anyone else."

Lawrence kept his temper.  "You can watch the films and see for yourself that I didn't put any words in his mouth.  It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.  I'm not pleased that my concerns were accurate."

"Yes, of course."  Waverly sat down, looking troubled. "I regret that remark, Samuel."

"He hasn't turned, Alexander.  He's not even considering turning.  It may be that he's not compromised at all.  But you're not unaware of the problems defectors have in acclimating.  And sending him on a mission against the Soviet Union, in conjunction with the CIA, his own worst personal nemesis, outside of Thrush - well, it is no wonder he had some troubling moments.  What concerns me more is that Illya was completely unconscious of the fact that he had referred to the Soviet Union as his country.  He isn't acclimating as well as we'd like to think.  And if he made a remark like that, among people who could compromise him --"

"Mr. Kuryakin is never so careless."

"I know he's been through some grueling interrogation sessions.  But the CIA is still mole hunting, and they aren't always blatant."

"Yes, I quite agree."  Waverly sighed thoughtfully.  "Perhaps it is best that Mr. Kuryakin is not field certified at present.  He might do better away from Headquarters for a time."

"If you are thinking of sending him back to the Grahams, I'm not sure if that's going to be the answer."

"Perhaps not, but as you said, Mr. Kuryakin needs a short period of convalescence.  It is best that he take it away from Headquarters.  Even when he is out of the field, he tends to overwork in the labs or in his Section Two duties.  In Washington, he is suitably supervised as to personal and professional considerations and is safely out of the way of any potential personal mistakes."

"In other words, they look after him and keep him from compromising himself.  I don't have a problem with him recuperating there for a few days.  I just don't think he's going to get past his acclimation problems merely by vacationing with his adopted family.  What this boils down to, Alexander, is that he hasn't accepted his defection.  He hasn't completely closed the door on his past life, or thoroughly embraced his new one.  Yes, it is a gradual process, but you know as well as I do that most defectors -- especially those who've come under the kind of circumstances that Illya did -- do a lot better with some professional help.  I don't think you are doing Illya any favors by pretending that he is the very picture of the happy defector."

"Mr. Kuryakin simply cannot afford the luxury of appearing as anything else at the moment.  I will study the film in question, Samuel, and make my decision.  But based on your description, I believe Mr. Kuryakin was, as you say, simply put in an awkward position in this mission and temporarily regressed.  Rather than jump to any unwarranted extremes, I will treat the situation as I have outlined for the moment."

Lawrence rose.  As much as his reservations troubled him, he had to admit that, professional psychologist or not, Waverly had steered the young Russian defector successfully through some very rocky times.  As a physician, he could give his professional opinion, quote the standard chapter and verse, balanced by his own perceptions of Kuryakin.  But Waverly had knowledge and insights to the young man's character that perhaps no one else shared. "Very well, Alexander.  A few more days' delay, and a bit of rest with his family, certainly will do Illya no harm, and probably the rest will do him good."

"I will see that the young man is informed of his ... 'vacation'."  Waverly nodded at the physician in dismissal. 

As Lawrence left, he looked back to see Waverly holding the tape reel in his hands.

 

12:20 p.m.

 

Waverly snapped off the tiny film viewer.

That had certainly been...definitive.

Not enough to convict any normal person.  But more than sufficient to cause Kuryakin to be detained and questioned by the CIA.  Enough that his U.S. citizenship, obtained under such unusual means, could be reviewed and perhaps rescinded.  Losing it would irrevocably cripple Kuryakin's career as an American agent:  a tragedy for Kuryakin and a political embarrassment for both the U.S. Senator who had helped him obtain the citizenship and for U.N.C.L.E. who had sponsored the Russian agent.

No, Kuryakin had hardly appeared the picture of the happy defector.

Damnably frustrating, when he, himself had done everything necessary to help him achieve that state.  Interfered more in Kuryakin's personal life than he cared to interfere.  Worried more about him --

Waverly stood abruptly and rewound the film, his movements abrupt and angry.  Perhaps he should have sent Kuryakin to the Grahams when he was sixteen.  What had the Soviet Union ever done to inspire this damnable loyalty, compared to what he himself had done?

But that was unfair.  Kuryakin did trust him, had enough faith in his plans and his actions that he had been willing to put aside his own reservations in favor of trust in his superior.  Any man was entitled to a few minutes of reflection over his actions and the source of his faith.  Any man, except a transplanted Soviet agent working in the United States in 1965.

Waverly sighed, then pulled out Kuryakin's well worn dossier from a specially locked file.  He paged through it, reacquainting himself with his reasons for championing this particular young man, and the future that he had planned for him.  He found it helped him regain his perspective, when the problems of dealing with his Soviet acquisition seemed more troublesome than the agent was worth.

Kuryakin was still worth something yet.  A valuable asset, in the language of their trade.  Too valuable to discard for a momentarily lack of discretion.  He looked over the notes he had made in the past year, summaries of Kuryakin's skills when partnered with Solo, and sighed.

Solo.  First Solo, and then Lawrence.  He had fended Lawrence off, but Solo would be harder to deal with.

He was putting the reel back in its can when it occurred to him that Kuryakin had not been the only agent making indiscreet comments today.  Solo had rapidly become almost as strong a source of influence in Kuryakin's life as he himself was.  He had allowed that to happen.  Needed that to happen.  But if Solo chose to use that influence to cause Kuryakin to re-evaluate his affiliations, at a point when Kuryakin had already begun questioning -- Waverly almost jammed a finger punching up the relevant files on his console.

The security system tracked personnel movement throughout HQ at every moment.  Although the cost of computer access prohibited making that information generally available except to Waverly and the chief of security, Waverly could, with the touch of a few buttons, identify which badges had been in which locations, and at what times, throughout any given day.  Although, as in Waverly's office, the CEA could turn off his recording system, he couldn't turn off the badge system.  Within a few moments, Waverly had displayed on his console some very incriminating information.

After leaving Waverly's office that morning, Solo had then gone to the Section Two agents' office, taken Kuryakin from there into his own private office, where he then turned off the security system.

Not at all unusual or unlikely in most instances.  In fact, the actions were probably fairly automatic for Solo, who typically worked on highly classified cases with his partner, cases where their discussions could and should not be recorded on film.

But in this instance, Waverly doubted they had been discussing a mission.  Rather, he suspected that Solo had been informing Kuryakin of one particular outcome of a case.

But the discussion, whatever it had been, had not lasted long.  According to the security system, Kuryakin had left Solo's office after only a few minutes, and gone to his lab.  Where he was now.

That also was telling.  If Solo and Kuryakin were working on a case, the younger agent would surely have stayed longer.  If Solo had made some minor inquiry, Kuryakin would then have gone back to his desk.  That he had chosen to go to his lab, his private lab, rather than his very public office, especially since he had no experiments extant, told Waverly he had gone there to find privacy not available at his desk.

Waverly nodded.  He would indeed have to send Kuryakin away for a few days.  The sooner the better.  But before then, he would have to find out what had been said to the young man.  Whether his heir apparent had indeed discussed a certain confidential matter with his field partner.  And what action, as head of U.N.C.L.E., he had to take.

The costs of this case were certainly greater than even he had anticipating having to pay.  And the bills were coming due in areas he hadn't expected.  But he still had enough resources to cover them.

 

 

 

12:30 p.m.

 

The phone in his lab rang, and he stared at it for a full three rings before conscience forced him to pick it up. He was on duty.  "Kuryakin here," he said cautiously.

"Oh, Mr. Kuryakin.  I've been searching for you.  I thought you might have left the building for lunch."

"I have been here in my lab," he said testily.

"Now, don't get shirty, Illya," Heather McNabb replied less formally. "It's just that you know how Mr. Waverly gets when he wants someone and I can't magically conjure them up.  Security said you were in the building, but I called the Section Two agents' office, and then I called Mr. Solo's office and --"

"Should I report to Mr. Waverly?" he interrupted.

"No, he doesn't want you here.  He wants you in Washington."

"Washington?  Does he know that I am not --"

"He knows you're off the active duty list, but he checked with Dr. Lawrence, and got the okay for this.  It's only courier duty.  Since you're at loose ends here and have the security clearance, we thought you might as well go -- it makes more sense than taking another agent out of the field."

"Yes, of course,"  Illya said, not able to keep a touch of bitterness from his tone.  For a top Section Two agent, he spent a lot of time on courier duty.  Not that courier work could be done by just anyone -- the security clearance needed was quite high.  But it almost seemed inevitable that whenever he wasn't in the field, whenever he was pulled from active duty, he immediately got put back on courier duty.  The fact that it did make sense didn't make the feeling of being sent away any less strong.  "When should I report?"

"It's rather short notice," Heather warned.

"Of course."

"Illya."  Heather's voice held a touch of reproof.  "It's only that agent Nicols took a bullet in the shoulder this week, and Christa, the agent scheduled for this run got diverted to his assignment.  So we need someone to take Christa's run.  And we didn't think you'd mind, after all, your -- "

"--family is down there.  Yes, I know.  I don't mind, Heather.  When do I leave?"

"If your mission reports are done, Mr. Waverly would like you to leave within the hour."

"My reports are in Mr. Solo's hands."

"Good.  I'll make the plane reservations.  You'll be home for dinner, Illya,"  Heather sounded cheerful.  "And Mr. Waverly would like you to stay there for a few days.  He may have another assignment for you. You'll have at least two or three days off, though.  After you get there, you can consider yourself on leave until we contact you again.  Just don't go too far from Washington HQ.  Mr. Waverly may need you on short notice."

"Right."  Kuryakin hung up the phone and sighed.  It wasn't that he didn't want to go.  Not ten minutes ago, he had been staring at the walls of his lab, feeling them close in on him, yet not wanting to go back to his office for fear of meeting Napoleon there.  He wasn't ready to deal with Napoleon.  The idea of getting away, legitimately, was starting to seem very attractive.  But that made his being sent away all the more suspicious.  Of course, in some respects, his reassignment did make sense.  Lawrence had pulled him from the active duty list only in the last two hours.  Shuffling of assignments in response to injuries was all very common, and a slightly disabled Kuryakin was the perfect foil to pick up that duty.  Very logical and convenient.  Perhaps too convenient?

As a spy, he was well aware of the importance of camouflage -- how often in his profession one threw up two balls to disguise the throwing up of a third.  A shell game of decoys, played by masters, and he was one of the shells shuffled around.  The question was, was he the reason the shells were being shuffled, and the others the decoys, or was he merely a convenient decoy of the moment?  It was possible in this instance that he would never really know.  Not, of course, that it was supposed to matter to him.

One disadvantage of not being a master -- like Alexander Waverly, like Napoleon -- was that one became a pawn.  But the advantage of being a pawn was that one occasionally got a rest.  As many balls as might be in the air, or shells on the table, only one ball could be in the juggler's hand at any given moment, only one shell could conceal the prize.  And the ones that were out of the picture could take, however short-lived or transient -- a breather.

He wouldn't object to a momentary breather.  Not at all.

 

                                                                            ***

 

12:50 p.m.

 

The summons stopped Kuryakin just before he was ready to head out the door.  He glanced at his watch and sighed.  A cab would be at Del Floria's entrance to take him to the airport in ten minutes.  His flight was due to leave in an hour.  He didn't have that much time to spare if he were going to make it to the airport.  And he wanted to leave.  The conversation with Solo had been disturbing, and he just wanted to go home and...think about it.  He was not even sure he was willing to talk about it.  To anyone.

But regardless of cabs, flights, or courier runs, the call had to be answered.  It would not be the first time that he had missed a flight, much less a cab.  The important thing was to not keep Alexander Waverly waiting.  But the thought that Mr. Waverly might have changed his mind about his leaving filled him with foreboding.

Sometimes being the pawn was a definite minus.

He hurried to the office and Waverly rose when he entered.  "Mr. Kuryakin.  I am pleased that I caught you before you departed."

"Yes, sir.  But perhaps I should have Miss McNabb cancel my flight and dismiss the cab below."      

"That won't be necessary; I won't keep you long."  Waverly gestured him to a chair.

"Thank you, sir."   He sat, his eyes cautiously evaluating his superior, wondering if Waverly knew what Solo had told him.  And what he intended to do about it.

Waverly turned and went to stare out his window for a moment.  That didn't auger well.  Illya glanced at his watch and shifted in his chair, wishing for blue skies under his plane's wings.  Something was wrong.  It wasn't like Waverly to be at a loss for words.  But then the Section One Chief turned back, looked at his own watch, and frowned a little.

"I did not have a chance before to congratulate you on your mission, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Thank you, sir,"  Illya said again, mystified.  Waverly usually never bothered with too many words of praise unless the odds had been particularly great or the mission of critical importance.  He hadn't thought Waverly would be interested in a CIA mission, even if it had been convenient to lend a few agents to the operation.

"There is, however, something we perhaps should discuss in reference to this mission."

"Sir?"  Illya prompted when Waverly seemed at a loss to go further.  Finally the old man picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to Kuryakin.

Illya shook his glasses out of his jacket pocket and read the document.  For a few moments after finishing it he simply stared at it.  Then he raised his head, his blue eyes alight, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.  "Wow."

For a moment the U.N.C.L.E. chief stared at his agent.  Kuryakin couldn't tell if Waverly was shocked by his reaction or with the English slang word he used to express it.  He didn't usually forget himself to that extent with his superior.  But Waverly didn't seem to mind.  Some of the tension left the U.N.C.L.E. chief's shoulders.  He took the paper back from Kuryakin, a smile starting on his lined face.  "Wow?" he queried.

"Forgive me, sir; Napoleon told me the CIA paid U.N.C.L.E. some money,"  Illya explained, his eyes drawn back to the riveting numbers laying on Waverly's desk.  "But I had no idea the sum was --" his voice trailed off as he noticed the expression on his superior's face.

"Mr. Solo discussed this with you?"  Waverly's tone was short.  Angry.  "He had no right."

Consternation furrowed the agent's brow into familiar lines.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I didn't realize--"  He swallowed the rest of his words, realizing he had already said too much.

"No."  Waverly cut him off, his arm raised in a placating gesture, dismissing Kuryakin's apology.  "Mr. Solo was not authorized to discuss this with you.  The fact that he did is not your fault."

"He didn't, exactly," Illya said, torn between the anger he still felt at Napoleon and the almost instinctive need to protect a partnership which had seen them successfully through so many missions. The anger crossed his face again and he was keenly aware of Waverly's eyes on his as he struggled to repress it and went on.  "I only knew that, perhaps, some money had been exchanged."  His eyes went to the paper for a third time, and the amazing sum it displayed.  "I had no idea..."  He looked up at Waverly and, almost against his will, the smile tugged at his lips again.  "It is a good thing for U.N.C.L.E., yes?"  He managed to keep most of the expression off his face, but his voice revealed his own pride in the money he had, somehow unsuspecting, secured for his mentor. 

Waverly shrugged his shoulders, his face relaxing at this sign of loyalty in his agent.  "The payment was not part of the original plan.  But yes, the amount will be useful in our operations."

Illya nodded sagely.  Money was a convenient way of covering up treachery; he had been well familiar with that in his former service.  And treachery seemed to have been part of what had happened in the CIA operation.  Perhaps two warring factions of that agency, working in contradiction to each other?  He was familiar with that, too.  It made him glad he was in U.N.C.L.E.  "I am pleased that the funds will be of use in this organization."  Illya looked at his watch again, conscious of his flight.  The U.N.C.L.E. chief didn't fail to notice the subtle hint.

 "Yes, you can go, Mr. Kuryakin.  I have need of that packet arriving in Washington this afternoon.  And I would also not want you to miss your vacation.  You will have need of it.  No doubt I will soon have another imperative task for your talents.  If not quite as profitable for the agency."

Kuryakin grinned, feeling much better now about being put on courier duty.  Perhaps it hadn't been arranged to get him away.  Perhaps it had.  But either way, he felt much more valued now.  "Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir."

"And for Mr. Solo, too, of course."

His expression slid from smiling to something else, but then to a blank-faced stoniness with the speed of someone used to concealing his emotions.  The anger that smoldered briefly in his eyes was harder to conceal.  "Of course, sir."  The Russian agent couldn't have put less expression in his voice.  "I will be looking forward to it." 

 

1:00 p.m.

 

Waverly stood at the window until his number two operative left the building and disappeared into the waiting cab.  Regardless of Solo's attitude, obviously his other top agent was unperturbed by the less noble necessities of his superior's position.  That loyalty, to himself and to U.N.C.L.E., made up for a good deal in his eyes.  But Kuryakin had seemed upset at one point in the conversation  --  when Solo's name had been mentioned.  In spite of what he knew now had transpired between the two agents, that reaction had surprised him and he had doubted the impression -- until he had deliberately mentioned Solo's name at the end and seen Kuryakin's reaction.

He had been startled by the level of anger he had seen blazing in the blue eyes before they had become opaque.

And it seemed that anger might be reciprocated.  Solo had not gone out to the entrance to wish his partner a pleasant trip -- and according to the security system the two partners had not met since Solo had taken Kuryakin into his office -- unusual since before one or the other took leave, they generally spent a considerable amount of time coordinating ongoing casework.  Kuryakin had sent an office memo confirming his assignment and subsequent leave to his immediate superior and Solo had initialed it and sent it back.  Security confirmed they had not even spoken over the phone system since that meeting.  No calls had been exchanged between their two extensions and they had stayed holed up, Solo in his private office, and Kuryakin in his lab, until the younger agent had come to his office and left for the airport.

So not only was he, himself, in conflict with his CEA, but his top enforcement team was also at odds.

He should have expected that something like this would eventually happen.  Truthfully, the partners had worked so well together, had seemed at times to be more concerned with each other's welfare, rather than their job or the success of their mission, that his misgivings had gone in the opposite direction.  Now that it had happened, now that he had Kuryakin safely out of the way for a few days, he could see that this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.  Inevitable, and beneficial as well, provided the problem were correctly handled. 


Solo and Kuryakin had become too close, too loyal to each other, as their recent actions had proved.  A little rift would be good for them both.  Kuryakin needed to develop a touch more independence, if his behavior when Solo had left to go after Jud Carter was any guide.  And as for Solo -- well his CEA was becoming overbearing; taking on more than his position required, overstepping his bounds with his superior in some regards, and failing to act properly in others.  Making unreasonable demands and arrangements outside of his prerogative.  He would think of a way to remind the Section Two Head of his subordinate position and get the man back on track.

Plus, Solo was still over dominating his partnership with Kuryakin.  Yes, Solo was CEA, but Kuryakin was Section Two, Number Two.  Waverly had not seen Solo do much to get his partner ready for the eventual responsibilities he would have to assume.  Perhaps he was unwilling to give up control of his position, just as he had been unwilling to take a partner.  Yet Kuryakin was a gifted agent, as good, if not better in some respects, than Solo.  He had shortcomings, true, but it was Solo's job to get him past them.  But so far, Waverly had seen Solo do little more than keep his subordinate firmly in place.  If Solo's current attitude and this mission had made Kuryakin finally sure enough of his skills and his place in this agency that he had grown intolerant of such treatment, than so much the better.  He could think of ways to get Kuryakin occasionally out from under Solo's oppressive thumb.  It would probably do them both good.

Yes, he would deal with Solo.  The agent was a too cocky, too sure of himself.  His sojourn in the Soviet Union had probably done him good -- there Kuryakin had shone, and Solo had been left out of the limelight.  Questions of payment aside, buried resentment over that role was probably behind some of Solo's difficulties now.

He could scarcely credit Solo's idealistic censure regarding his use of an able, willing operative.

Certainly Kuryakin hadn't minded.  He had, in fact, seemed delighted over what he had been able to procure for the agency.  No hint of reservations, such as he had mentioned to Lawrence in the physician's exam room, had colored his attitude or seemed to darken his pleasure at the payment.

Odd that his neophyte Soviet-born agent would be more sophisticated in this respect than the cosmopolitan Solo.  Then again, Kuryakin had come from an organization where bribery and secret payoffs were part and parcel of daily operations.

So, he would deal with Solo.  And Kuryakin seemed not likely to prove much of a problem.  Lawrence was correct in pointing out the Soviet agent's transition to this country and his current role was a gradual thing, full of necessary progress and inevitable setbacks. 

Waverly turned back to his desk and then paused, remembering the resentment blazing in the young Russian's eyes at the mention of Solo's name.  Anger that had been quickly hidden, but had still been there.

An angry Kuryakin, for whatever reason, could be a dangerous thing.

And Kuryakin was heading 'home'.  The best place for him, certainly.  By the time he returned, Waverly would have settled the situation with Solo, and determined a plan to bring Kuryakin along through his current difficulties.  But in the interim, an angry Kuryakin, even one whose anger was directed elsewhere, could be considered rather like a misguided armed missile.  One could never be completely sure where it would go off.

Waverly picked up the phone.

 

U.N.C.L.E. Safe House, Washington, D.C.

3:30 p.m.

 

Trish put the kettle on, glancing over at her silent houseguest.  Illya had arrived relatively unexpectedly just a short time ago.  Her surprise was only partial because although Illya himself hadn't announced his intended visit, Alexander had, calling an hour before his agent had arrived.  The Section One chief hadn't said much, other than that he expected Illya could use a few days to recuperate before returning to fieldwork. 

That in itself wasn't unusual -- she knew Illya had been on a case for over two weeks, and while no enforcement agent worked a normal schedule, after a successful mission Alexander usually offered or ordered a few days off.  What wasn't typical was Alexander's call -- that had told her that Illya wasn't coming home simply to rest and unwind, but that something had upset the transplanted Russian agent. 

Since Illya's first defection Alexander had used their family to help Illya over the inevitable adjustment problems a defector would face -- and then over the problems of his transformation into one of Alexander's best agents.  Not that they minded -- they had taken Illya into their hearts almost from the first.  But there was a definite pull-and-tug between Alexander and their family over Illya that ranged from subtle to blatant.  Alexander needed them in instances like these; he had risked much to bring Illya into the Network, the opposition had been great, the detractors numerous, and his protege's failure, for any reason, would have cost him in many ways.  When Alexander's solitary defector needed a hedge against the contradictions, the confusions and the slights and suspicions of the American world he had been placed in, Alexander relied upon them to provide it, to get his agent back on the necessary professional track.

Still, Alexander rarely needed to so blatantly solicit their support anymore.  Illya's defection was more than four years old; he had been in U.N.C.L.E. almost that long, and in the field for two years -- when Illya came home now, it was more because he choose to spend his free time with them than because Alexander wanted him safely kept away from some trouble, or that Illya needed to recuperate from some setback.

The kettle whistled, pulling her from her reverie.  Illya stirred too.  He had come into the kitchen after changing from his suit to casual clothes, had asked for tea, and then sprawled in one of the window seats, slouched disconsolately back against the cushions, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring moodily out at the distant river that shimmered through waves of heat and humidity.

It was really too warm for hot tea, even though the air conditioning struggled to keep the house relatively cool.  But it would, of course, soothe a throat made raw from smoke and chemicals.

She knew something of his mission and his injuries, whether he chose to tell her of them or not.

The clink of china as she brewed the tea roused him, and he looked up absently.  "Where is everyone?"

Trish smiled a little.  Nothing in Illya's previous hectic life had acquainted him with the concept of a normal family schedule.  Even after four years, he had to be consciously reminded of theirs.  Or maybe, after his own fragmented upbringing, it simply gave him an odd sense of security to hear the mundane details.   "Tanya's at ballet school and they'll have a rehearsal after class.  She'll be home for dinner.  Misha should be home from day camp around four.  And Norm has no late meetings, so he'll be home for dinner as well."  She looked up from pouring the tea to see some of the tension leave his face and body.  The white knuckled hands wrapped around the knees loosened and relaxed.  So he had just wanted to hear that her family were all in their proper places, doing their usual things.  His security in a world where he had precious little of that to count on.

Lawrence had once told her that he suspected Illya would surpass all of Alexander's expectations, as long as he had U.N.C.L.E. behind him.  And his 'family' behind it.

Well, Alexander had made sure U.N.C.L.E. was behind Ilyusha, though he had to put his reputation on the line to do it.  She, herself, had championed Illya for the brief time it had taken until he had been accepted into their family.  Illya was, indeed, exceeding Alexander's expectations, although she and Alexander had become silent, occasionally antagonistic partners in making sure he survived the resulting fallout that exceeding those expectations sometimes caused. 

He was sitting forward now, watching her as she fixed his tea the way he liked it, but he didn't rise from his seat by the window.  That alone told her volumes about how weary he was.

"Did you know where I was?" he asked suddenly.

She didn't betray any startlement, smoothly stirring the dark jam until it swirled and disappeared into the tea.  "Norm told me," she answered simply.

He looked out again, away from her, as if suddenly ashamed about something, his gaze fixed at the lawn and the river.  "I did want to bring you a present from home," he offered.  "But there wasn't an opportunity.  He leaned back against the window seat cushions once more, closing his eyes as if utterly spent.  She noticed he was wearing one of Tony's old T-shirts again, although Tony had stopped outgrowing his clothes and Illya no longer needed to wear Tony's hand-me-downs as he had when he'd come to them with only the clothes on his back.  What impulse had prompted him to drag out one of those shabby cast-offs?  At the back of her mind, one of Lawrence's warnings rumbled in her head, but she couldn't pay attention to it, for Illya was continuing.  "We arrived and left very quickly."

Trish brought the tea over to him.  "Darling, the only thing I want you to bring me back from the Soviet Union is yourself."  She kissed the top of his head as he opened his eyes and looked up at her, a ghost of a smile quirking his lips.  "Drink your tea.  It will help soothe your throat."

 His gaze met hers over the cup and he growled a little, the effect spoiled by the hoarseness of his voice.  "You know that too?"

"I know everything,"  Trish said and, shoving his feet in their sneakers against the side of the windowseat, she sat down companionably with her own cup at that end.  "I'm the wife of U.N.C.L.E.'s Intelligence Chief.  He talks in his sleep." 

Illya choked on the tea he was swallowing.  She waited calmly while he sputtered and coughed, then glared at her, rubbing his throat and swiping at his tearing eyes.  "That wasn't fair," he accused, his voice even hoarser than before.

"You sound like Misha,"  Trish took his cup, went to make it up fresh, and brought it back to him.  But at least you have a little life in your eyes.  I don't like it when you haunt my kitchen like a pale ghost, Ilyusha, wearing your pain as visibly as you wear my son's clothes.  What is so wrong that Alexander himself called to tell me you were coming home?  She relented a trifle and said, "I knew where you were, darling, and when you came back, and something of your injuries.  But I don't know what your mission involved."  Or why you are upset.  Norm said your mission was successful.  And he looked well enough.  A trifle thinner and he had a faded bruise darkening one cheek.  But he seemed to have no obvious injuries and he'd even found time to get a haircut before his arrival.

Illya sighed and leaned back, studying her, his shoulders relaxing.  "I am glad to be home.  And really, I am fine."

"We are glad to have you home."  She didn't ask how long he could stay.  That would be putting demands on him, and Alexander had the corner on that.  She had decided, long ago, that the only way to keep her suspicious, closed-mouthed, reserved foster son coming back to them was to give him what he needed without any strings.  What he gave back would then be equally a gift.  But then a reason occurred to her as to why Illya would be in such a disturbing mood.  "How is Napoleon?" she asked casually.

She startled him, that was obvious.  His eyes darkened, his lips tightened, and a scowl started to appear on his features before it melted away under Illya's best controlled expression.  So that is it.  Napoleon was injured and you feel responsible. But then he surprised her.

"Napoleon is fine."

She looked at him, puzzled.  His face was carefully blank, but his tone simmered with resentment.  With anger.

Illya pulled his legs out from behind her and flowed to his feet, escaping her quizzical gaze and the questions she wanted to ask but would never presume to -- at least not without some hints that Illya wanted her to pry.  She stared after him as he put his tea on the counter and crossed to the refrigerator, leaving its door wide open and burying his head inside, staring at the contents as if it were a television show -- an annoying habit he had picked up from Tony that she knew he was adopting purposely to distract her.

"I'm hungry," he was saying.  "Can I have this leftover roast beef in a sandwich?"

"Of course, darling," she replied absently, but her mind was elsewhere.  Could Illya possibly be angry with Napoleon?  That would be a first.  Something must have happened.  Napoleon must have done something reprehensible if Illya, with his strong, uncompromising loyalties, was angry with his partner, the heir apparent of U.N.C.L.E.

Could it be that Napoleon was the reason Illya was upset -- Napoleon was the reason Alexander had called?  Well, Alexander would be concerned if a serious rift had occurred between his top enforcement team.

She still found it incredible that Illya would be angry with Napoleon.  Illya didn't get angry with people that he cared for, and he not only respected Napoleon professionally, but she knew that he considered him his closest friend.  Her foster son had never had that many people whom he cared for -- or who cared for him.  Those that he did have, he treasured and was intensely loyal to them, even if it meant sacrificing himself. 

Illya had a temper, though it was rare for him to display anything but his usual controlled exterior to strangers, but she had become well familiar with it.  But that temper was usually directed against himself.  He became frustrated at his slowness in adapting to his adopted country, in understanding his role, in understanding everyday American life, in fitting in.  When there were misunderstandings or blame to be attached, Illya usually annexed it for himself, whether he was responsible or not.

But not this time, it seemed.

What would cause Illya to be angry with Napoleon?  It wouldn't be loyalty toward himself, it would have to be something he held higher.

But what did Illya hold higher than his loyalty to his partner?  Loyalty to his family?  That didn't seem likely -- they hadn't seen Napoleon in some time, and even then, she suspected if it came to a showdown with U.N.C.L.E., Alexander and Napoleon on one side, and their family on the other, Illya would side with his original loyalty to Alexander and U.N.C.L.E.  That is, if he survived the emotional conflict.  And he would undoubtably blame himself for being in the center of the conflict.

No, the only thing that Illya held sufficiently high to cause a rift with Napoleon was U.N.C.L.E. itself.  Somehow the Chief Enforcement Agent had put himself in conflict with U.N.C.L.E. and Illya could not forgive him.  Or perhaps it was conflict with Alexander.  For Illya there wasn't much difference -- U.N.C.L.E. was Alexander to Illya, and vice versa.

So what power struggle was Napoleon involved in with Alexander that he had tried, and failed, to enlist Illya's support with?

What had Napoleon asked of her foster son?

And what right, partner or not, did Napoleon have to ask anything of Illya that would compromise her son's own hard won and fragile position, the tentative place he had carved out for himself in a hostile and unaccepting world?  Surely the great Napoleon Solo could swing his own undoubtably self-serving agenda without the need to implicate Illya, whose acceptance in U.N.C.L.E. was still so new and so easily rescinded.

She had respected Napoleon because Alexander and Norm valued his professional skills.  Because he had accepted Illya, at least to some extent, and because Illya considered him a friend.  But she herself had never been particularly impressed with the smooth-talking, womanizing CEA, and her own loyalties told her Napoleon had probably accepted Illya, at least at first, because Alexander had told him to, and later on, because Illya was also an extremely competent agent.  Certainly Illya spoke highly of Napoleon, but he never said much.  She herself suspected Napoleon was rather selfish and self-centered, and only too willing to use a subordinate, a transplanted Russian defector not too sure of the unspoken rules, to some private gain. And perhaps Illya had finally discovered that.

She felt her own jaw set with anger.

It was just as well Napoleon Solo was in New York.

CEA or not, he was safer there than in Washington, D.C.

 

 

 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

5:00 p.m.

 

Solo sat back in his office, his feet on the desk, and rubbed his forehead.  What a case.  What a day.  He'd managed not only to get Waverly angry with him, but Illya angry too -- and that was a real accomplishment -- the Russian so far had taken everything from real abuse from others to teasing from himself without much reaction.  Only recently had Illya begun to tease him back.

It had been a disastrous summer for Napoleon Solo.  First the case with Jud Carter that had led to Illya's kidnapping and his own realization of how he had let the past interfere with his perceptions of his partner.  Then the mission to the Soviet Union, where he had learned just how much he hated to be anything but CEA -- and where he'd been faced with the puzzle of how to train Illya to that role.

And now this -- ethical quandary.  Now that he thought of it, he wasn't surprised Illya didn't have a problem with Waverly's actions -- his partner had never had much of an upbringing; he'd been virtually raised by the KGB.

No, that wasn't fair.  Illya was as honest and as ethical as himself.  Just more cynical.  The cruelties of the world that Solo still railed against, Illya just shrugged his shoulders at and worked harder to prevent, one case at a time.

So how could Illya sanction what Waverly had done?  Was it just that he didn't have the background to consider it a problem, or could this be one of those areas where his partner was actually ahead of him?

Illya had almost been making a habit of that lately.  And Solo was getting a little tired of it.  Part of him wanted to believe that if Illya agreed with Waverly, then they both were wrong.

But what if they both were right, and he was wrong?

No, it couldn't be.  Illya was grateful to Waverly, and only too familiar with being used and manipulated.  And Waverly was a world class manipulator, but that didn't make the U.N.C.L.E. chief right.

So where did that leave him, U.N.C.L.E.'s Chief Enforcement Agent, who had recently discovered how much he hated not being in the CEA role, who had also recently discovered how he had let the past influence how he had treated his partner -- and who, instead of using that knowledge to reinforce his position and improve his relationship with Illya, was now at odds with his partner and his boss.

No, he was not very comfortable.  Not too sure of his future.  And not too sure of himself.

Probably exactly how Waverly wanted him to feel.

Solo swore softly, swung his feet to the floor, and stood up.  He needed some air.  Some breathing room.  He was getting pretty tired of not being sure how much of what he felt he had come to on his own, and how much he had been cleverly maneuvered into feeling.  It seemed that even back in U.N.C.L.E., back in his position of CEA, he still felt the lack of being completely in charge. He was still subject to Waverly's maneuvering.

As he left U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters for a needed walk, the thought occurred to him that the only way to avoid being the puppet, was to be the puppeteer.

It was an image that would come to haunt him.

 

 

 

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