A/N: Time for another multichapter fic, I think. Hope you like.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Man from UNCLE related.
It was late; Illya didn't think there was anyone left in this part of headquarters except him and his fish, and if he had his way he'd already be home and asleep. He looked at the stacks of paperwork piled across his desk and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Oh, he was most definitely getting a headache, and the words were beginning to swim in front of his eyes.
Expense claims and mission reports needing signed off, recertification requests and vacation times needing scheduled and approved, various memos from other sections and agencies...Napoleon was on vacation for two weeks and had seemingly decided that meant that all the paperwork he'd deemed not-technically-urgent could be left for his partner and second-in-command to take care of in his absence. Illya suspected he must have stopped doing any paperwork at all at least a week before he left...although if he was of a charitable mind he might conclude that since they were in Paraguay for that week, Napoleon probably hadn't had much of a chance to do anything else. However, since he was here at a quarter to midnight, signing off a request for three new sniper rifles, being forgiving was not uppermost in his mind. He intended to have words the moment Napoleon got back, and none of them were going to be particularly repeatable. At least he knew now why his expenses from last month hadn't gone through – he'd found them buried deep in one of the very first piles he'd worked through.
Possibly mere words weren't going to be enough here.
Sighing again, he stood and absently shook some food into the fish tank, watching the guppies swim up and gulp at it eagerly. "How I envy you," he said aloud. "Food appears from the sky and no one expects you to pay for it, nor sign an expense claim and produce receipts three weeks later."
He smiled wryly to himself. Probably the fact he was talking to the fish meant that he should consider heading home. Or maybe at this stage he should be hoping for a nice long assignment to take him out of headquarters until Napoleon got back.
Right on cue the intercom on his desk sounded.
Surprising. He hurried over to answer it. "Kuryakin here," he said.
"Mr Kuryakin, Mr Waverly would like to see you in his office right away." He recognised the voice of Nicola Golding, though something sounded off about her and he couldn't quite put his finger on what.
"Of course, I'll be right there," he said smoothly. Apparently he wasn't the only one working late tonight. Something significant must be going on.
Nicola was waiting outside Mr Waverly's office and he took note of the dark circles beneath her eyes with a frown. "Is everything alright, Nicola?" he asked with concern.
"Oh, yes, Mr Kuryakin," she said with a bright smile. "You can go on in now."
Of course. He did so, and Mr Waverly looked up from the report he was reading. "Ah, Mr Kuryakin, there you are," he said, for all the world as if Illya had taken hours to get there rather than a few moments. "Mrs Golding, perhaps you would fetch us some brandy?"
Brandy? Immediately he was on alert. He had never been invited into the Old Man's office and offered refreshments before. Something was wrong.
"Please take a seat, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly added calmly.
"Yes sir," he said and sat in awkward silence while Mr Waverly continued to study his report, until Nicola returned with a decanter of brandy and a couple of glasses which she poured for both of them.
"Thank you," he said carefully.
"Yes, thank you, Mrs Golding," Mr Waverly said. "That will be all. Please close the door behind you." Illya watched as he took a sip of brandy once the door was closed. "A very nice girl and a very competent secretary who is, sadly, working for THRUSH."
"Sir?" Alarmed, Illya gazed at the brandy. Were they really letting double agents run around headquarters now?
Mr Waverly caught his look and snorted slightly. "Oh, I don't think we need to worry about poison. Her role is to pass on information without being detected – and not of her own free will either, I might add."
"I see," Illya said slowly. "So we are using her to pass on false information and attempt to find her THRUSH handlers?"
Mr Waverly gazed at him. "Something like that," he said. "Tell me, do you know what the Hidden Bottle Affair, the False Candidate Affair and the Deep Winter Affair have in common?"
His mind raced. He had no idea what this could possibly have to do with Nicola Golding. And on the face of it, the affairs had nothing in common that he could think of, although they were all fairly recent. "The Deep Winter Affair was a plot to destroy a nuclear reactor," he said slowly. "Napoleon and I were the agents assigned. Simon Delacroix was the head of the satrap – he is now deceased. The Empty Bottle Affair involved the theft of certain experimental viruses from a lab in Boston. Mr Corwin was the lead agent, and the plot was orchestrated by Douglas Manning, who is now in prison. The False Candidate Affair was an attempt to replace the leading candidate for the senate race in Illinois with a THRUSH double. It was foiled by Miss Dancer and Mr Slate, and was led by Angelique Le Chien who unfortunately escaped, although not until after Miss Dancer broke her nose with what was, by all accounts, an excellent right hook." He spoke with a certain satisfaction – he had bought all April's drinks for an entire evening because of that, something which had made Napoleon decidedly unhappy with him. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I don't see the connection."
"Indeed," Mr Waverly raised an eyebrow. "All three plots required either an inside man or a large amount of inside information. And that was not achieved by the THRUSH satrap directly involved in the affair."
Ah. Now he began to understand. "Another satrap supporting the others through acquiring this inside knowledge," he said. "And they are also the ones to turn Mrs Golding – do we know their methods?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Mr Waverly said. "It seems that they are targeting the families of their victims – children and grandchildren in particular. We haven't discovered the exact details but we do know the children vanish for a week or so under some pretext, and then return apparently as normal."
"But the parents are then creatures of THRUSH," Illya said slowly. He knew Nicola had a young son – she'd been showing around photos taken at his sixth birthday party a couple of months back. He remembered the bright, gap-toothed smile the boy had been wearing, and he shuddered to think of a child like that being used by THRUSH. "Sir, your family - "
" - I've already thought of that," Mr Waverly assured him. "They've been moved to a safe house in Europe for the time being. Alice is most put-out, but she will forgive me in time."
That was something at least. The consequences of Mr Waverly being compromised in such a manner did not bear thinking about. "Do we know how many victims there have been?" Illya asked.
"No," Mr Waverly told him. "I suspect from information that's leaked out that Mrs Golding is not the only one within headquarters, but other than that, I can't say. Nor do we know how many children might be still missing, or where they might be being held, or what exactly is being done to them to compel their parents to act. It will be your job to answer these questions and put a stop to this scheme."
He nodded; he'd surmised as much. "Do I have a place to start?" he asked.
"All we know is that the leader is a man named Rex, and they have their base right here in New York," Mr Waverly said.
He paused. "It's not going to be easy to investigate without risking the children," he said carefully. "Particularly when we do not know what information may be leaking our, or who we can trust."
"No," Mr Waverly agreed. "Indeed, I believe the only way to dismantle this operation is from the inside."
Oh. He didn't normally make a habit of questioning Mr Waverly's orders, but he wondered just how successful he could hope to be, going undercover when there was a leak within headquarters. "Isn't there a chance they will be told who I am?"
"Almost certainly," Mr Waverly said off-handedly. "But I've considered that. Here – take a look." He placed a piece of paper on the table and spun it round to where Illya was sitting.
He looked down. There, in official black-and-white was an order removing him from his position in UNCLE and compelling his return to the USSR for debriefing and reassignment.
There was ice in his blood and no air in his lungs.
"Well?" Mr Waverly asked, over the blood pounding through his head. "What do you say to that?"
He didn't look up. "I go where I am sent and do as I am told," he said woodenly.
Mr Waverly snorted. "Oh no you don't," he said tartly. "That's part of what makes you an effective agent. One that I do not have the slightest intention of giving up so easily. I promise you, Mr Kuryakin. I am not going to initiate anything with your government I cannot easily undo."
"Then what..." he began, but as the cold shock wore off, he saw it. "You think THRUSH might believe that I would be willing to join them to avert this," he said. "In effect, you wish me to go undercover as myself."
"Very well put, Mr Kuryakin,," Mr Waverly agreed. "Yes, they would be unlikely to believe that a Section II would turn for money or personal power."
But this...yes. He thought he could sell this. Absently, he drank the brandy. "It is going to look as though I have defected," he said. He would have the KGB and the FBI after him.
"Unfortunately, that can't be helped," Mr Waverly said, a hint of sympathy showing through in his voice. "It is necessary to create the deception." He paused. "Additionally, no one within headquarters must know of your mission."
No one...
"Anyone could be a victim of this satrap," Mr Waverly pointed out.
And so everyone he knew must believe him a traitor. He took a deep breath. "Very well, sir, however I must point out that Napoleon is due back from vacation at the end of next week."
Mr Waverly regarded him with heavy curiosity. "Do you think he could be persuaded that you had joined THRUSH voluntarily?"
He was compelled to answer truthfully. "No. He is more likely to assume I have been compromised in some way and attempt to rescue me."
"With disastrous results for the mission," Mr Waverly agreed with a slight undercurrent of irritation. Once again their personal loyalty was getting in the way of operations. "Very well, I will tell him when he returns. By that time, hopefully you will be be embedded within the satrap."
Yes. Which would at least spare him Napoleon's reaction to all this. This was exactly the sort of assignment that Napoleon despised.
And he couldn't help but think of all the reasons why. "Sir, as a member of THRUSH it's likely I will be expected to take part in activities that are...morally suspect," he said carefully.
"You must use your own judgement, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly said immediately. "You know better than anyone what lines can be crossed."
Oh, yes. He had prior experience. Блин, he hated this. He absolutely hated this.
"Very well, sir," he said with a crisp nod. "I assume this meeting tonight was supposed to be you breaking the news? I will make sure I am especially difficult to deal with over the next few days." He stood up to leave. "I apologise in advance for anything unpleasant I may say about you, sir."
"Likewise, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly agreed. "Now, go. And good luck."
Nicola Golding was still outside when he left. He hid his sympathies and paid her no attention but let the ice and fury show on his face, marching through the communications section so at least a few others would see him. He might as well let the gossip spread.
The next day Illya came into work an hour late, unshaven, wearing dark glasses and with every appearance of a hangover. Truthfully, he'd spent the night nursing a single glass of vodka and trying to come up with any kind of plan that would let him infiltrate THRUSH...and get out again alive. But he thought that having received news of his return to Moscow, getting paralytically drunk would seem a likely thing for him to do in his unhappiness. After all; it was what he wanted to do.
Suzanne was on the front desk and she gazed at him with evident concern. "Good morning, Mr Kuryakin," she said. "Is everything alright?"
He just grunted in response. She wasn't married, but she had a teenage cousin that she spoke about all the time. It was strange to consider that anyone here might be a traitor. He took his badge, walking towards his office and pretending to be oblivious to the whispers.
"Kuryakin looks rough this morning, doesn't he?"
"He was late too...that's not like him. Do you think he's alright? Someone should ask."
"Bridget told me he was called into Mr Waverly's office late last night for brandies."
"Maybe he was giving him bad news from home. I hope his family is alright."
"He doesn't have any family, I've read his file, remember?"
"Well, something must be wrong."
The office door slammed shut behind him. Typical. When he'd first arrived here, everyone had been full of suspicions, certain that he was going to turn out to be a traitor. Now when he wanted them to look at him with suspicion, all he was hearing was concern.
Were Napoleon here, he'd probably remind him that should be a good thing...and Illya really wished Napoleon was here. There was almost certainly going to be a lot of people trying to kill him over the next few weeks; having his partner there to watch his back would make him feel a thousand times better. Not to mention that Napoleon was the strategist, not him, and he could really do with a brilliant plan right about now. The temptation to call Napoleon last night had been competing with the urge to get drunk, and he'd known that both were equally counter-productive. For one thing, he couldn't be sure that the relays were not being monitored. In these circumstances, he intended to assume all communication channels were compromised until proven otherwise. And for another, he had no doubt that Napoleon would indeed abandon his vacation and come straight back to New York to watch Illya's back...and that was precisely what Mr Waverly didn't want.
If he was to join THRUSH he had to appear entirely alone and isolated.
Joining THRUSH. The thought left a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. The truth was, as little as he wished to be sent back home, particularly in the air of disgrace that being dismissed from UNCLE implied, joining THRUSH was never, ever going to be a solution. So what he had to do was present a version of himself where that would be the answer – angry, bitter and desperate to survive. A mask he could conceal himself beneath, and he tried not to consider that the anger at least wasn't so much of a reach.
He hated feeling like his life was nothing more than a chess piece to be toyed with at another's whim. And he hated knowing that Mr Waverly had chosen him for this assignment not because he was the best, or the most suited, but simply because he was the one who would most easily be believed a traitor.
There was a knock at the door and a second later, Mark Slate opened it and stuck his head round. "Morning!" he said with the sort of brightness that would probably irritate Illya even on a good day. "You interested in that rematch you promised me? I got time booked in the gym."
Oh, yes, their sparring match from last week. Mark had been working on incorporating more ju -jitsu into his fighting style; he'd wanted the practice. "I'm not in the mood, Mark," he said coldly, adjusting the piles of papers on his desk.
"Because Napoleon left you holding the fort?" Mark guessed. "C'mon, mate, if you spend the whole week trying to get caught up on his paperwork, you're going to get soft. An hour in the gym will help you focus...unless you're scared of me beating you?"
This could be just the sort of opening he needed. And exactly the sort of opening he didn't want. Duty before everything, he reminded himself grimly. This had to be done. "Fine," he said shortly. "I will see you down there."
"Great!" Mark grinned. "It's just what you need to blow those cobwebs away."
There was sympathy in his eyes, Illya realised. Whatever rumours were flying around, Mark had certainly already heard them, and this sparring match was a pretext for checking on him. Probably it would be followed up by an invitation to a friendly drink after work with him, and possibly April. He hated this.
No matter; his personal feelings really weren't important here. He headed down to the gym and changed quickly, and was quietly satisfied to see they would have an audience for their match. Alright. He could do this.
For the first couple of minutes he let things go as they normally would, both of them holding back, warming up and having a chance to assess each other. The only difference was, he shut down Mark's every attempt at conversation during the bout.
Mark had dislocated his shoulder a couple of weeks ago and hadn't quite got his full range of mobility back yet. He favoured his left side. That was all the opening he needed; time to turn this sparring match into a fight.
He went on the offensive with a viciousness that Mark didn't have a chance to react to, each blow carefully targeted, not just to where he couldn't block, but to where would cause the most pain. It was swift, it was brutal, and it was obviously uncalled for.
"Illya, what the hell?" Mark demanded spluttering as he grabbed hold of Illya's shoulder, and he was trying to restrain, not attack. A mistake; Illya seized his hand, twisting enough to dislocate the thumb, before snapping his arm back forcefully, his elbow catching Mark in the face with full force and he winced internally as he felt the cartilage give way. He didn't let up though, spinning and sweeping Mark's legs out from under him in one quick movement. "Enough!" Mark gasped. "Enough, I give up."
His face was covered in blood.
With clinical precision, Illya kicked him just below the ribs, knowing it would hurt and leave him on the ground a few more minutes. "You are too slow to react, Mr Slate," he said coldly. "And you leave your guard down when you should not."
He turned and walked away, his face expressionless. The entire room was staring at him as though they'd never seen him before. Their shock and fear couldn't touch him.
"Illya..." Mark called after him as he struggled to sit up, but he didn't seem to have any idea what he was going to say.
Honestly, there probably wasn't a lot one could say in this situation. He went upstairs to the commissary, got himself a cup of coffee and watched the rumours slowly spread. People who had been in the gym whispered urgently to those who had not, and soon it seemed the entire room was very carefully trying not to look at him. He was sure it could only be a matter of time before official censure, and sure enough after a few moments his communicator sounded.
He ignored it and carried on drinking his coffee.
Five minutes after that, Nicola Golding appeared, looking at him nervously. "Mr Kuryakin? Mr Waverly would like to see you in his office."
"Would he?" he asked truculently and made no attempt to stand.
"Yes," she said anxiously. "Right away."
"I see." He slowly finished his coffee while she hovered over him. "Very well, then. I suppose we had best go."
Mark was already waiting in Mr Waverly's office, along with a few of the Section III agents who had been in the gym. There to act as witnesses, he supposed, and that was good. Again, more of an audience would make this simpler and make it more likely that word of his actions would make its way to the traitors and then to THRUSH.
It was an effort to keep from looking guilty when he got a good look at Mark. The junior agent's eyes were swollen almost shut, and there was a bandaid across his nose. He looked as though he had been a victim of a brutal beating which was, of course, more or less the truth.
He took a seat without being asked with a calculated air of insolence.
Mr Waverly looked at him with a frown, but didn't address it directly. "Mr Kuryakin. You are aware of why I wanted to see you."
"Of course," he said coolly, with a glance at Mark. Hopefully, once this was all over, he would have a chance to apologise.
"From what I've heard from Mr Slate, and the other witnesses, your attack was entirely unprovoked," Mr Waverly went on. "Would you care to explain yourself?"
He took a moment, lounging back in his chair. "Does it really matter?" he said finally. "What are you going to do, send me back to Russia? You are already doing that, remember? Sir."
There was an audible gasp. Mr Waverly's face might have been carved from stone.
"What?" Mark demanded, shock and outrage in his voice. "You can't be serious, that's bonkers!"
He blinked at the unexpected defence before immediately schooling his face into a scowl.
"Everyone get out," Mr Waverly said firmly. "Except you, Mr Kurykain," he added, as Illya made to stand.
Just what he'd been expecting. He went back to lounging, and it wasn't until the door had closed that he sat up straight, intent and respectful.
"I won't ask if that was necessary," Mr Waverly said sternly.
He shrugged and made no apology. "It was expedient."
"Good," Mr Waverly said. "Don't forget it. There's no real damage done, Mr Slate will heal soon enough. And I have no doubt that word of this little escapade, and your outburst, will spread quickly. Now, is there anything you need?"
"Yes," he said, nodding. "If I am to make an approach to THRUSH, it would help if I had some information to give them, as a show of good faith."
"I'd already thought of that," Mr Waverly said, walking over to his desk and producing a file. "This is some of the information I was intending to release through Mrs Golding, to make the misinformation believable. It includes some minor operations we can afford to have compromised and some caches and dead drops we can afford to lose. Nothing that will lead to any casualties."
Good. He didn't think he could easily stand to have that on his conscience. "Thank you, sir," he said, carefully tucking the file away beneath his jacket. "I will let you know once I have made contact." He glanced towards the door. "Do you think that is long enough?"
Mr Waverly smiled. "As you pointed out, supposedly I don't have anything left to threaten you with. Although I suppose I should make it public that you are no longer to be considered number two of Section II..."
That was neither surprising, nor, hopefully, permanent. Somehow, it still hurt. "Of course, sir."
"Go," Mr Waverly said, with a professional nod. "And do try to leave me some agents in one piece, won't you?"
He smiled painfully. "I'll try my best, sir."
Seeing Mark waiting outside for him wasn't a surprise, but he still strode right past him without so much as a sideways glance.
"Illya, wait up," Mark called. "What's going on here? Mr Waverly can't really be sending you back to the USSR, right?"
"That is none of your business," he snapped, not looking round. More grist for the rumour mill at least.
Walking quickly, he headed for the exit, and wasn't entirely surprised when April stepped out in front of him, her eyes bright with fury. "What's this I hear about you and Mark?" she demanded.
He looked at her coldly. "He should have defended himself better," he said.
"April, hang on. I'll explain," Mark said as he caught up, and Illya took advantage of the distraction to slip past her and out.
The cold, fresh air came as something of a relief. Already, the air around him felt oppressive. So far so good, and now came the next step. Making contact with THRUSH.
He took a circuitous route to a little bookshop just on the edge of Battery Park he knew to be a THRUSH drop point. Fortunate, perhaps, as he had his doubts it could make any money as a bookshop – the air smelled damp and musty, and the lighting was gloomy and unwelcoming. He walked up to the counter slowly and the man glanced up and did a double take.
Good. Clearly he had been recognised. That should make everything simpler.
"Good afternoon," he said with a slight smile. "I am looking for a particular book – American Birds, by Alexander Worple. Do you have it in stock by any chance?"
The bookseller blinked slowly, his mouth gaping. "Uh...uh..." He swallowed, and seemed to decide that in the absence of other instructions, he might as well proceed with the pass phrase, even if his contact was inexplicably an UNCLE agent. "No, but I can order it in for you, if you care to leave your name and address."
"Certainly," Illya nodded and he waited expectantly until the man remembered himself enough to shove the pad of paper and a pencil across the counter.
He stared down at it for a long moment. Now this was truly the point of no return.
Carefully, he printed out details of the third operation that had been on the list Mr Waverly supplied. That should serve as the convincer. And then, below it, he scrawled.
'Tell Rex to contact me if he wants to talk.
IK'
There. It was done. And now, all he could do was wait.
So what do you think so far?