No infringement of the following characters and situations is intended.
Warning: Rated [MA] Mature Adults only. Contains some violence.
c 1986
ACT 1 - Just Like War And Peace
THRUSH HOUSE - LONG ISLAND
Illya clamped a small electronic device to the wire hidden in the frame of the long bay window. It was very primitive wiring for the business they were in. This house in Long Island could not be of great importance to THRUSH, or it would have been better secured. The guards they'd found around the house had been rendered inoperative quite easily.
Once Illya had by-passed the alarm he pushed the window in carefully, holding his breath. No sirens, no flashing lights as far as he could tell. He snuck in lithely like a black cat, followed by Napoleon.
They trod carefully, wary of sensors under the carpet, and well hidden monitors around the room. As far as Illya's detector could tell, there were none. He waved it around the room again to confirm. Napoleon stood behind him, gun drawn, ready.
They ducked out into the large front hall, which had an enormously ornate staircase. Prints of old masters covered most of the pretentious wallpaper.
Napoleon moved on silently, and then suddenly realised Illya was not following behind him.
Illya stood looking up at a painting.
"I saw the original of that once hanging in a gallery in Leningrad," he said with a faraway tone in his voice.
Napoleon glanced at him. Illya hardly ever spoke of his homeland, and never in such a wistful tone of voice. Napoleon, too, looked up at the painting. He wondered what memories it held for Illya.
"Illya, I'll go upstairs and you check downstairs. See if we can't flush out some THRUSH, " he grinned. Napoleon crept up the stairs, leaving Illya staring at the painting.
Illya tore himself away from his reminiscences, drew his gun, and began to search the rooms. Illya checked the two empty rooms. When he entered the third room something moved behind the drapes.
"Okay, come out, whoever you are, " he ordered wearily, training his gun on the long curtains.
Someone grabbed him from behind. Quickly utilising his martial arts skills he pulled the man over his shoulder and threw him to the ground. The THRUSH from behind the curtain ran at him, but Illya quickly side-stepped and the agent crashed into a heavy wooden cabinet. Both THRUSHES were out cold. Illya knelt to check their pockets.
Someone savagely swung down a rifle butt across the back of the blonde agent's head. Illya fell forward instantly. The THRUSH agent was about to fire a round of bullets into Kuryakin's body when he heard a noise upstairs; he fled through the forced open window.
Illya lay sprawled face down on the floor unconscious, blood flowing from the wound.
Napoleon raced over and knelt beside his friend. He let the THRUSH agent get away. He pulled out his communicator and reported an agent down.
Napoleon checked the pulse on Illya's throat again. The skin was still.
Napoleon threw Illya onto his back and started pounding on his chest.
Napoleon felt something very horrible inside. It was fear.
Kuryakin lay unconscious in the hospital bed for a long, long time. He looked deathly pale with his head bandaged. He lay so still. Napoleon was genuinely worried. At last Illya seemed to stir. He moved his head and winced. He mumbled something that sounded like it was in Russian.
"Illya?" asked Napoleon.
Illya groaned something again. It definitely was in Russian.
"Illya, its me, Napoleon."
Illya seemed to ignore him. He kept saying something, Napoleon couldn't understand.
"Natasha, " cried Illya. "Natasha, Natasha...." he trailed off and fell unconscious again.
Natasha, puzzled Napoleon. He'd hardly expected Illya to cry out a girl's name in his delirium. Nor had he expected Illya to speak in Russian, he'd been in America so long. She must have been someone who had meant rather a lot to Illya back in Russia. Perhaps that's who he was remembering when he'd seen the painting. Illya had sounded genuinely homesick, as if he longed to go back.
It was two days later and Illya was no better. Worse.
Illya murmured something incomprehensible in his delirium. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He lapsed back into unconsciousness again.
Napoleon leant up against the cold white wall, frowning. He didn't know what to do.
Illya Kuryakin was dying. He'd simply lost the will to live. Napoleon couldn't understand. Illya, of all of them, seemed the strongest, the one who never let the business they were in get to him. Now he was just dying in front of Napoleon's eyes. Napoleon felt helpless.
He suddenly thought of what he could do.
Hours later Napoleon Solo was on a plane bound for the Soviet Union. He'd find this Natasha, and bring her to Illya. Maybe she could save him. He'd also find out what had happened to Illya in Russia - what lay in his past before he had joined U.N.C.L.E.
Napoleon arrived at U.N.C.L.E. Eastern Europe and went straight to the records room. Fighting drastic jet lag he accustomed himself to their filing system. At last he found what he wanted. A file labelled Kuryakin.
Napoleon pulled it out and opened it. All there was inside was a small piece of paper. It said 'File Removed'. Not when, or by whom. Just 'File Removed'.
Napoleon felt a crashing sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Didn't they know his friend's life depended on it? But no amount of ranting or raving could turn up the missing file.
Napoleon wasn't out yet, though. He didn't know enough of Illya's past to know where to look properly, but he did know one thing. Illya had been in Russian Navy Intelligence.
Napoleon couldn't wait to go through diplomatic circles. Waving his badge around he walked in and demanded access to their records room. After earnestly convincing the Intelligence superiors he was on a desperately important assignment, he was allowed into their records, for one file only. But when he finally held it in his hands, he found it contained the same thing, only one thing, a small piece of paper that said File Removed.
Napoleon returned to New York crestfallen, feeling downtrodden. His two day search had proved fruitless. Everytime he came close he found that any reference to Kuryakin had been removed, as if someone had a vendetta against the man.
There was one place he hadn't tried. Their own U.N.C.L.E. files. It should have been the place he first looked, but he'd dismissed it, reckoning that the files only went back to Illya's arrival in New York in 1956. But now it was his only hope. Didn't U.N.C.L.E. check their agents back to the day they were born and before. There must be some information about Illya's past in the records.
Something in that past which made Illya want to die.
Napoleon opened the filing cabinet, flicked through the K's, and pulled out Illya's file. Then he hesitated. This was Illya's own file. It was a private thing. Illya may never forgive him for reading it. Napoleon couldn't. He decided there was nothing left but the last resort. He'd ask Waverly.
Waverly dropped the file down in front of him.
"You were quite right, Mr Solo. The Woman Mr Kuryakin is asking for was very important to him. She was his wife."
"So he was married, " Napoleon mused. "Where is she now?"
"She died, " said Mr Waverly.
Napoleon looked up for an explanation.
Mr Waverly sat back in his chair.
"They wed in 1956. Kuryakin found out she was working for THRUSH and turned her over to Russian Intelligence and U.N.C.L.E.. She claimed THRUSH had blackmailed her, but Kuryakin would not listen. He felt he had been betrayed and disgraced. He would not see her. She talked under interrogation to try and win back his favour. A THRUSH agent was sent to kill her. When she was murdered she was pregnant with Kuryakin's child."
"Does Illya know?"
"He knows nothing of her death."
"Oh, poor Illya, ' whispered Napoleon, suddenly realising what his friend must have been carrying all these years.
Napoleon watched over Illya, wondering what he was going to do. He couldn't bring Natasha to Illya now. If he told Illya the truth the shock could kill him in his weakened condition.
Illya moved again.
"Natasha, ' he cried earnestly.
Chekov sifted through the files of top Russian personnel being offered to U.N.C.L.E. He appeared largely disinterested in the task. Until he came to one file. He stopped, and read it very carefully. "This one, " he said, pushing the file over for his comrades to examine. "General Kuryakin's youngest son. I want this file on top for special consideration by the board. If the boy is anything like his father he'll be invaluable to U.N.C.L.E."
Illya Kuryakin was very much like his father. Serious, determined, proud and a loner by nature; the set of his jaw and the cold concentration in his steely blue eyes made him look very much like the solemn photograph of his father in uniform he had hung in his room. His father was a national hero, and Illya felt that he could never live up to the reputation his father had left behind; but he had dedicated his life and efforts to achieving his father's and his own strongly held beliefs in the fight for good. Only the soft blonde hair which fell untidily across his forehead was from his mother.
Illya had graduated from university to becoming an officer in Russian Navy Intelligence. He held the rank of Captain and took his authority very seriously. But today Illya was allowing himself to relax a little bit. He was on leave; he was sitting in a small cafe in Leningrad lazily watching the people walk by, wondering about their lives and ambitions as they moved on, trying to forget his own. The warm sun on his face was suddenly blocked by a shadow. He sat up and took off his sunglasses, and found himself looking up at one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, and she was smiling at him.
"Is anyone using this seat?" she asked.
Illya hurriedly pushed his coffee out of the way.
"Nobody, please, be my guest, " he smiled back.
"I can't remember seeing you here before, " she asked.
"I'm on holidays, " he admitted.
The girl kept smiling across at him.
Illya blushed and stared down at his coffee.
"Ah, let me see, " she said, looking over him.
"You're in the Navy."
He grinned. "That was too easy."
His clothes, his blonde hair shorn short. He looked like a service man, neat and efficient.
She giggled again. "You're from Kiev."
Illya was taken aback.
"How did you guess that?"
"You said you weren't from around here. I listened to your voice. I'm a linguistics student. I work for the government as a translator. You've got a Middle Ukrainian Accent."
Illya looked down at the table, embarrassed again.
"Don't be shy. Guess something about me."
He looked up. "You're a linguistics student."
She laughed. "You can't cheat!"
His eyes smiled into hers, challenging her. "Guess my name, " she teased.
"I wouldn't know where to begin, " he shrugged.
"Tolstoy," she hinted.
"Natasha, "
"Correct. Now I've got to guess yours."
He smiled smugly.
She looked him over carefully, considering. She rested her chin on her hands and concentrated on his face.
"illya, " he admitted.
"You weren't supposed to tell me!" she exclaimed.
"I couldn't bear your scrutiny any longer. I could see you going through all the names and ticking them off. It would have been ages before you got to mine."
"I think Illya's a lovely name. " Her brown eyes were laughing at him.
Illya took a deep breath; now or never.
"Do you have plans for tonight?" he asked self- consciously.
"Yes, " she said.
He looked up, dismayed.
"I'm going out with a man from one of our glorious services, " she continued.
He still had that hurt look in his eyes.
"You, silly." She reached across and kissed him in the lips.
Illya smiled and returned her kiss.
Days melted into one. Illya felt himself falling in love. He was gloriously happy. He heard himself laughing and being silly. They spent ever spare moment together. Within a week they were married.
Mr Waverly sat back with satisfaction and played with his pipe. The new security system had just been installed in the Soviet Union. U.N.C.L.E. had developed a universal information and security system; their organisation was world wide after all. U.N.C.L.E. was only officially a tender ten years old and just beginning to settle down as a really cohesive intelligence force. Political and cultural differences were being overcome for the common good.
The Russian head of U.N.C.L.E. sat across from Waverly.
"We've been reviewing our armed services for recruits, I'd like your opinion on some of these candidates."
He pushed the pile of files across to Waverly. "The ones on top are the most promising." he explained.
"Oh, I see, very convenient, " said waverly. He took the first file and opened it.
"Ah, Kuryakin. I knew his father. General Kuryakin was responsible for Russia's participation in U.N.C.L.E.. He was one of the original five. An exceptional man, until he was murdered by THRUSH. Oh, I'm sorry, you knew that."
Waverly read the file, occasionally making approving noises. Waverly finished reading yet still held the file.
"The boy knows nothing of the circumstances of his father's death; he was only a child at the time. I'd forgotten he'd finished his studies. Nickolai always wanted his son to join U.N.C.L.E.. I want to see him on a case." waverly was silent for a moment. "That computer business. I've been assured that no other government has anything to do with it." He meant America. "So we can assume its THRUSH. Get young Kuryakin and send him on it straight away. Send him along with some of your men. We'll see how it goes."
The Russian chief shifted in his chair. "We can take him away from Navy Intelligence for a while, that is no problem, but he's on his honeymoon at the moment."
Waverly was unmoved.
"Call him back. You'll Need someone with his degrees anyway.
Illya handed Natasha the telegram. She read it slowly.
"I'm so sorry, " he said quietly.
"You must go. I understand. I'll follow you. We can set up our new home. We'll be together."
"You don't mind?"
"What good would that do. I married a service man. So long as I get to see my husband once every so often. I knew what I was getting into when I married you. I just thought, maybe two weeks..."
He still looked sad.
"Don't worry, Illya. I'll be okay. We've got the rest of our lives together."
He smiled at last. They held each other close and kissed.
ACT 2 - SET UP
Illya walked sullenly into his Admiral's office, still annoyed over being called back from his honeymoon.
Beside the Admiral sat a man Illya had not seen before. The man was not Russian. He wore a suit.
The Admiral glanced up and waved Illya to a seat.
Illya sat down and waited. He watched carefully as the men conferred together in whispers. Illya watched curiously and nervously. He wondered why he'd been called back so urgently. He worried that he would be disciplined.
They stopped whispering and looked across at him. That was even worse.
The Admiral spoke first.
"Mr Johnston is from U.N.C.L.E."
Kuryakin looked a blank. He'd heard the name before, some organisation, but what.
The Admiral explained for him. "The United Network Command is an international peacekeeping force, and the Soviet Union is a member country."
Fine, thought Kuryakin. But what did this have to do with him.
Johnston sat forward.
"Have you ever heard of THRUSH, Captain?"
Illya thought for a moment and shook his head; not the way they obviously meant it, no.
Johnston looked across at Illya as though he had expected him to know.
"Well, they're an organisation committed to tyrannical world domination and despotism."
Illya listened, but still he saw no connection.
"the Soviet Union is committed to giving U.N.C.L.E. every assistance possible, " the Admiral explained. "We have Soviet agents working for U.N.C.L.E.."
Illya's eyes lit. He'd grasped the concept now. He restrained the incredulous 'You want me?!!' he was about to blurt out.
Johnston looked across at Illya.
"Your file recommends you as a suitable candidate for U.N.C.L.E.. Our candidates must pass certain procedures, but we need you on this case, so normal recruiting procedure has been waived."
Illya sat back. Wow.
Johnston fiddled with the papers in front of him.
"Our forces aren't so great in the Soviet Union you see," he paused. "THRUSH have tapped into the computers controlling Soviet missiles. They threaten to do the same to the United States and start World War Three. We need you, Captain, to work with us, as well as access to your men and equipment should we need it."
Illya looked to his Admiral. The Admiral nodded.
"Captain, you will be transferred temporarily to U.N.C.L.E. and you will take all your orders from them."
"Permanent transfer pending completion of this mission."
"Don't I get a say in this? Illya wanted to ask. But he was curious. He wanted to see how this U.N.C.L.E. was run. He was also proud that they had chosen him.
"You may wait outside, Captain. Mr Johnston will take you to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters."
Illya rose sharply to his feet and snapped off a salute.
"Yes, Sir."
Johnston picked up his files.
"He knows nothing about his father?"
"Nothing."
Illya couldn't believe his eyes or any of his other senses as he followed Johnson's lead down into U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.
Steel doors shut tight behind them. Johnston punched in the access code, and another set of steel doors opened. He led Illya down a steel walled and bare concrete passage. The air felt cold.
Illya's skin prickled. He looked around him, alert, inquisitive.
Johnston turned off the corridor and led Kuryakin into a large office.
A dark haired man in his late forties sat at the table. He was introduced as Mr Chekov.
Chekov spread a file across the table and looked up at Illya blandly.
"You will be required to work undercover in the missile station as a technician. You will gather intelligence. You will make twice daily reports. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You will be issued a communicator and a gun. Your performance will determine your suitably as a law enforcement officer."
"That's been explained to him," interrupted Johnston.
"Very well then. You are to leave immediately, Mr Kuryakin."
Illya frowned. He'd always been addressed by his rank. Never as a civilian. He stopped himself saying anything though.
"One question, Sir?" He asked, his voice sounding younger than he wanted it to.
"Yes?"
"May I phone my wife?"
"No. On no account is she to know of your assignment. You will leave immediately, is that clear."
"Yes, Sir, " he answered glumly.
He turned and left. Johnston led him down to the armoury. In his mind he kept worrying about Natasha. He could be gone for weeks, and she wouldn't know where he was.
Natasha was looking worn and tired. It was three nights now and her husband hadn't returned. Three sleepless nights. She'd phoned the naval base, but they had not seen him. He had just disappeared. She was worried and frightened. Illya wasn't the sort of man to just disappear.
She'd driven out to the base. She'd talked her way past the guards on the gates, but she'd only made it as far as a desk sergeant before she'd been politely and gently turned home. They would tell her nothing about her husband. She was made to feel very much that it was men's business and neurotic housewives should stay at home where they belonged. They didn't seem to care that she had high level clearance, due to her occasional work with top secret papers for the government. She began to worry that they didn't know what had happened to her husband either.
She went to put the key in the lock of their small state home. The door pushed open under her touch.
She puzzled for a moment.
"Illya?" she called tentatively.
There was no answer.
"Illya, is that you?" she called again.
She pushed the door properly open. She stepped back.
Their sitting room was devastated. Drawers pulled out, papers strewn, furniture had the stuffing ripped out of it, wallpaper torn down, carpets thrown aside and floorboards prised up.
"Oh no," she cried. "Illya -" she broke off and screamed.
Two men hiding behind the door had grabbed her.
"Where's your husband!" one demanded.
"I don't know!" she struggled. She tried to kick back at her assailants. The thinner man pressed a wet cloth across her nose and mouth. The smell choked her. She couldn't breath.
Natasha moved her head and groaned. She had a terrible headache. She felt ill. She tried to move her arms, but she couldn't. A few moments later she realised she was tied to a hard wooden chair. She looked up. The room was small and sparse. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling.
A man in his late thirties entered the room. He was accompanied by a smaller, nastier looking man.
Natasha tried to muster courage, but the second man scared her. Something in his eyes.
The little man turned his nasty shrewish face to her loveliness.
"Where is your husband!" he demanded.
"I don't know! I don't know!" she cried.
"Tell us the truth!" he spat.
"I don't know!" She felt the tears fall. She twisted in her bonds but they held her fast.
The man turned and held a brief discussion with his partner.
The good-looking man turned towards her. He smiled pleasantly. He seemed convinced she was telling the truth. He spoke softly.
"Would you like to know where your husband is?"
"Yes." She strained forward.
He sat back smiling.
"Very well. You are willing to co-operate with us."
"yes, yes. Where is Illya? Where is he, please!"
The man grinned.
"We have your husband."
Natasha sat in stunned silence.
"Illya?"
"Yes. We need your co-operation."
"Why?"
The nasty man leant forward.,
Because if you don't, we'll kill him." he snarled.
"No!" Natasha's thoughts raced ahead.
"How do I know you've got him?" she demanded.
The man pressed a button on the desk where they sat. Another man brought in something black.
The nasty man waved it in front of Natasha's face. It was Illya's favourite sweater, torn and stained with blood.
Natasha drew away from it, terrified. "No, No."
"Your husband is hurt. He can't see you. He will die unless you co-operate."
Natasha could think of no way out. They had her husband, and they would kill him.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked nervously.
The good-looking man smiled.
"Its quite simple really. There's an office. We want you to walk in and walk out with as much information as you can carry."
"I can't. That's illegal."
He touched the black sweater again, and she shut up.
She took a breath.
"Where is this place?"
"We'll tell you later."
"How do I get in?"
"You'll find a way. Your husband should know, but he won't tell us."
She bent her head. Illya was all that mattered. These men were criminals. She would help to turn them in later, when she had Illya back. It was only an office she was going to steal from.
She looked up.
"If I help you, you'll let Illya and I go?"
"Yes. If you co-operate."
"Illya is alright. He's not going to die anyway, is he?" her lip trembled.
"He's hurt. He can't help you. But he won't die. Not unless you make his death necessary."
Natasha looked away again.
"Who are you." she asked, hate in her voice.
"You don't know?" he asked incredulously.
She shook her head miserably.
"Have you ever heard of THRUSH?"
"No, " she sulked.
The good-looking man sat back. She was telling the truth. She was so upset and confused now there was no way she could be carrying on an act.
He smirked. "You will, you will, soon."
The nasty man sat forward. "You will be hearing from us. You'd better do as we say or your husband will die."
"I said I would!" she cried.
They got up and left her sobbing to herself in the room. She heard a hissing like steam from a kettle, and felt all numb and tired, so very tired.
Natasha moved slightly. Something hard was pressing into her numb face. As the feeling came back it hurt. She opened her eyes a tiny bit. The light made her temples throb.
She pushed herself groggily away from the floor.
"Illya," she called instinctively. And then she remembered.
She sat huddled in the middle of the ruined room and cried.
Once she'd got the tears of fear and frustration out of her system she started cleaning up. It was eight a.m. the next morning, as far as she could tell.
The chairs, couch and wall paper were destroyed. The floor would have to be replaced. The carpet and wooden furniture could be salvaged though. She tried not to cry. Their brand new home. She'd barely unpacked. Illya had only slept one night here. Now it was all broken up. Destroyed.
She picked up Illya's work papers that had been scattered all over the place. She didn't read them, that would have been wrong, but on one sheet some English letters caught her attention three quarters of the way down the page, U.N.C.L.E., and then a number following. It looked like a phone number. An uncle was a male relative, but these letters were initials, not a word. She wondered over the puzzle for a while, and then picked up more papers. She didn't know what U.N.C.L.E. meant.
Natasha was sitting down to a poor meal alone, wondering how she was going to replace their brand new furniture that sat mutilated around the room.
A pounding at the door frightened her. When she thought of who it must be it frightened her even more.
A man was standing outside the door. She knew why he was there.
He walked straight past her and into the room. He saw her dinner on the table. He sat down on a broken chair and helped himself.
"You haven't made any deliveries yet," he said gruffly.
"I don't know how."
"Think how." He shovelled food into his face.
"What do you want,"
He looked up angrily.
"What do you want me to get," she completed, keeping her voice level.
"Microfilm, " he grunted. "You know what that looks like?" He did not look at her, but continued feeding his grimy face. She did not like this man. He looked like a man who could kill without remorse.
"Yes, I know what microfilm looks like," she spoke confidently.
"Good. Have it here by tomorrow night. Or your husband dies."
"But where do I go," she pleaded.
"A tailor shop in town. Go to the back. You get in there."
She frowned. They were hardly directions, but she didn't dare antagonise this man.
He finished eating. He dropped the plate down on the table and stood up. "You'd better have what we want by tomorrow night. And don't think about getting caught, or we'll kill him anyway." He walked out, leaving Natasha trembling again.
She thought bitterly, trying to fight off tears, but she couldn't think of any other way out.
It was late afternoon. The tailor shop had been easy enough to find. She'd watched it from across the road, and had waited until there was virtually no one in it. Inside, she pretended to wait for someone or something, until the worker turned his back for a minute. She slipped past him and behind the shop. In a back room she found a door set into the wall like a bank vault. The information she needed must be inside. She'd never cracked a safe before. She gripped the handle. The combination could be anything. Frivolously she thought of that phone number she'd seen in Illya's papers. She dialled it, laughing to herself, not thinking of how she was really going to get in.
The door clicked and pushed open. Natasha almost fell through it. It had worked. Beginners luck.
She looked up a long steel corridor. It scared her. It really was an office. She worried about what she was doing, but Illya's ransom must come first. They'd catch them later. She was sure of it.
She strolled down the corridor, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. She knew looking lost and frightened would give herself away. She was sure the men and women she passed could tell anyway. To her they seemed to look through her, not past her.
She found a door with a sign that said Records - Microfilm. She pushed the door open quickly and vanished inside. She fumbled for an electric light switch. It flickered on. Rows of metal shelves holding labelled boxes filled the room, with an occasional light bulb strung between the shelves, so you could just see dimly what you were doing.
She went to the most recent box, carefully extracted a small reel and hid it in her clothing. It was recent. She didn't know what about. They'd have to be satisfied with it. She hoped it would buy Illya's life.
The cruel looking man took the reel she handed out timidly. He held a portion up to the light and grunted approvingly.
"Do I get my husband back now?"
The man smirked.
"Not so fast. Not yet. You've been so helpful we're raising our price."
"That's not fair - you promised!"
He snarled at her and she sat down meekly in the chair again.
"What now?" she asked wearily.
"Files. Policy and Operations files."
She held her head in hands.
"then you will let my husband go, if I get these files for you?"
"We'll see, " he smirked again.
They made her go again and again. Once a week they would come and tell her what they wanted, and then arrive the next night to collect it.
The third night she pleaded that she couldn't go on, that she wanted her husband back. Thrush realised she was growing desperate. On the fourth night they sent a man to go with her.
Natasha dialled the combination and walked into the anonymous office. She never looked at the papers she stole for Thrush. She was more nervous than usual. She knew the man walking behind her carried a gun.
She picked the lock again and gently slid the top drawer of the filing cabinet open. She pulled out a file and replaced it with a dummy file she'd made full of blank paper. She shut the drawer and handed the file to the man from THRUSH.
"Hey, what are you doing there?"
Natasha jumped.
"I'm just taking this file," she said sweetly. She thought quickly. If she could only alert this person, hint to him somehow what was going on, without getting a bullet in her back or her husband.
"Has Chekov cleared you to be in here?"
"I was supposed to take these to him." Take me to him, she pleaded. She wanted it to be all over. if they caught her now they'd have a THRUSH man and eighteen hours to find her husband.
The U.N.C.L.E. agent shrugged. "Go ahead and take them then. Whatever the old man wants. Don't let me stop you."
Natasha almost threw the files in his face. I'm stealing these, can't you see?! she wanted to scream. Instead, the U.N.C.L.E. agent left the room and left her to the THRUSH agent.
Illya blacked out his fair skin, and signalled his men to follow him quietly as they surrounded the electrical goods factory. Johnston beckoned his men to do the same. This was where their collective intelligence had located the THRUSH satrap. It was from here that the computers were being interfered with.
Illya squirmed along the ground, carrying his rifle. The factory was down near the docks, but that way was cut off by silent patrols boats. He glanced at the watch he'd synchronised with Johnston. Simultaneously they signalled their men to move.
Suddenly spotlights all around the factory were switched on and trained at the men. The ground was lit up like day. The men were blinded by the intense glare of the white searchlights. Machine gun fire swept across the field, cutting down the men where they stood stunned like kangaroos.
The grassy field became a terrible death field as men screamed and fell.
Illya ducked and crawled away behind a hillock. He sat there for a second, horrified. His next thought was to his men, but they'd have to fend for themselves. To try and lead an attack now would be senseless. He blew his whistle to sound the retreat.
Men scurried backwards as the searchlights chased after them, some being cut down as they fled. Illya made his own break for the darkness. Bullets sliced into the soft ground beside where he ran, and slapped into the already bullet ridden corpses of his colleagues he kept tripping over. The beam of light swung towards him and he dived to the ground and lay still, playing possum. A line of bullets followed the light, and he rolled under a body for protection. As the light hit he lay perfectly still. It was Johnston, his eyes struck wide with surprise. The light passed away again. Illya got up and ran and made it to the edge of the fields. Out of the range of the beam and the guns. He had no time to be sick. He only had time to curse and worry.
They'd been betrayed. The whole assignment and attack had been anticipated. Somebody kept warning THRUSH each step of the way. Each time they got close, THRUSH had moved away. And now this ambush. Somehow THRUSH had known, someone from inside had told them.
ACT 3 - TRAPPED
U.N.C.L.E. HEADQUARTERS, LENINGRAD.
Kuryakin faced Chekov again. A new agent had come to take Johnston's place. The agent Pavlovec stood up. He glanced briefly Illya, and then made sure the door was secured.
Chekov spoke. "What I say must never leave this room. Kuryakin, you're the only one left who's been in on this since the start who can be totally trusted. So you've got to sit in on this too."
He placed some files on the desk. "So far, THRUSH have been acting in anticipation of every piece of information we've had. They've known our movements before we've made them. Someone on the inside is giving THRUSH information."
"That much was obvious, " interrupted Kuryakin.
Chekov shrugged. He ignored Kuryakin's rudeness.
"What we propose to do, is to feed THRUSH misinformation. Outside this office, we will speak of a totally different strategy. We have to find this break in security before we can move against THRUSH. Anyone found acting upon this misinformation will be immediately arrested. All suspicious actions are to be reported. All communications are to be monitored. We will also chemically treat all current files so that they cannot be taken past certain points without setting off an alarm. So be careful how you handle the files on this case from now onwards. Are there any further questions?"
Illya could think of none.
The knock on the door came when Natasha was asleep. Instantly she felt that sick gnawing feeling in her stomach again. When was it going to stop, she cried to herself.
She walked slowly to the door, like a prisoner shuffling to the gallows. She opened the door quickly. She stared at the man who stood there.
Illya smiled.
Natasha fainted.
Natasha came around slowly. She coughed, and was sick. The nurse held her head down roughly in the basin. She leant back when nothing more would come. She still felt incredibly sick. Oh, God, what had she done. Illya hadn't been taken at all. She cried bitterly. The nurse shook her head; she hadn't expected this sort of behaviour at all.
Illya poked his head around the curtain shyly, like a schoolboy. The nurse had let him have a few minutes with his wife.
"Have they found out what was wrong yet?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, " she looked away. "I'm pregnant."
"Tasha, " he breathed happily. He hugged her. She stiffened; and then she collapsed in his arms, the ordeal too much for her.
Illya took her home and fussed over her like an excited puppy. He didn't notice the new furniture, he'd barely seen the old stuff.
Natasha felt ill and snapped at him. She didn't mean to. She loved him. But she could not get over the incredible guilt of what she had done.
Illya turned out the light, he moved closer to her in the bed.
She did not hold him.
"What's up, Natasha? Aren't you feeling well?"
"I feel - I feel strange, Illya, tired."
"It must be the baby."
"Yes. It must be," she whispered. She held him, her hand running softly along his back. She held back the tears as his lips moved to hers.
She watched him as he stood by the kitchen bench, making tea. She mulled over her own breakfast, uneaten. Illya had been sympathetic. Morning sickness, he explained. Now he was making tea for her. She covered her face. She couldn't tell him. He would not understand. He would never understand.
She pushed the breakfast he had made away from in front of her.
"Illya, what is Thrush?"
He stopped and turned to stare at her.
"Where did you hear that," he asked quietly. His eyes had turned steely blue again.
Natasha shrugged. "I heard someone at work mention them. Are they bad people?"
"Very bad. The worst."
Natasha could tell from the tone of his voice how terrible he thought they were. It chilled her blood. She kept quiet. Anymore questions would arouse her husband's curiosity. She knew him like that.
"You're not eating, " he observed. His voice sounded more like a captain's than a husband's.
"I don't feel hungry." she insisted. She held her head in her hands. "I'm sorry, Illya. I've been worried sick. Where were you? Why were you away? What were you doing?"
Illya leant back against the counter impassively. He spoke quietly. "Tasha, you should know that I cannot tell you that."
"You never even phoned," she hissed. "Its been six weeks. I was out of my mind with worry. You don't know what you put me through."
"No, I don't, " he spoke softly. "But I cannot tell you a thing. I am sorry."
"I know. Orders." She finished his sentence for him, spitefully.
"Tasha, " he murmured, leaning close to her.
"I was so scared, Illya, no word, no phone call, you were gone for so long, I was worried."
He softly dotted her face with kisses. "I wasn't allowed to phone you. I'll try not to be gone so long ever again."
"I worry, I can't help it."
"I will always be with you, I love you." His lips found hers.
They were together again for only three more nights before Illya received a phone call he would not talk about. It was 11.15 p.m. at night, and Natasha knew when he started packing that he had been called away again.
She leant against the door, watching him move swiftly as he folded some clothes and a few mysterious packages and folders into a suitcase.
"How long will you be gone this time?"
"I don't know." He snapped shut the suitcase and stood up. "I have to go, Tasha." He walked past her, an officer first.
She watched him go out the door.
You wouldn't care if Thrush were after me, she cried bitterly under her breath.
Thrush. The name had shaken Illya. They were bad. Really bad. They must have something to do with this secret operation Illya was working on. Perhaps Illya was working against Thrush. She would help him.
Thrush had lied to her. She knew they were evil. She now knew there was something more to this than simple industrial espionage. Something much more. Whatever it was, she would stop it. Thrush didn't have a hold on her anymore. They never had her husband. Natasha was determined. She would turn the tables on Thrush and set them up. Then and only then would she have her husband back.
Natasha waited. Two whole nights alone she sat and waited. Had they found out about Illya's visit home, she worried.
Then at last it came. The knock at the door. And the man from Thrush standing there.
She invited him inside. She tried to act frightened as she usually was, but inside she felt confident. She knew what she had to do. She held her head high.
"Files, section one and section two, " the man grunted.
"Yes, " she nodded demurely.
She would get the files for them. But when they came to collect them, her husband would be there with her, to arrest them.
Natasha dialled the access code and the steel door slid open. She went straight for the files room. At this time of night, the room was empty; the day time filing staff having gone home. The fluorescent light overhead flickered on.
She took the long specially shaped hairpin from her hair and quietly unpicked the lock to the first gunmetal grey filing cabinet. She silently slid the heavy metal drawer out. She flicked through the files. She was careful never to take too much. She only ever took a random file, hoping it would not be missed. She drew out the dummy files from under her blouse and slipped them into place. She pressed the real files against her skin, and rebuttoned her blouse, tucking it into her shirt. She had taken three this time, so Thrush would be well and truly baited and caught.
She shut the drawer and locked it. She smoothed down her hair and moved to the exit.
Sirens screamed out from everywhere. Lights flashed and changed colour and froze her to the spot. Men appeared from nowhere, guns drawn on her. They surrounded her and pressed her, terrified, back against the wall.
ACT 4 - BETRAYED
Illya walked along the corridor to the head of Section One's office. He was tired, and it showed. He was mildly surprised to find Pavlovec standing by the filing cabinet. Chekov was absent.
"You asked to see me?"
"Yes, Captain. We've found our Thrush infiltrator. Caught red handed by our security guards trying to replace our treated files with non-treated false documents. We caught Thrush out at last. She must have been a real professional, had no identification on her at all. We don't know who she is."
"She?"
"Surprised it was a woman?"
Kuryakin shrugged.
"We still don't know how she got past our security. Somehow she must have found out our access code and used it. We still can't figure out how she got hold of the access code. We suspect there maybe more Thrush agents in our midst. Do you realise the sort of security breach that would entail?"
"Yes. You would have to change all the codes, move operations and personnel..."
"Yes, quite, Kuryakin. We've started to run a check on all our personnel. Fortunately you check out."
Illya raised an eyebrow in surprise, and then realised he would be under suspicion, one of the newest recruits.
Pavlovec put down the file he was holding.
"We've got her down in interrogation now. She won't talk. Like I said, real professional. We haven't even got her name or anything. I thought you might like to see the person responsible for your men's death. You can have a go at interrogating her if you like."
Illya shrugged again. He followed Pavlovec out of the office and along the steel walled corridor to the interrogation cells. It was a secure area; only Sections One and Two had access.
"I'd better warn you, she's a bit messed up. One of our interrogation officers got a bit heavy handed. His brother had died in that ambush. We've removed him now. We've no place for excessive violence in our organisation. But I just thought I'd better warn you, her being a woman and all."
Illya smiled. "I'm not squeamish about such things. I'm used to a bit of blood. And her sex is no excuse for what she has done."
Pavlovec was silent.
They reached the cell she was kept in. The door slid open. It was a cold grey concrete room. Pavlovec ushered Illya inside, and turned him to where she sat.
Illya saw her.
Their eyes met. Natasha's terrified look snapped across the room and struck him, rocking him to the very core.
Illya turned completely white. His heart felt like it had stopped beating. He started sweating. He didn't feel like he could stand up for much longer. Illya was sure the room was changing colours. He couldn't accept it; it was too horrific to accept.
Illya turned and asked Pavlovec if she was the one, although he knew it was true. Illya could not understand.
Pavlovec answered in the affirmative, oblivious to what was happening. Illya's shock was private.
Illya and Natasha were lost in each other's looks. Time was lost to them. She looked at him with the same innocent beauty she had always had. He couldn't believe her, now or ever. Every moment of truth, every moment of beauty and love had been a lie. Illya was shattered. The first time he had ever truly loved or belonged; it had been a lie. Now the bitter truth was wrenched from him like a cold and gaping wound. He shivered. He felt like a man dashed upon the rocks at the bottom of a cliff, about to be washed away in a tumultuous sea. It hurt. There was a horrific look on his face.
Natasha was shaking and terrified, her face red and puffed from the beating. She looked so helpless.
Illya made a move towards her, to hold her, to soothe her, to tell her everything was going to be alright. He stopped. With a sharp pain he realised everything was not alright. She was the one. She was the traitor. The one who had sold them out to Thrush. He could barely think of what she had done.
Pavlovec spoke. "Okay, Kuryakin, we can go now. I just wanted you to see who it was."
Illya snapped awake from his trance. The bond between he and Natasha broke. They were now two separate people. Apart and distant. Illya felt totally alone once more.
He broke every tangency with her and turned to walk towards the door. Natasha went hysterical. She screamed his name, "Illya!" just once. the effect was electric. Everyone turned around and stared at Illya. They spontaneously realised who she was.
Illya went from stone cold white to deep red. Agents stared from him to her. He turned to Natasha, and caught her eye. She was hysterical; screaming, crying, straining against the man who held her.
Illya's emotions were tearing him apart inside. He caught a sob in his throat. He turned away from her and walked towards the door.
Natasha screamed his name again. She broke from the man who held her and ran towards her husband. An U.N.C.L.E. agent grabbed her and tripped her up.
Illya heard her fall heavily to the ground behind him, but he would not turn around. She cried in pain. The cry stabbed deep into him. He could feel the eyes of every U.N.C.L.E. agent boring into him. He wanted to turn around, turn around and hold her. But he couldn't, he just couldn't. She had betrayed him.
Natasha was half lying on the ground, crumpled in a heap in pain, screaming. He could hear. She cried his name, over and over again, begging for him, begging for his forgiveness. But he couldn't turn around.
U.N.C.L.E. agents glanced at each other. They could not believe what was happening. Illya was conscious of their actions, and painfully aware of Natasha's. He couldn't bear it.
He passed through the door. Illya kept on walking down the corridor in even steps. Pavlovec walked beside him, without saying anything.
Illya heard his name cried out twice more. The steel door slammed shut. The metal resonance cut off Natasha mid- scream; he heard her no more. All he could hear was his heartbeat and their footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.
Natasha turned around in the chair. "Please, I've told you everything I know. I want to see my husband, " she begged.
Pavlovec looked away. How could he tell her that her own husband refused to see her, to hear of her. He patted her on the shoulder.
"I'll see what I can do, " he lied sympathetically.
"where is Illya?" she asked.
"He's been busy." answered Pavlovec.
Even in ingenuine words were seized upon by the girl as hope.
He locked the cell behind him and left her. He could not bear to hear her pleading, when he knew it was hopeless. He could not understand Kuryakin's cruelty. He could not understand Kuryakin's feelings of deep disgrace and terrible betrayal.
Illya sat uneasily in the hard wooden chair. His arms were folded, his face sullen, his skinny legs were stretched out in front of him.
He did not look up at either of them. Admiral Rostov and Pavlovec both watched the young man with sympathy.
Illya was more than thin now, he was gaunt. There were dark hollows under his high cheek bones. His skin was pale. His eyes were dull with dark swollen patches underneath. His hair was matted. He was unshaven. It was obvious the boy had not slept or eaten for days. He had reported in sick every day since they had had his wife in interrogation.
"Illya, your wife co-operated. She said..." Pavlovec began gently.
"I don't want to know!" Illya spat. He continued staring angrily down.
Rostov shook his head. The boy was punishing himself. What could a twenty-two year old know about life.
Pavlovec persevered. "Illya, don't you think it would be best if you heard what Natasha - "
"No!"
"Illya,"
"I never want to hear her name again! She betrayed me and my country. She disgraced me." He fell into silence again.
Rostov sighed. The boy was too proud and duty bound. He was too much like his father. The girl had totally exonerated him, Kuryakin had no part in this. She had pleaded his innocence over and over. She had done it because she loved him. But Kuryakin did not want to know.
Pavlovec was squirming over Kuryakin's coldness, almost cruelty. Emotional detachment was a useful virtue in an intelligence officer, but it was not a pleasant human characteristic. Kuryakin's refusal to see his wife struck him as cruel. He was beginning to dislike this young man, who sat before them, un caring, lost in self pity and hate.
Illya shifted again on the chair.
Rostov picked up the form in front of him.
"You have requested a discharge from the Navy. Why?"
Illya would not answer.
"Your request is denied.
Illya looked up. His eyes narrowed and hardened. His jaw set itself.
Rostov smiled to himself. Some reaction at last.
"Instead you are to be transferred permanently to the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. The transfer is effective immediately. You will leave at 2100 hours this night to complete their training programme, from there you will be assigned to U.N.C.L.E. North American headquarters, New York."
"North America?"
"Yes. We are obliged to make recruits available to U.N.C.L.E. wherever they are required. I read on your file that you speak English fluently. Your maternal grandmother is British, i believe." Rostov checked down the file. "Elizabeth Mackellar. Born in Scotland. Employed as a governess. Married Peter Barinoff, Captain in the Imperial Russian Navy, in Portsmouth, Britain, in 1908. Followed her husband back to Russia.. U.N.C.L.E. have to check out their operatives thoroughly you see."
Illya sat there, unmoving. He showed no emotion or reaction at all.
Pavlovec sighed. "I thought you might have appreciated the transfer. No one will know what happened here."
"yes, Sir, " he said automatically. "Am I dismissed, Sir?" He spat the 'sir'.
"Yes. we will organise your papers for you. Do try and tidy up before you leave. " Said Rostov.
Illya stopped slouching and stood up. He clicked his heels and saluted.
"Yes, Sir!" he snapped He turned and stalked out of the room.
"Cold bastard." muttered Pavlovec, shuffling his files on Kuryakin back into order.
"The boy is in Hell. Couldn't you see his face."
Yes. Pavlovec had seen Illya's face. The look in his eyes would haunt him for a long while. It was a horrible look. He had only seen such hate and self destruction in the eyes of the psychotically insane, the pathological killers. He hoped he was not sending U.N.C.L.E. a psychotic killer. But there was nothing in Kuryakin's psychological file to suggest that.
Rostov too mused over Illya. The poor boy was in shock. Her wad acting out of pain and fear. Rostov was sure Illya would recover eventually. He had seen the relief in the boy's face over the transfer to North America. He knew it was what Illya needed. they were moving him out tonight, but he suspected immediately was not soon enough for Kuryakin.
Illya packed the few belongings he wanted to take with him into an old battered suitcase. He left his dark and empty house without looking back.
He sat alone on the plane, staring out of the window as the night lights of the Soviet union fell away into darkness.
The metal lock on the door rattled open. Natasha looked up at the guard. she had not seen him before.
"I've come to take you to your husband, " he said.
"Illya!" she cried. she got up and ran to the door delightedly; she never saw the gun that fired two bullets into her heart.
The guard threw down the gun and shut the door on the dead girl, still smiling as she lay lifeless on the concrete floor. The gun had the black and white insignia of a bird on its butt.
Napoleon leant over his friend. "Illya, Illya, can you hear me?"
Illya groaned something incomprehensible.
Napoleon soldiered on.
"Illya, Natasha is dead."
He had heard. Illya opened his eyes. They narrowed. His brow furrowed in that ever familiar frown of his.
"Is it true, Napoleon?" he asked quietly.
"yes, she died in 1956. Its all in the file here. She told U.N.C.L.E. everything. Thrush had threatened to kill you unless she worked for them. She would have never betrayed you. Thrush infiltrated the interrogation block and murdered her. I'm sorry, Illya, " he added.
"So am I. I did not know she was dead. So Thrush did kill her. It was my fault.:" He sighed, and continued staring at the ceiling. Hr had not looked at Napoleon once.
Illya breathed deeply and lay there, blinking back the tears.
"How did she die, Napoleon?" he asked calmly.
"Two bullets, straight through the heart. Thrush even left the gun there. She never knew."
"Good." Illya blinked. He continued staring at the ceiling. "My child is also dead. Sometimes I liked to imagine he or she growing up, that I might have seen my child one day - it was not to be."
Illya's voice was so controlled. Napoleon could see the look in his eyes though, the set of his jaw. This proud Russian would never admit he was wrong or the failings of emotion. He refused to show his grief, even to Napoleon.
"I understand, Illya, " Napoleon tried to be gentle.
"Do you?" accused Illya, defending himself with self pity.
"Yes," said Napoleon quietly, his usually bright brown eyes clouding over. "I lost my wife too."
"how long were you married."
"A year."
The two men fell silent again. It was not the sort of thing you could comfort each other about. But at least they had an understanding.
Illya was given sick leave, and he used that time to visit his homeland.
He stood in front of her grave, all alone. Behind his dark glasses his blue eyes were incredibly sad. She had loved him, after all. He knelt and placed a single red rose carefully on her grave. He then took a sharp knife out of his pocket and started to carve the Russian words for 'beloved wife' on the top of the headstone.