Chapter Text
November, 1969
New York City
A scared, skinny teenager sitting cross-legged on a bunk, wearing a black turtleneck and trousers, golden head bent over a copy of The Three Musketeers in a Polish translation. A former KGB operative who was so shy that the idea of eating dinner with the other passengers last night had terrified him and he had begged his new sponsor for permission to eat in their cabin. A child of nineteen who had spent three years working for one of the world's most tyrannical organizations--a grown man whose chief possessions when he fled his home were a government-issue pistol, three exquisitely balanced throwing knives, and a battered and much-loved teddy bear. A mass of contradictions--that was how Alexander Waverly saw his new foster son.
Waverly didn't make a habit of picking up lost waifs. He had scouted for and hired thousands of young people over the years, sponsoring several to emigrate to the United States, becoming fond of some. But he had never adopted one before, never picked one up on such short acquaintance, never been quite so fascinated by one... and never felt so strong a bond with one after so little time. If Illya suffered, Waverly suffered. Was it possible that he loved the boy already?
Illya was naturally pale and made paler by the bronchitis he wasn't quite over. Waverly wouldn't have chosen black for him, for it drained all remaining color out of his face. But on their shopping trip the day before they left Stockholm the boy had been firm--polite, but firm. Two pairs of slacks, two turtlenecks, six pairs of socks and one pair of shoes were all to be in black. Only when Waverly had given in on these did Illya give in on the rest: a pair of tan slacks, three shirts, underwear, two sweaters and a blazer. Then there was a pair of flannel pajamas (Royal Stewart plaid), a pair of fleece-lined slippers, a toothbrush, and a shaving kit in a zippered case. Waverly had suggested a new overcoat, since Illya's was conspicuously both Russian and military, and their ship was American; the boy had chosen a handsome coat of dark gray wool.
Last of all they had purchased a suitcase in which the boy could carry all these new belongings. When they were done packing, back at the Embassy, the suitcase was barely half full. A little more room was taken up by Illya's uniform--jacket, trousers, boots and the too-revealing overcoat. Illya had insisted on retaining personal custody of his canvas satchel, which held important papers, three books and the teddy bear. Waverly would never have known about the bear if Illya hadn't emptied the satchel before repacking it; Illya had put the creature down, seen Waverly looking at it, and put it away again with a glare that dared Waverly to comment. Waverly had kept his mouth shut.
Illya's knives and gun were in Waverly's luggage, because Waverly had the licenses to get them past U.S. Customs and Illya did not. The other two books were Alice in Wonderland in the original English, complete with illustrations by Tenniel, and a slim leather-bound volume of Pushkin. Waverly wondered what had driven Illya to those particular choices? And what had he left behind?
And what was Waverly to do with this odd sweet brilliant shy traumatized boy he'd picked up? Perhaps I should just recruit him now and save both of us a lot of trouble. But he couldn't do that. Illya was in no shape to go back to the work he'd run away from, the work that had so nearly killed him. He needed rest and nurturing and a long vacation from any reminder of his old life. He was so terribly young to have been through everything he'd been through. It was impressive that he had survived and come out as sane as he was.
For sane, yes, that was how Waverly judged him. Bludgeoned, manipulated, burdened with all the emotional byproducts of the dictatorial society that had raised him and of a hideously interrupted childhood, but sane. In which case there had to be tremendous strength beneath the battered surface--strength, and a great beauty of spirit. Waverly had seen the strength and the spirit struggle, flounder, fight for air; he wanted to relieve them of their burdens, reward them with respite and encouragement. That spirit was a golden rosebud, and he wanted to see it come to flower.
He realized full well he'd taken on an enormous task, but Alexander Waverly had never cared for the small tasks. Small tasks didn't make enough of a difference.
A steward knocked on the door and peeped in. "Captain sent me, Mr. Waverly, Mr. Kuryakin. The weather's cleared and there's a fine view astern if you want to come up on deck."
Illya looked up eagerly. They had been fogbound ever since Stockholm. There had been nothing to see during the passage down the Baltic but the fog, and all the way up the Kattegat and down the Skagerrak, the dogleg gate to the Baltic, it had sleeted ferociously. Late autumn wasn't the most comfortable time to be at sea in this part of the world. At breakfast the captain had announced that they were passing into the North Sea, but the sleet had started again and Waverly had stopped Illya from going on deck. Illya had objected. Waverly had said, "I won't try to physically stop you; that would be both foolish and condescending. But I would like you to think first. You are barely recovered from a bad case of bronchitis; you don't need another wet chill. You're still coughing and your throat is still raw. And with the sleet, you won't be able to see anything anyway. Please ask yourself whether that is worth your health."
Illya had subsided at that point, unhappily, and opened his Dumas. Now Waverly said, "Well, son?" and they wrapped up in overcoats, gloves and scarves and trooped up the narrow metal stairs to the deck.
It was bitter cold up here. The wind whipped at them and the sea was iron-gray, beaten into wild waves topped with a dirty, seething foam. Illya hurried aft, where half a dozen other passengers were standing. When Waverly caught up with him he was leaning on the railing and gazing hungrily into the distance.
They were too far north to see Denmark. Norway was a gray shape half-covered with mist that blew apart and reformed in long, snaky tendrils. What must this be like for Illya, knowing this might be the last time he saw his home continent? What regrets were running about in his head?
A steward handed round a pair of binoculars. When Illya's turn came he took them eagerly and pressed them to his eyes, fiddling with the controls until he had the focus just right. He scanned the horizon hungrily from north to south and back again. When he passed the glasses on to the next passenger, his eyes had tears in them. Useless to officially notice them; Illya would only say it was the wind. The boy said, "Uncle Alex, I think I will go inside. You were right earlier about the cold."
"Well, enjoy yourself, son. I'll stay out for a little longer, I think." He wanted the fresh air and a smoke and some room to walk and think. Things on his mind, how to help Illya unmix himself. "Take a look around belowdecks if you like. No need to stay shut up in the cabin."
"All right, Uncle Alex."
*************
Illya ventured cautiously into the lounge. He hadn't spoken to any of his fellow passengers yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Once on his self-guided tour he had ducked into an empty cabin to avoid two of the crew passing by. He didn't want to talk to them either.
There was nobody in the lounge. Relieved, he shut the glass-paned double doors and pulled the lace curtains over them. Privacy was essential. Waverly was an extremely polite cabinmate, but Illya hadn't been alone for more than a week, and his nerves were screaming for solitude and quiet.
The lounge had a red carpet, somewhat worn around the edges, as clean as it could be given the perpetual damp. Couches, chairs and tables, all showing some signs of wear, were grouped in conversation areas. There were no standing lamps; instead, a number of lanterns hung from the ceiling. And there was a piano.
It was an old short-backed upright, its brand name worn to invisibility, its outer gloss scarred by innumerable scratches. The bench didn't match the piano and the second pedal was missing.
But it was a piano.
Heart pounding, Illya sat down and flipped up the lid. The keys mostly still had their ivory; three or four had plastic replacements. Carefully he struck a C major chord. It was in tune! He tried a three-octave B minor scale and a number of others. Well, mostly in tune... He tested every key on the board. The lowest octave had a tendency to growl and the highest to squeal. It didn't matter, though. Illya was in love.
He hadn't practiced--hadn't had access to his landlady's piano--in nearly two weeks. He ran through a full set of scales, major and minor, then the first three Hanon exercises four dutiful times each, according to the drill. Close enough to warmed up. He cracked his knuckles--a habit that his teacher, Lydia Petrovna, had despised--and considered what to play. He was leaving Europe? Very well. He played From Finlandia by Sibelius, patriot of Finland. From the Polish Chopin's work he played several... what else?... polonaises for Poland. Bartok for Hungary--as much of the Mikrokosmos as he could remember--and a set of Strauss waltzes for Germany. For Russia he played Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture in a piano reduction that Lydia Petrovna had done for him; then Mussorgky's Pictures at an Exhibition; then his favorite of all Russian pieces, Rimsky-Korsakov's The Snow Maiden.
And then, because he was feeling good, he played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, including the fast and fiendishly difficult third movement. He got lost in the music, as always, so he was very surprised, when his hands finally floated to his lap, to hear a burst of applause and a cry of "Oh, well done!"
He looked up. A woman was standing, smiling broadly, just to one side of the piano. She seemed to be in her late fifties and had carefully-tended silvery hair and a round, smooth face. She beamed at him. "Oh, don't stop, dear, please do go on! I was enjoying it so. You play very well."
She spoke in the accents of the British well-to-do. She wore a blue wool skirt, a blue Fair Isle sweater with the sleeves pushed up, blue cable-knit stockings, and a pair of walking shoes of the variety that two months in London on an assignment with the team had taught Illya to call "sensible." He said belatedly, "Good morning, ma'am. Please excuse me. I did not realize you were there."
"And I've spoiled all the fun by clapping, haven't I? I'm sorry I startled you, only one so seldom hears the Moonlight played through. Really, it was quite a treat to listen to."
"Thank you," he said awkwardly. Praise always made him feel awkward; he didn't know what to do with it. And it was strange to have a stranger listening, without his knowing. He felt almost spied upon.
"Alexander didn't mention that his foster-son was a pianist. He said last night that you were ill. I take it you've recovered?"
Illya hadn't attended either dinner last night or breakfast this morning, so he could imagine that conversation had taken place that he didn't know about. "I'm feeling much better, thank you. Are you Mrs. Gilman?"
"Yes, I am. Henrietta Gilman. Only do call me Henny, I so dislike formality on shipboard; one ought to be well acquainted with one's fellow passengers. You would be Illya Ku--Kur--I'm sorry, but I'm terrible with languages..."
"Kuryakin."
"Well, why don't we go sit down, Illya Kuryakin who plays so beautifully? I love these armchairs; very comfy."
Reluctant, but unable to commit a deliberate rudeness, he sat beside her and searched for something to say. "Do you know Uncle Alex?"
"Oh, is that what you call him? How charming. Yes, Alexander and I are old friends. I'd no idea he was taking this ship. Startled me quite a bit when I came in here last night and smelled that awful tobacco of his."
Illya happened to like the smell of Uncle Alex's tobacco, but bristling in defense of it might make him look silly. He put on Polite Interest Face #2, the one for total strangers with some apparent claim on you.
"So." Mrs. Gilman looked at him as though he were her chosen confidante. "You're leaving Russia forever?"
"Yes, Mrs. Gilman."
"Henny, please. And going to New York?"
"That is our plan... Henny." He felt uncomfortable calling a woman of his mother's generation by her bare first name, and a nickname at that. Without the patronymic he could not judge whether it was appropriate. He wished she would say more about Uncle Alex--Illya knew so little about him--but she might not wish to reveal it, and perhaps it would not be wise to reveal for how short a time he and Uncle Alex had known each other. So he would limit himself to polite social noises and non-classified material. "You are travelling to New York to visit relatives, Henny?"
"Oh, goodness, no. My family are all in England. I'm making this trip for business reasons. I travel a good deal, you see." She smiled in a slightly odd way. "What are your hobbies besides the piano, Illya? Where did you study?"
"I studied at the Varensky Conservatory in Kiev. I... haven't had the time for many other hobbies. I left school early to go to work."
"Oh, what sort of work?"
Classified. "Nothing very interesting. I cleaned floors, I drove taxis, I shoveled snow--big business in Kiev." He wasn't technically lying. He'd done the floors and the taxis in the course of missions with the KGB, and he'd shoveled snow for pocket money when he was young. "I was supporting my family as well as myself, so I took whatever came." Still true. He had always sent part of his salary to Mama and Tatya and Maya. Even after Tatya had gone to work as a teacher's aide.
"I see," said the English lady. "A sort of Jack-of-all-trades. What do you plan to do in the States?"
"Study," he said. It was one of the possible truths. Illya didn't really know what he wanted to do when he got to New York. He had barely grasped the fact that he was safely on his way there. He'd honestly never believed he would get this far alive.
"Oh, going on with your piano! How nice. I think it's wonderful when young people can do as they like. I expect you'll be on the concert circuit in no time."
He had meant "mathematics and physics," not piano, but it seemed like a useful story to tell her. Then he asked himself why he felt this need to divert her, to give her a false story. He realized that ever since he'd looked up and seen her his senses had been flashing warnings at him. He always trusted those warnings. His superiors had valued them. More than once they had saved his life. He didn't know why he didn't trust Henny Gilman, but he didn't. The only immediate puzzle was her claim to be Uncle Alex's friend. Well, he would work that out later. She was continuing.
"Alexander always was an aficionado of the fine arts. I suppose that's how you met?"
"In a manner of speaking." International espionage and diplomacy were fine arts, weren't they? "I hope to go on learning from him when we get home. I know very little about the American theater, for instance." Both statements absolutely true, if unrelated. "What about you, Henny? May I inquire what business you are in?"
"Certainly, my dear. I deal in fine furnishings and jewelry, both antique and modern. I'm importing two crates for a buyer in America. Perhaps tomorrow you'd like to come down with me and see them. Fascinating pieces."
"I would like that."
"Lovely! After breakfast, perhaps? Good. Now if you will excuse me, I have a table tennis date with the captain. Shall I see you at lunch?"
Illya said he would be there. She said she was delighted and it was so nice to meet him. When she was gone, Illya sat down at the piano again, but he didn't play. He was tired. Grisha had liked his playing and would bring gifts to Illya's landlady so they could have extra time at the piano. Grisha was dead now; Illya had shot him during his escape. Illya's throat tightened and he got up and walked away from the instrument. Grisha had had a brother, a sister, parents, a beloved grandmother, friends, a girlfriend. They would be suffering now and for the rest of their lives, all because Illya had thought that his own life and happiness were more important than theirs. And the other two, the dockworkers he'd shot, had surely had families, friends, wives. Illya didn't even know their names. How could he mourn properly if he didn't know their names?
It didn't stop there. His mother would suffer, both publicly and privately. She had already lost one son and a husband. Would they tell her that her other son had escaped, or that he was dead trying to escape? Either way she would suffer. She would not be able to speak his name for fear of committing treason. How could she seek comfort? Or would she? Would she believe in the tale of treachery they would concoct for her, and despise him for it?
His sisters would miss him; Maya especially would cry. Tatya would be silent, as was her way. But would they think he had done the right thing, or would they believe that he was a traitor? Would he be hopelessly treasured in absentia, or erased from the family memory? Would neighbors and schoolmates and friends sympathize with the Kuryakin women as the family of a lost child, or would they vilify and shun them as the relatives of a traitor? How much more suffering had Illya caused in his selfish, arrogant need? Couldn't you have considered the consequences before you acted?
He went back to the cabin. Uncle Alex wasn't there. Dumas was on the bed; Illya put it away and lay down and curled up, tucked into himself. He wanted Misha-bear, but did not want Uncle Alex to ridicule him. Everything was so confusing. How could there be so much good and so much bad at once?
*************
He slept much longer than he meant to. Uncle Alex woke him for dinner, with enough spare time to wash and dress. He put on the tan slacks, a white shirt, his one and only necktie, and the blazer. At the table he finally met the rest of the passengers. They were twelve in all. Besides himself, Uncle Alex and Mrs. Gilman (he couldn't make himself call her Henny in his mind), there were two American girls and a family of five. The girls, about Illya's age, had been travelling in Europe and were coming home to enter college in January. The tall one with dark hair in a long braid was Trineda Olson. The other, with blond hair that she wore loose and was always pushing out of her eyes, was Suzanne Harper. Illya felt his shyness return full force. Most of his fellow operatives had been older than him, and he hadn't had the social company of his agemates in a long time.
The family, Mr. and Mrs. Ramel and their children, had been in Europe for two years, since Mr. Ramel's company had sent him there. Now they were going home to Indiana, and Mrs. Ramel seemed very glad to leave. She chatted brightly about how marvelous Europe was and all these fascinating cultures and the museums and palaces and history... but Illya rather thought she would have preferred not to leave Bloomington (wherever that was) in the first place. Her husband ate steadily throughout her speech, patted his mouth with his napkin every so often, and said nothing.
The children were Samantha, ten years old, Lucy, eight, and six-year-old Peter. Illya's heart contracted. Peter. Pyotr. Petya. They were all dark blond with snub noses and slender limbs, and they ate with beautiful table manners that must have been hammered into them for occasions when their father was entertaining business guests. Lucy and Samantha did, anyway. Peter ate like a normal six-year-old--peas balanced precariously on his knife, fingers used to convey mashed potatoes to his mouth, and strawberry ice cream stirred to a slush and slurped right out of the bowl. Twice Mrs. Ramel caught her son at it and said severely, "Peter, darling," whereupon Peter would behave himself until she looked away, then start again.
When the company retired to the lounge, Illya found himself grouped with Suzanne, Uncle Alex, Mrs. Gilman and Mr. Ramel. Mrs. Ramel was laughing with the first mate and the captain in one corner; the children were playing with Trineda. Ramel lit a cigarette and said, "Well, now, young man. Mr. Waverly here tells us you are on your way to the States to study piano. Is that true?"
Uncle Alex couldn't have said any such thing; he didn't know about the piano. Mrs. Gilman must have told him at lunch, or before, and Uncle Alex must have decided, for some reason, to keep using the story. Illya's uneasiness about Mrs. Gilman grew; at the same time his trust in Uncle Alex was increased.
"Yes, Mr. Ramel," he replied politely. "I could not go further at home, so I had to get my education somewhere else."
"So you decided to emigrate?"
"Yes, sir," Illya said docilely, not about to explain that he was a defector.
Ramel raised his eyebrows. "Well, well, well. Good for you, young man. The more good men on our side, the better."
His tone grated on Illya's ear and Illya doubted he and Ramel were on the same side. Ramel said, "And where do you come from?"
How could Ramel have missed the accent? "I was born in the U.S.S.R."
There was a short silence. "You're Russian."
Well, he was Ukrainian, but he didn't think Ramel would grasp the subtlety. "Yes, sir."
"Really." Ramel sniffed. "What's a good Communist doing outside of Russia?"
Escaping, Illya was tempted to say. "But I am not a very good Communist, Mr. Ramel. Otherwise I would not have decided to emigrate to the U.S.A."
Ramel was stiff with disapproval. "And you're coming to make your fortune preying on good Americans?"
"Sir, you are contradicting yourself. Either I am a good man on your side or I'm an evil Communist come to prey on your people. You cannot have it both ways. And I might add that were I a true Communist, `making my fortune' would be the farthest thing from my mind. Communists, as you may have heard, do not believe in accruing great amounts of money."
Ramel had of course gone to Europe in order to accrue great amounts of money. Uncle Alex lifted an eyebrow, Mrs. Gilman smiled, Suzanne snickered loudly. Ramel turned beet-red. "Young man, you are very insolent, do you know that?"
"I am? I do beg your pardon, sir. I must remember to watch my tongue in future. Mr. Ramel, do you speak Russian?"
"Who, me? I should think not!"
Illya said something that Colonel Vadim might have said to an erring junior agent. Uncle Alex, the only other person present who knew Russian (unless Mrs. Gilman did), only looked milder than ever. Ramel stiffly excused himself to the other adults and stalked off. Uncle Alex winked at Illya; he approved of Illya's behavior. He and Mrs. Gilman started setting up a backgammon board. Suzanne moved closer to Illya and said to him, "That was great! He's such a pompous pain in the ass. What did you call him?"
"An uncultured pimple on the behind of an incontinent dog."
Suzanne exploded in laughter. Illya added, "I would have thrown in the traditional pox on his firstborn, only Samantha seems like a nice child."
"You missed her at lunch," Suzanne said darkly. "Screaming brat. And her sister. The little boy's okay, I guess."
"Yes, I rather liked the way he ignored his mother's reprimands just now. I've always found my food tastes better that way."
She giggled. The two girls were now playing in a corner, heads together, pointedly ignoring their brother. Trineda was nowhere to be seen. Peter was standing forlornly by the piano, finger in mouth and looking miserable. Illya said to Suzanne, "Excuse me a minute, can you?" and he went and squatted before the little boy. "Hello, Peter. I'm Illya."
Little blue eyes and a runny nose looked at him without a word. From one hand dangled a small brown teddy-bear. "I'll tell you a secret, Peter. I have a teddy-bear just like yours." (Misha was twice this one's size and several shades lighter, but that wasn't the point.)
"His name is Beary," Peter said, sniffling slightly.
Illya took his handkerchief and wiped the boy's nose. "Mine is called Misha. That's how you say `Mike' in my language at home. Would you like me to tell you a story about Misha-bear in the forest?"
"Can Beary come too?"
"Of course he can." Illya sat down on the piano bench and Peter promptly climbed into his lap. He said, "Beary and Misha were walking through the woods one day. The trees were so big that two little bears' arms couldn't make a circle around them. There was a carpet of pine needles underfoot, so thick that when Beary and Misha walked along they couldn't hear their own footsteps."
"There was a stream," Peter said. "Beary went in."
"Yes, that's right, he went in. He walked on the flat stones and the round stones. The only kind he did not step on were the tippy ones. He knew that you must never step on the tippy ones. After a while, seeing that his friend Beary was so brave, Misha went into the stream too. Do you know what happened then?"
"He fell in!"
"That's right. And do you know why he fell in?"
"Huh-uh."
"It was because he stepped on a tippy stone." Illya apologized mentally to Misha for the character slur of being that stupid. Misha wouldn't mind being an example for a little boy, he was sure. Illya went on embroidering the tale, with frequent prompts from his audience. Beary rescued Misha. They built a fire so Misha could dry off, but they were very careful to put it out before they left. Illya was just about to lead them into the clearing where Baba Yaga's hut stood when he saw Mr. Ramel pry his wife loose from the captain and first mate and put a word in her ear. She hurried to the piano and took the boy out of his lap without a word, walking away tightlipped. Lucy and Samantha were made to follow her, to the accompaniment of their father's hostile looks at Illya.
Illya sat back for a moment, far more hurt by this distrust, this shunning, than by anything the paterfamilias had actually said. To have the child snatched away so suddenly and without any explanation to either of them... Illya doubted that they would tell Peter anything but "stay away from that Mr. Kuryakin, son, he's a no-good Commie." And one more child would grow up in blind prejudice, just like his father and his father before him. Illya got up in bitter disgust, excused himself to what was left of the company and went to the cabin to read. Dumas' gallant heroes were a badly needed antidote to banal hatred and superstition.
************
On the third night out from Stockholm, Waverly stayed late in the lounge playing backgammon with Henny Gilman. It was no coincidence that she was on this voyage; she'd been in Stockholm when he was, trying to find out what he was up to. He did not think she had found out. She was good: she was one of THRUSH's best agents; but the annual conference of the Council and Commissioners of U.N.C.L.E. was very well planned and very well hidden. So they were at their customary balance of knowledge and could relax into social relations. She'd been tailing him so long that they'd grown to rather enjoy each other's company whenever they weren't actively at odds over anything. She was an excellent backgammon player, and they had a long running tally of wins and losses. At the moment, Waverly had the advantage.
Illya had gone to bed hours before, and Waverly only left the lounge when he realized it was past eleven. Henny waved him a cheery goodnight. Illya was sound asleep. Waverly changed into his pajamas and lay down. Sleep came quickly.
In the middle of the night he woke up hearing Illya crying. He pulled his bathrobe on and padded over to the boy's bunk. "Son? What's wrong?"
Then he realized that Illya was asleep. Asleep, but crying all the same, and therefore dreaming. Not of any happy memory, either. As Waverly stood there, the sobs grew louder and turned into cries, then to screams. Illya started to writhe, battling some invisible enemy, and Waverly shook his shoulder. "Illya. Wake up."
Illya sat up with the speed of a striking snake, arms going out defensively before him. "Get away from me!"
"Son. It's me, your Uncle Alex. Are you awake?"
Illya stared, chest heaving. "Uncle Alex?"
"Yes. What's the matter? What were you dreaming about?"
"I am sorry. I have woken you. I should not trouble you with my dreams."
"No one can control their dreams, son. I'm not angry, just worried."
"I am going to cause you a great deal of worry, then. You should not burden yourself with me. You should send me back."
"Nonsense!" Waverly said sharply. "No doubt you will cause me worry. That is the way of things between parent and child. No one in this world could pay me enough to make me send you back. You are very precious to me, Illya. And I am proud of you. You're handling that odious businessman very well."
The tension went out of Illya. He only looked sad, now. "I wanted to play with the little boy. Peter. He is the same age as my brother was when he died. And the same name. Petya was like my own child, in a way. I was the oldest, so I was responsible for him many times. I taught him how to dress himself and tie his shoes and cross the street. Mama and my father had to work. So I took care of him."
"Were you dreaming about him?"
"No. About... about the Colonel."
The Colonel, Colonel Vadim, was Illya's brutal, hated commanding officer in the KGB. Or had been; Illya had shot him in self-defense. "What about the Colonel, son?"
"The time he... he whipped me. The last time. Day I left." Illya was shivering, and Waverly pulled the blankets up around his shoulders. "He was angry because our case wasn't going well. We had come to Leningrad to track down a suspected saboteur, and we had followed all our leads without any success for three days. Partly he was angry with me because it was my suggestion that our quarry would have gone to Leningrad, so we should follow." Illya leaned against Waverly, still shivering. Clearly it wasn't a physical chill that shook him. "That was the only way I would have been able to get to Leningrad, you see. I was fortunate that our quarry's habits made it likely he would go there. Otherwise... otherwise I would probably be in a cell somewhere in Moscow right now, for having killed the Colonel outright."
"You were going to do that?"
"I was thinking about it. It was either him or me, and I decided, better him first. If I had actually done it, I would have killed myself next. There was nowhere else for me to go." Illya sighed. "Maybe not a cell. Maybe a grave."
Waverly stroked the golden hair, for once wordless. That Illya's situation had been bad, he'd known. That it had approached suicide… Aloud, to distract Illya: "What was the other reason he was angry with you, son?"
Illya shifted uncomfortably and gulped. His voice was a mere whisper. "The third day... we did have some luck. We came across one of our man's known associates, a woman named Vankova. She hadn't been involved in his most recent sabotage acts, but she was likely to know where he was, and since she turned up in Leningrad, the Colonel wanted to question her."
Illya shuddered. "She resisted. She wouldn't answer. The Colonel was very angry, and sometimes when he was angry, he... he got out of control. He would use... brutal methods. Not physical torture, not interrogations. Woman or man, he would... he would..." Illya stopped.
Waverly decided to offer him a way out. "Sexual attacks, son?"
"Yes." The voice was very small. "Sometimes he would do it... other times wanted us to. Had never picked me for it before. Made Grisha do it three, four times. That day probably because he was angry with me for failures of previous days, he told me to... to… he and Grisha would hold her down and I was to..." Illya started crying. "For first time in life I disobeyed order. `No, sir, I will not.' He wasn't happy. Ordered me again. I said was wrong. He started shouting at me, calling--calling names--said I was weak, not a man, I was a--I don't know the word in English. Is--is very derogatory term. Worst thing you can call such a person... a person who... who goes with person of same sex."
Waverly held the boy tight. Oh, son. Oh, Illya. "The English equivalent you're looking for, the most derogatory term, is… well, I’ll tell you in a bit, but it is not a word to use in polite company. I presume you know the politer ones."
"Yes." Illya shuddered again. "So I refused to do anything to Vankova. So the Colonel sent us out to hall--we were at Vankova's apartment--and said to wait. A little while later he came out looking even angrier than before. Very little while. Don't think anything happened. I think... He had been drinking, drinking a lot, for some time. Maybe he couldn't... perform--maybe that was why he had ordered me to do it. I don't know. He may simply have killed her, but I will never know. When we get back to our apartment, he orders me to take jacket off. Don't know why he let me keep shirt. I lie down on bench, Grisha holds my hands, Lyudmila Arkadievna looks on. Colonel strikes me with whip. Grisha holds hands tight. I vow I will not make a sound. One by one Colonel whips me, eight, nine, ten. I succeed in not making sound, that is my victory. After is over Colonel goes into bedroom, either to--to please himself, alone, sexually..." Illya looked to Waverly for a word again.
"Masturbate."
"Either to do that, if he can, or else to drink self into oblivion. Lyudmila Arkadievna disappears somewhere. Grisha helps me up, takes me to our room, wants to take shirt off and put bandages on me. I don't want anyone to touch me. Made him go away." Illya's voice was calmer now, but in a way that alarmed Waverly. Detached, almost. "Lie there half hour, hour, and finally make my decision--had been on brink of it for months, finally had impetus to decide. Put books, papers, Misha in satchel, made sure Colonel was safely locked up in room, heard Grisha and Lyudmila Arkadievna talking in kitchen, and left."
And had made his way to the port, been sighted, shot two dockworkers who would have reported him, got to the Swedish freighter he'd marked to stow away in, and then been sighted by his teammates, who had come in pursuit as soon as they realized he was gone. Illya had had to kill the Colonel--with no regrets--and also the man called Grisha, who was his friend. God. What a nightmare. What a nightmare.
Illya was quiet. Waverly stroked his back and the boy huddled against him. Nineteen years old. And all of this behind him, already.
"Son, I'm sorry," Waverly said finally. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. You told us in Stockholm that Vadim had whipped you--I remember that shirt you were still wearing, with the back all cut to ribbons."
"It was either leave, or submit," Illya said. "When I was alone, after Grisha had left, I had to decide whether to kill myself right there and then. I decided not. Colonel would have won. System would have won." Sleepily, "I wanted me to win for once."
"I understand, son. And I'm glad." Waverly kissed the sweet-smelling hair. "I'd like to ask you a question, though."
"What is it?"
"Do you have dreams like this often?"
"About the Colonel?"
"Nightmares in general. About anything."
Illya looked uncomfortable. "Most people have nightmares, Uncle Alex."
"Yes, but you've had at least two bad ones in the week I've known you. Is that normal for you, Illya?" He saw apprehension in the boy's eyes and repeated, "I'm not angry--just worried. Do you usually have nightmares this often?"
"Uncle Alex, I--I do not want to talk about this. Not right now. Please."
Waverly gave up, but only for the moment. It would be counterproductive to press Illya now. But he was going to ask again when they got to New York.
"All right, son. Do you want to go back to sleep?"
"Not yet. Who is Mrs. Gilman?"
"Eh? Henny? Why do you ask?"
"Her identity seems solid on the surface. She does have some nice furniture down in the hold. She told me you two were old friends, and you talk and play backgammon as if you were. But you don't want her to know that I am anything but a piano student, and there is something a very little off about her. She hides it well, but I think she is more than she seems."
The boy was sharp. Very sharp. Waverly wished he could tell Illya the whole truth, but partial would have to do for now.
"You're right, son. There's more to her than what she shows. We are friends, after a fashion. We are certainly well acquainted. Henrietta Gilman is her right name, but she uses others from time to time, and she is not in fact married, or at least not to a Mr. Gilman. She does deal in jewelry and fine furnishings, but again, there's more to it than that."
"And you let her go on thinking I am nothing but a musician?"
"That's more than I'm willing to tell you, son. Classified information."
Illya scowled. "Uncle Alex, you are a very frustrating man."
"Am I? How useful. I do make my living frustrating certain people, after all."
"And I make--well, I used to make mine finding things out," Illya said defensively. Waverly laughed.
"You're not going to find out anything really interesting about Henny Gilman while we're stuck on this ship, son, but I wish you luck just the same." He stroked that lovely hair again. "Do you think you can sleep now?"
"Yes, uncle. I--thank you for waking me. And for talking. It distracts me."
"I'll remember that. You lie down, son. I'll get the light. Sleep well."
Illya snuggled down in his bunk and shut his eyes. He was asleep before Waverly was back in bed. Ah, youth.
*************
By the last evening on board, Mrs. Gilman had talked so much and so long about Illya's piano playing (she had intruded on his practicing at every opportunity) that everyone but the Ramels senior begged him to play for them. Reluctantly--his music was meant as a private balm for private woes--Illya went to the instrument and sat down, wondering what to play. Nothing long or complex--he was immediately tempted to launch into the Hammerklavier Sonata, just to show the skeptical Ramels. But no. Something airy and crowd-pleasing. So he played several Bach inventions, some Chopin preludes and then, for Peter, the entire set of Schumann's Kinderszenen. Applause after each piece was enthusiastic, particularly from the captain--evidently an aficionado; perhaps that was why the piano was there in the first place--and from Suzanne and Trineda. The Ramels clapped politely. After the last Schumann, Illya hesitated, then decided to do it. They needed something more substantive, and he needed to play one of his own favorites. He started the Moonlight Sonata.
There was enthusiastic applause when he finished, and Suzanne darted over and kissed him on the cheek. He tried not to flinch. "That was wonderful, Illya! Why didn't you tell us you were a genius?"
"It's not polite to advertise," he said. A useful tactic for dodging praise: make a joke. "Thank you. Thank you, everyone... No, please," he said when Henny Gilman called for an encore. "I am both tired and out of practice. Please excuse me."
"Mr. Kuryakin, can't you indulge us?" the captain begged. "We don't often get someone who can play as well as you. We don't really get much entertainment at all. Just one more?"
"All right. One more." He would finesse them, he decided. He had never seen sheet music for this in the Soviet Union, but he knew the melody from television broadcasts. He held it in his mind for a moment, till he knew what chords he wanted. Then he raised his hands and started to play "The Star-Spangled Banner."
The Ramels grudgingly rose and sang, and Illya concealed his glee behind the bland mask he had used when reporting to superior officers. I may be an evil godless Commie pinko, but I'm not stupid. He thought Uncle Alex was smiling, to the extent compatible with singing. Henny Gilman stood, out of politeness, but did not sing. Suzanne and Trineda rolled their eyes, but sang.
When the last note had been sung, Uncle Alex said loudly, "Excellent work, Illya m'boy! Rousing end to a lovely performance."
Agreement rose from all corners, except the one where the Ramels were standing. As soon as Illya got away from the piano, Suzanne and Trineda dragged him to a card table for their nightly session of Scrabble. They had taught him the game on his second full day on board, and he had enjoyed the friendly competition that had arisen over it; but he had realized early on, to his distress, that they weren't just after friendship. Suzanne patted his hand constantly, Trineda kept nudging his thigh. He'd done his best to ignore their flirting; it was not the kind he wanted. He liked them, but he wanted friends, not girlfriends.
Waverly refilled his pipe, lit up and drew a long drag in. He didn't usually allow himself two pipes in one evening, but it was a special night. Tomorrow he would introduce Illya to America.
Henny Gilman moved one of her pieces and said, "Alexander, you aren't paying attention to the game. Or is it me you're bored with?"
"How could I be bored in your presence, my dear Henrietta? But you're right, I have been distracted. I've been thinking about my foster son."
"Yes, there's a good deal to think about, isn't there? Where will you send him? Juilliard?"
"Possibly. Possibly." But Waverly had not been thinking about Illya's education. He had been wondering about Illya's sexual history.
The boy had spent a good deal of time with those college girls during the crossing. He seemed to get along well with them, particularly the blond, Suzanne. Waverly was glad; he'd been worried that Illya might be too traumatized to mix socially with others his own age. But there was something odd about his interactions with the girls, and Waverly had been hard put to it to pin it down. Tonight at dinner he had suddenly understood what it was.
Illya did not respond in any way to their friendly flirting. Not that Waverly wanted him to bed the girls on such short acquaintance! But Illya did not seem aware of them even as possible sexual partners. Nothing in his behavior responded to the flirting on any level. Either he was unaware of it, or he was incapable of responding, even to acknowledge that he was aware but not interested. Neither case boded well for his psychological health. In the first case, his sexuality had never developed. In the second, it had been completely repressed by some event or combination of events. The possible culprits were many. Three years with Colonel Vadim, leaving home forever, some physical malfunction, injury, disease, a record of unhappy sexual experiences or relationships... or some kind of sexual trauma. Waverly thought about it and decided he couldn't rule out that possibility.
It worried him. Illya already had enough obstacles to establishing normal social relationships: new country, new culture, new language (he spoke it fluently, but now he would have to live in it), separation from his family, a million other things he did not have in common with American youth. While they attended high school and started dating, Illya had worked in a job where he had routinely dealt with and perpetrated psychological and physical horror. He had killed eighteen people in his three years with the KGB, which worked out to one every two months. With that past, how would he establish and maintain friendships, let alone romances and sexual relationships, when they were not, as now, limited by circumstances to a very short time?