THE CHANGE OF HEART AFFAIR
ACT 1 Heart-Broken?
The alarm came in over channel A, a strictly-business line that never degenerated into the informal chatter that sometimes brooked the discipline of channel D.
"Solo here."
"Mr. Solo, this is Benson Mycroft." Solo recognized the starched voice of Waverly's "gentleman's gentleman. "There's been-well-the nature of an emergency here."
"Spit it out!" Solo insisted impatiently.
"It's Sir," Mycroft employed the honorarium that he always accorded to Waverly. "I found Sir unconscious across his desk."
Solo sprang into his shoes. "Status!" he snapped, pulling his jacket back on.
"Well, he's been transferred to Mercy Medical, where the Young Sir serves on staff..."
"How long ago? Is there a security breach?"
"It appears to be natural causes, Mr. Solo." He was obviously waiting for orders.
"Follow procedure. Relay ops and policy through London for now. Pile the routine stuff on my desk and I'll plow through it later. I'm headed to the hospital and I'll update you as soon as possible." He clicked off the connection and hopped into his car. Once belted, he drove with one arm and beeped his partner with the other.
"Illya-"
"Here."
"Waverly's down. He's at M & M-"
"I know. I am circumnavigating the hospital for a parking spot as we speak."
"How-?" Solo bristled. "Blast that Mycroft. Procedure is to call me first."
"Calm down, Number One. Your status is secure. I'm certain old Mycroft followed the rules." He hesitated. "The family called me."
Solo was surprised but did not pursue it.
ACT 2 "I'm telling Mother…"
Solo arrived in time to glimpse a slender pixie run toward his partner and embrace him. "Hey, Little Brother," she greeted him with some relief. Illya held her close and pecked her on both cheeks. Then he playfully flipped the silver-streaked fringe on her shoulder.
"You've cut your hair."
"You haven't."
Solo mined his memory for information on the Waverlys' wild child. Prudence was a surprise package, born late into the marriage. She acquired the soubriquet Pampered Prue during her studies abroad. It was rumored she was the inspiration for the Beatles' tune, "Dear Prudence."
"Prue, dear, this is Napoleon Solo, my partner and a business associate of your father's. Napoleon, Miss Prudence Waverly."
"Thank you for coming," she clasped Solo's hand.
"How are they?" Illya inquired.
"Father's resting uncomfortably. They don't want to do any tests until he's stabilized. Mother's beside him, of course. She needs a couple hours sleep and a stiff drink, but she won't get either here. Maybe you could convince her to let me take her home?" She appealed to the blond.
"You Waverlys and your difficult assignments," Kuryakin shook his head, but gave her a comforting smile. "I'll do my best, " he promised. He settled his hands on her shoulders and directed her to an ugly orange, split-vinyl couch. "Why don't you sit and breathe for a while," he suggested. "Mr. Solo can keep you company and fetch you dreadful coffee and I'll speak to Miss Ellie."
Napoleon had always wondered about the relationship between his partner and the Waverlys. Illya had always respected the Old Man, but he had a true reverence for Mrs. Waverly, referring to her as Miss Ellie, the only agent to do so. He explained that the Waverlys had been very gracious to him when he arrived in the States, but now it appeared to be more...
"I'm so glad you could come," Prue said to Illya, fighting tears of stress and exhaustion. "I really needed to see you-" her hands lingered in his. She swiped at a tear and tried to lighten the tension. "How come you don't come to Sunday supper any more?"
"I've been working." She pinned him with skeptical eyes. "Besides, you always attempt to serve me up as dessert to your hungry spinster friends," he pretended to grump.
"That's what little brothers are for," she teased.
"Tsk, tsk. Flirting with the Boss's daughter. How bourgeois," Solo shook his head disapprovingly.
"Napoleon, this is merely a sibling squabble. If you're feeling insecure about your position, there's always another Waverly child you can charm."
Solo stiffened. "Dr. Dennis Waverly is not my type."
"I'm going to tell Mother-on both of you," Kuryakin threatened, and started down the hall./
Illya entered the room. Waverly's face was gray, his eyes closed. An IV held one hand, and Ellen Waverly held the other. "Belle-mere," he called quietly across the twilight. He knelt before her, taking the knot of their hands and kissed them gently.
"Oh, Illya," she petted his head tenderly. Worry lines and shadows smoothed out when she saw him.
"Prue would like you to go home with her and get some rest."
"Dennis is flying back-" her son was attending a cardiologist's conference in San Diego.
"I know, but he won't get in 'til morning. Please. I'll stay, and call you if he stirs. I promise."
She concentrated her deep violet eyes on him. "I've never really forgiven him for recruiting you."
"I know, Belle-mere. But it's worked out." Although there were plenty of volunteers, only Ellen Gardiner Waverly had permission to mother him./
"So, how did the young Commie fit into your family?" Napoleon asked curiously.
"He was an exchange student," Prue explained. "He finished state school early, and was too young for University. The authorities wanted to put him into the military, teach him some discipline-you've probably heard the stories. He was pretty wild in a place where rebellion wasn't welcome. But again, too young. So they decided to have him study the U.S. educational system, a typical public high school. And my father was in the diplomatic corps, and knew people, and, well, you know..." she shrugged. "It was a cultural/educational/diplomatic sorta thing. He spent a year with us until their Navy claimed him."
"And you were willing to share your family life with the Red Menace?"
Prue grinned. "Are you kidding? He was gorgeous! And mysterious…a wild Russian ragamuffin. Like any red-blooded, 16 year old American girl, I took him to school for Show and Tell. Of course, my school was in Boston: St. Isabelle's Academy for Young Ladies. Father and Mother were a bit miffed at my prank, and poor Illya still refers to it as his first harrowing escape."
ACT 3 Heart trouble
The young Kuryakin's Soviet handlers had prepared him for the corrupting materialistic opulence he would encounter in the West. But nothing could have inoculated him against the traditional family values of the Waverly home. They were not demonstrative folks; but a warm smile, a kind word, an encouraging pat displayed their affection and pride in each other.
When this unprecedented behavior was manifested towards him, the teen was at a loss as to how to respond. He only knew it touched him in some deep and empty place, and he hungered for more.
On his first evening with them, he marched into the parlor and stood at attention, reporting that he was prepared for inspection. The baffled Waverlys exchanged glances. "You expect us to inspect your room, Illya?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Well, Dear, while you're with us, that room is yours. You're expected to keep it tidy so as not to create more work for the staff, but within that limit, it's your room, for study and sleep and reading and music and dreams...we will knock and seek your permission before we enter."
He was confused. "This is an American custom?"
"Yes."
"And my correspondence. You do not wish to review it before it is mailed?"
"Not unless you wish us to check your grammar," Alexander Waverly offered.
"Eh, Sir...the library.." he began tentatively. His eyes had marveled at the riches of walls and walls of books. Volumes forbidden in his school. And a wall safe.
"Certainly, Mr. Kuryakin, avail yourself. Perhaps, if some particular work tickles your intellectual fancy, we could have an exchange of ideas."
His opinion? Valued? It was a heady notion. And access to that wall safe, a file cabinet, the desk...This was going to be a lot easier than he or his masters had anticipated. How could these well-positioned people be so naive?
"Do you play chess, Mr. Kuryakin?" the gentleman asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"Excellent. I shall look forward to a match soon. Good night."
"I bid you good evening, Sir, Madame," he made a small bow and excused himself.
Ellie Waverly made it a habit to have tea and pastries served just as Illya was expected home from school. The aroma would draw him warily into the parlor where she waited, smiling, asking gentle, general questions about his day. At first he regarded it as a daily interrogation and responded evasively. But he began to bloom under the personal attention. Eventually he found himself shyly sharing with her his dreams, hopes, frustrations, questions.
He was concentrating on the clicks of his miniature camera, so when she entered the library he never heard her.
"Illya."
His own name snapped him like a whip. Like a trapped animal he crouched, swung around, frantic for escape. She had the only exit blocked, resolutely.
"Oh, Illya..." she said, with such infinite sadness he thought his heart would rip in two for disappointing her. He glared at her, with a mix of fear, defiance and shame.
"How often are you expected to report?"
He hung his head and mumbled. "Each two weeks."
"I see. And have they found your work to be satisfactory so far?"
"Always they push for more," he said, frustrated. He betrayed these people who had gifted him with their trust. He wanted to die.
"I will consult with Mr. Waverly tonight."
He tried to push past her so she would not see the hot tears forming. "I go now to pack," he said gruffly.
"No, Illya," she said firmly. She wrapped her arms around the lost lamb and settled a kiss on his crown. "We are not as naive as you think, my dear. We shall work something out. We do not wish you to leave us."
Great heart-wracking sobs filled her arms. He convulsed so, that his shoulders shot with stabbing pain and his back ached for hours afterward. He cried for all his 16 years of history, with the tears that had long since been beaten and starved out of him. He cried for his missing parents, his dead grandparents, the cruelty and regimentation of the orphanage and the state schools. He wept and she held him and murmured those wondrous, wordless syllables of comfort into his soul.
ACT 4 Terror in Tarrytown
The hospital room was gray, even as dawn rose.
"Mr. Kuryakin..."
"Yes, Sir," Illya rubbed his face alert.
The old man's rusty eyes roamed the room, methodically assessing his own condition, his surroundings, and his companion. "Ellen?"
"Prue took her home. Shall I ring up?" he reached for the phone.
"No, no. I've been getting all the rest and attention here. Let's give the ladies a measure of peace, shall we?" The old man's hands never shook as he accepted the cup of water Kuryakin offered. The younger man believed that Waverly would never have woken up in front of anyone until he was prepared to present them with an image of strength and wisdom. "Good woman, my Ellen."
"Yes, Sir."
"The right woman." He leaned forward to confide in the younger agent. "The right woman can be a source of strength, as well as stress-Policy be damned." He rested back against the pillow. "We've worked through a lot over the years, but I think you are the only thing she has never forgiven me for, recruiting you." He paused to take a deep breath and dug through the nightstand drawer for his pipe.
Kuryakin watched with growing alarm and finally reached across and retrieved the stem from his superior's fingers. "Sir, my advanced degree is not in chemistry, but I believe I am qualified to caution you against lighting a pipe in a room with oxygen."
"Oh. Yes, of course. Quite right. Bloody habit, that. A prop, really," Waverly confessed. "I still believe I was right. Right to help you manufacture reports that kept your masters happy and built your reputation for your eventual return home. Right to negotiate with the Soviets for your services when the opportunity arose. As for putting you in harm's way...was that right? I cannot dwell on that and continue to be effective. You understand, Illya."
"It's worked out, Sir," he assured the old gentleman.
"You are equipped to establish yourself effectively in less lethal endeavors," Waverly reminded.
"But Sir," Kuryakin protested with a straight face, " in just two more years I'll be fully vested in the network profit sharing plan."
His chief raised a bushy eyebrow. "Indeed." He harrumphed. "Prudence asks after you."
"Ah," the blond nodded, discomfited. "Yes, well, since she's working in Tarrytown and I so seldom have any assignments there-" then he tightened his lips. Illya had a chilling vision of himself promoted to a suddenly-created post of Tarrytown station chief, if he were not very, very careful.
"She's home for Sunday supper once a month. I'm certain Ellen would be delighted if you dropped by."
"Yes, Sir." Sharp old fox; issuing orders from a hospital bed with absolute expectation of obedience. Illya suppressed a smile. What a singular man his superior was. And according to the medical chart (of course he'd sneaked a peek- what good was all that spy training if not to utilize to one's advantage?) and a clandestine consultation with Dr. Dennis Waverly when he arrived, Illya would be working in Waverly's world for a long, long, time.
finis