THE LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON AFFAIR
A stand-alone piece following "Promises to Keep"
Act 1 Message from Moscow
She drew the coverlet back inch by inch, kiss by kiss. He rolled toward her, one arm wrestling for possession of the cover, one reaching groggily to draw her back into bed.
"Come along, Mr. K," her contralto lured him.
"Aw…five more minutes..." he growled, burrowing under the pillows.
"Imitating your sleepy-headed son will buy you no time from me. Come along, heathen-husband," Emily teased, tugging upward on his arm. "Shave. Suit. Juice."
"MMmmm...we could miss church one week," he inveigled, pulling her arm downward.
"Tempter."
"Oh, stay..." he invited her with his drowsy-honeyed voice. "Spend one Sunday morning with the sexiest senior citizen in the state."
"Mind your geography, Darling. Connecticut is a very small state."
It was a scene that they played out every weekend, and whichever of them prevailed, they both savored the victory.
Kuryakin shook his shaggy mane. It was his only concession to age, now pure, snowy white. His face remained remarkably unlined. Leaving UNCLE had allowed him to work out the bitterness and frustration of field duty. The years of sheer joy with Emily and their son had brought him a measure of peace and security, enabling him to contemplate an abiding faith in the ultimate purpose of God.
"Nicholas didn't come home again this weekend," he observed.
"Yes," Emily sighed, trying not to be disappointed. "Well, we should've expected that when he moved off-campus with his roommate. His life just isn't centered in Connecticut anymore." She smiled. "I suspect Napoleon and Charlotte see more of him than we do. "
"Well, he and Lydia have been seeing each other for years." Solo's middle daughter, the artistic Lydia, was a design intern at Vanya, Kuryakin's elite fashion house founded after his bitter resignation from UNCLE 25 years ago. It seemed an unusual direction at the time, but only Illya knew how desperately he needed to do something completely different with his life.
"Yes, and bickering and breaking up every other month. Too volatile," Emily shook her head. "They'll never go the distance. No, if you're looking to graft a Solo into the family tree, it's Vanessa."
"Van's just a baby," he protested. " She's—five, six, years younger than Nick is."
"Ahem. I was 19 years younger but that didn't slow you down, " she reminded him playfully.
"Ahem. I said I am sexy, not senile. I clearly remember who proposed to whom."
"Well..." she squirmed, retreating to preserve her dignity. "You could have said no."
"You're wrong." Illya took her hand, kissed each knuckle, then yanked her off-balance so she tumbled back onto the bed. "Nicky and Vanessa, eh?"
"Think about it, " she prompted. "Who does he turn to when he wants to talk, or tease or dream? Not Mommy any more," she said wistfully. "I don't believe they realize it yet. But when Nicky is home for the weekend, who does he phone first?"
"Vanessa Solo."
She nodded knowingly. He gathered her up.
It was Sunday and they let the phone ring.
#####
Finishing their tea and croissants, the phone rang again, loud and long, piercing their country-quiet. "Persistent, isn't he?" Kuryakin sighed, and turned to attend to business while Emily gathered up the tea tray.
When she returned to the sunroom, a sudden, visceral fear gripped her at the sight of her husband's expression. She had never seen him so grave, fingers whitening as his hold on the receiver tightened; the deadly flat tone of his voice, the clipped, one-word responses, the guarded look that shut her out of his eyes.
Emily felt unsteady and wanted to cross the room and sit down but she could not will herself to move or take her eyes off her husband. Her breathing, her heartbeat, everything was captive to the mysterious conversation. Nick. It had to be Nicky.
After an eternity, he deliberately replaced the phone but seemed unable to uncurl his fingers from the receiver, as if it were a lifeline to his son and if he let go he would lose him forever. He sat still and silent and unaware of her presence.
"Illya-?"
"That was Nick's history advisor." Illya spoke slowly and precisely, trying to frame the words with both truth and hope. "Nicholas is being detained in Moscow, on suspicion of espionage."
"Moscow?" all the breath went out of her, and she sank into a chair. "What on earth is he doing in Moscow?" All her words came out in a rush. "We told him no! We told him he couldn't go. When he called, all excited about this senior history trip, what a great opportunity, we told him no-"
"Apparently a student scheduled for the tour fell ill, and Nick leapt at the chance to replace him. He's over 21, his passport is in order, and he was going to send us a postcard," Kuryakin reported grimly.
"But my God, Illya, Moscow, my God-going through customs with your name and your face-" Emily shut her eyes, too horrified to contemplate the danger. Illya had confessed all his past life to her before their marriage, but they had seen no reason to divulge such details to their son. Now his ignorance had put him at risk.
Kuryakin knew what she was thinking. Quickly he tried to reassure her. "That was 30 years ago. Things have changed."
"You don't believe that," she accused.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Emily-Emily, listen to me," he sought her eyes. " I'll get him back."
"You can't go-"
"The hell I can't."
"I'll lose you both!" Emily, his gentle, smiling, courageous Emily, shattered to tears.
"Pack a bag," he directed shortly. "You'll stay with Charlotte."
Act 2 The Bad Old Days
It was an hour's drive from their 1870's restored cottage in Greenfield, Connecticut to Napoleon and Charlotte's elegant New York City townhouse, during which time neither of them spoke.
Emily kept her fingers pressed to her lips and her eyes unseeing, in prayer, or to keep from crying, or to block out the myriad of terrifying scenarios that flood a mother's imagination when her child is threatened and beyond her protection.
Illya thought he heard her tortured whispering of Nick's name, over and over, and had to wrestle his own guilt to concentrate on the highway. Nick was in danger because of his past. Nick was in danger because his father was a Russian who had left his homeland behind. A quarter-century of peace and contentment and now this, lassoing him, drawing him inexorably back into darkness and deceit and disillusionment.
At least this was familiar territory. Several years ago, when Emily was fighting for her life against a rare nerve disease, Illya was helpless, at the mercy of medical professionals.
In this crisis, he was the expert.
Arriving at Solos', they split up: Charlotte drew Emily onto her sunny balcony with a hug and a brandied tea. Napoleon led Illya to his study and closed the door.
"Do you have any contacts there?" Kuryakin asked anxiously.
"Don't you?"
"The political progress in the former Soviet states has not yet extended to women's wear," Kuryakin replied dryly.
"I mean from the bad old days."
Kuryakin shook his head. "No one I would trust with Nicky's life." Solo's old partner fell silent, shoulders slumped.
"It's not your fault," Solo stated simply.
"Of course it's my fault!" he reproved his friend. " ' The sins of the fathers...visited upon the sons.' The first thing Em said- 'your name, your face...'"
"I know Emily. She does not blame you."
"What if I can't..." he whispered, afraid that to verbalize his fear would make it real. "What if I can't pull it off?" Kuryakin shuddered and covered his face against the possibility.
"As Waverly would say, 'Failure is not an option.' Buck up, old pal-we have mischief to make."
# # # # #
Nicholas Kuryakin was baffled. The rest of the student tour group was passed along with a perfunctory scowl and a stamp. Why had he been separated, detained for nearly an hour in this paint-peeled anteroom, not allowed to speak with his advisor or any embassy rep? He thought his command of the language would be an advantage. Instead, it seemed to annoy, even infuriate the low-level customs agent who glared at his passport and barked at him to stand aside.
Dr. Van Allen had put up a spirited defense on his student's behalf, but he was also responsible for the rest of the group. He finally gave up, speaking loudly enough for Nick to hear, that he would contact the U.S. embassy immediately.
That had been nearly an hour ago. Nick thought. The customs agent had also 'detained' Nick's watch.
It was as baffling as his parents' reaction to the trip. They had nearly forbidden him to go. Nick had expected them to applaud his interest in his heritage, to be proud that he had earned an invitation to this elite expedition. But instead, they had been united and adamant, insisting he wait until after his Columbia graduation, and then have a trip anywhere-anywhere but Russia.
Boris Vronsky had been KGB for over 40 years. He had been formally retired, but since the political and economic disintegration he had been released without a pension and forced back into work with the customs service. He was paid sporadically and made up the difference in his living expenses through bribes and blackmail and black market connections.
Still, his memory was sharp, his training ingrained. The hundreds of documents presented to him everyday met with his utmost scrutiny. And today, his meticulous, demanding, boring, nitpicking work habits yielded an improbable prize.
It was the name that first alerted him. He glanced over it, and again, and stared at it. His eyes shot to the thumbnail photo, back to the name and into the face of Kuryakin. Impossibly young. And yet, familiar as his own face in the mirror. An American student passport. Boris nearly spat. He reached across the desk for the phone to alert his masters and puff up his importance in this interdiction. Then he tore apart Nick's duffel bag, triumphantly raising a camera into the air.
# # # # # #
Before Solo could answer her knock, the redheaded whirlwind blew through his study door. "What's up?" demanded his youngest child. "Auntie Em's on the balcony pretending not to cry. You two are sequestered in here. Where's Nick?" Vanessa always cut to the heart of a matter.
"Vanessa." Solo pinned her with his 'ladies -do-not-eavesdrop-we'll-discuss-this-later' glare.
"I'm the Baby, remember? Nobody ever tells me anything. Over the years, I've developed my own sources. So where is Nicholas?" she repeated.
"Eh...Nick has run into some trouble abroad," Uncle Illya answered.
"No, he wasn't supposed to go -not without me-" she sputtered.
The adults abruptly made Vanessa the center of attention.
"We-well- I'll be graduating in a few months, then off to Bentonhurst. Nick's going to grad school-who knows when we'll run into each other again. We talked about travelling this summer-yknow, like a farewell tour. Train across Canada, maybe..." her voice trailed off.
Kuryakin decided to be straight with the child. "Against our advice, Nick joined a student tour to Russia. He's been detained."
"Oh." She paled but held her ground steadily. "Of course. Because you guys were spooks."
"Vanessa!" her father snapped.
"I told you I had my sources, Daddy," she reminded impatiently." So when do we leave?"
"We-as in 'the two old spooks'-have a plane to catch. You have a rematch with Algebra II. " Napoleon set down the law.
"Daddy, I have to go." She quickly cudgeled her brain to find an excuse to be included. "They're more likely to let me see him than you two. They'll think I'm just a dumb kid-there's a lot of that going around-" she glared meaningfully. " That I'll slip, say something they can use..."
Solo glanced over her head to his partner. The girl had a point.
Illya lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I know you're concerned about him. But I cannot endanger you..."
"I can help. Please. Nick and I, we have a-a connection. I'll do whatever you say. It'll be less suspicious. Of course they're expecting you. But I am what they won't have considered," she implored them. Her voice quavered. Nicholas Kuryakin was the one cause that could reduce her to begging.
Napoleon was so proud. Still… " Honey, this is very serious."
"Daddy...it's Nick-" as if all the wide world and all time and eternity was bound up in those two words. Solo saw his baby's eyes flame from desperation to determination. She won control of herself and her voice was strong and steady. So much like his own resolve, he thought fondly. "I have to go, " she repeated. "I'd rather go with you."
Solo sought the Russian's counsel. "How about it, old partner? Can we trust the next generation?"
Illya turned reluctantly to the hopeful girl. "Pack lightly."
There had been no time for a private farewell. Illya embraced his wife and kissed her longingly. "My prayers go with you," she whispered.
"And mine with you."
Emily sniffed and faked a smile for him. " I didn't know you believed in prayer."
"I've been thinking this might be a good time to start."
Act 3 Faith is a Gift
The plane was circling, awaiting clearance over Moscow airspace.
"I still think I should find Nicholas," Illya fretted.
Solo snorted. "We agreed to keep it simple. You're the one in the greatest jeopardy. And if I fail to get both of you back home unharmed, I can kiss Emily's raisin-rum bread good-bye for this Christmas," he grumbled. "You go to the embassy and go through it by the diplomatic numbers. Vanessa and I will take a stroll through the convoluted bowels of post-Soviet justice."
"Oxymoron," the Russian murmured.
"What's my cover, Daddy? " Vanessa asked eagerly. "I could be an international soccer star and you're my coach. Or a ballerina. Or a chess master-uh, mistress.."
"No, Van," he repeated patiently, for her benefit and Kuryakin's. "No cover. No cloak and dagger. We are going to keep this simple and thereby limit the possibility of screwing up."
They prepared to separate as soon as they landed.
"Napoleon, are we absolutely clear on the objective?" Illya needed to hear it again.
"Absolutely."
Then Vanessa watched the men she had known all her life do a very strange thing: they folded into a bear hug and Kuryakin gave her father a peck on each cheek. Then he disappeared down the street on foot, almost daring the foreign agents to roust him.
"Daddy-?"
Solo sighed. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin is one stubborn son-of-a-Slav."
"What exactly is our objective? To get Nicky out, right?"
"To get Nick out, of course." Even if we have to leave his infamous father behind to do it. Damn. His partner had always harbored an irritating streak of self-sacrifice.
# # # # #
There had been little modernization to the city during his absence, so Illya found his way quite efficiently. He took an extra lap around the ugly concrete building, as if he were expecting someone, something. He had been successful at his previous profession because he heeded such perceptions, but this time, he just shook the fancy off.
As he turned to follow the path to the embassy gates, a shriveled gray woman stood in his path. "Good day, Little Mother," he bowed politely.
"God save you, Honored Sir," she croaked out a traditional courtesy. "You have business?" she nodded toward the building.
He nodded his agreement, concealing his apprehension to be underway.
"Then I believe this is yours," she fumbled in her tiny reticule, pulled out a silver orthodox cross and dangled it in the cold sunshine by a delicate chain.
"Oh, no, dear lady. It is a lovely treasure, but it is not mine. "
"Good answer," she smiled to herself. "Of course it is not yours, it is His. But faith is a gift, and I give it to you…" she gestured and Illya bent over so she could bestow the token around his neck, and tuck it carefully under his shirt front. Surprisingly, the metal was not at all cold against his skin.
Illya felt awful to accept her gift, but he would not embarrass her nor insult her for all the world by refusing.
"Guard thy heart with all diligence," she chanted.
He stole an unobtrusive look at his watch, and when he turned to thank her, the wizened woman was gone.
"Pretty spry for such an ancient thing," he wondered, catching no sign of her up or down the road. He did not believe in good luck charms. Still…in this circumstance, courting supernatural assistance did not seem unrealistic.
Act 4 Try Harder, Edgar
After several frustrating hours, Solo was beginning to re-think his 'keep it simple' approach and his palm itched for the familiar grip of a grenade. But Vanessa had been correct on one point: authorities were more agreeable to the notion of her visit to the young man than Solo's own. Her father watched from the window.
"Vanessa-?" Nick's face told her everything.
"You don't look very surprised to see me."
"I knew you'd track me down. After all, I've still got your Anne Murray tape." Nick started toward her, then halted abruptly.
"That's not very flattering. Come greet me properly." She held both hands toward him.
Nick took them firmly, pulling her to him and pecking both her cheeks. While he buried his lips in her hair, he whispered "Bugs" into her left ear, and she made a brief, imperceptible nod. They separated and he offered her the only chair. He leaned against the damp cinder block wall. Nick's eyes were guarded, seeking a signal from the girl.
Concealed in the waiting area, Solo could watch and overhear their exchange. He straightened and strained to see. Why had he never noticed it before? How could he have missed it? Nick and Vanessa shared the same silent shorthand that he and Illya had developed over the years of their partnership. The instinctive, intimate expression that was a private communication of body language and esoteric experience.
"Actually, I'm here to make sure you get sprung before 8 o'clock, May 13," Vanessa announced.
"What's May 13?"
"My senior prom, remember?"
Nick shifted his weight, looked uncomfortably at his feet. "I'm getting a little old for that kind of thing. Are you so desperate for a date your father has to fly thousands of miles and drag a warm body out of prison?"
"You took Julia. You took Lydia. It's family tradition," she pouted prettily. "Besides, didn't you tell me Kuryakins always bail out Solos?"
"Ok, Ok, " he threw up his hands in mock surrender. "I cry Uncle. So tell me what color you're wearing so I can match your flowers. " He hesitated, suddenly serious. "I never want to disappoint you, Van."
His vulnerability shook her, and she turned away, concentrating on counting the cinder blocks on the far wall.
"Lydia's designing my formal. She says green."
Nick shook his head. "Gold. To match your eyes."
"And since when have you ever noticed my eyes? They're green, by the way."
He laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes. "Your sister Lydia's eyes are double-dipped Belgian chocolate. Yours are evergreen: cool and deep and secret. But there are these tiny sparks of gold, like stars scattered through the forest, when you catch the light just right...Gold." He affirmed quietly. "That's the way I always see you-"
"I never wear gold..."
"-in my dreams." He broke off the intensity of his gaze. "Trust me. I'm the son of Vanya."
Vanessa was clearly eliciting his message. All that improvisational experience with the theatre group at Columbia, and Nick's unique relationship with Solo's daughter, all contributing to a subtext for Solo's ears only. Green. Gold. Nick's freedom was for sale. Economy had trumped ideology in the 'new' Russia.
Napoleon was relieved. Bribes were a time-honored method of operation all over the world, less painful, less dangerous, than physical intervention. At this rate, the intrepid trio would be home by Thursday. Now if only he could get to Kuryakin before his partner heroically offered himself up on a platter to his old masters….
# # # # #
Even expired, Illya's gold UNCLE card carried enough influence to grant him an immediate appointment with the assistant ambassador, and press Nick's case.
"But you hold a British passport," the AA repeated.
"Quite true," Illya sighed, and explained again. "I hold dual citizenship, Russian and English. The British passport is preferable for business travel. It never garners the hostility or suspicion of Soviet or American papers. But my son, who is detained without grounds, was born an American citizen. His mother is an American-born citizen. His grandparents are American citizens. He carries an American student passport. "
"The customs agent discovered a camera concealed in his belongings."
" He-is-a-tourist." Kuryakin fought to keep his voice level and reasoned. "He had a camera packed in his bag."
"He reportedly speaks Russian like a native."
Kuryakin took a deep breath, practicing control lest he clobber the silly man into unconsciousness and find himself in a cell adjoining his son's. "His mother and I both have an affinity for languages, to which Nicholas has been exposed all his life. He has inherited this talent. It's a gift, not a crime."
"And how long did you say he had planned for this trip?"
"The trip was an impulse." Illya's head throbbed.
They had gone round and round for the past two hours, and the AA exhibited not the vaguest indication of understanding.
"Very well, Sir, we will certainly take your son's case under advisement. If you would see the receptionist on your way out, there are some papers-"
Kuryakin climbed over the desk and lodged his thumb over the man's windpipe. "I have already filled out your forms in triplicate. Twice. Now I must insist you pick up that phone-"
" Darling, I wanted to consult you on –Oh" Mrs. AA was taken aback by the scene she had interrupted. "Oh my, it's-it's Vanya, isn't it?"
Kuryakin removed his hands from her husband's scrawny throat, straightened his suit and kissed her hand with a little continental bow. "Mais certainement, Madame."
"Darling, do you know who this is? It's Vanya!" She could not suppress the girlish squeal in her voice. Her husband was less impressed, still sputtering and massaging his throat, vocalization still impeded.
She made a little curtsey. "Oh, dear Vanya, all the ladies wear your gowns for our embassy functions. So delighted…such an honor to meet you..."
"Merci, Madame, but the privilege is mine, to learn that fragrant flowers may still blossom this far north."
"Oh-" she tittered breathlessly.
"You know..." he studied her intently." I have been searching for someone-a woman of charm and culture, grace and dignity, to present my latest original ensemble to the world. But alas, with this trouble on my mind, my creative concentration has evaporated, you understand..."
"My husband is the assistant ambassador. Surely he can assist you-can't you, Edgar?" she threatened.
"Lavinia, I have been attempting to assist Mr. Kuryakin all morning-"
"Then try harder, Darling. We cannot have an artist like Vanya distracted by petty concerns." She fluttered her lashes at her idol. "Dear Vanya, won't you be our guest at luncheon? I'm certain my husband will have that little matter attended to by then...won't you, Edgar?"
"Such kindness, Madame Winchester. But I fear I would be desolate company, if I were being entertained so imperially, and my colleagues were unable to share in your gracious hospitality..."
"I will make it my duty as your hostess to reunite your party for luncheon. Now, eh..do you have a sketch, perhaps, that I might peek at that original ensemble...?"
# # # # #
And so it was that Kuryakin & Co. were transported from the local lock-up in the embassy limo, and treated to a Russo-American repast in the ambassador's residence. Illya took several photos of Mrs. Winchester to take back to Vanya Inc (Nick's confiscated camera having been returned) and pledged to have the ensemble shipped for the spring Bolshoi premiere. Napoleon pondered how he could write off the officials' bribes on his next corporate tax form.
At departure time, the embassy limo whisked the group directly to the boarding area, bypassing customs, ticket agents, authorities of all stripes.
Accessing to paternalistic needs to feel their offspring safely protected beside them, Nick and Vanessa each sat beside their fathers, and talked across their seats.
"So, out of Mother Russia, and off the hook." Vanessa declared.
"What makes you think that? " Nicholas smiled mysteriously. "You hooked me years ago."
"Wow..." Vanessa marvelled. "You're not at all shy like your father."
Kuryakin the Elder swiveled sharply in his seat and shot her a quizzical look.
"Reliable sources," she shrugged.
"You are a dangerous woman, Vanessa Solo."
"Just discovering that, are you?" Vanessa teased.
"Uh...about Canada..." Nick began tentatively.
"Yeah, I know...I mean, we planned to go as pals, and now...well, that may not be possible."
"At least, premature...I'll be restricting my travel to subways for a while."
"And Bentonhurst isn't that far away..." Vanessa encouraged.
"78.3 miles-" and everyone turned to look at him. "I've made some preliminary calculations," Nick admitted.
"Now, that is like his father," Solo declared.
Illya missed the jibe. He was preoccupied studying the cross around his neck.
"Souvenir for Emily? I do hope you can get it through customs…" Solo took the cross in his hand and examined the craftsmanship. "You really should have Charlotte check this out." Mrs. Solo managed her family's antique shop. "Where did you get it?"
"It was a gift," Illya replied in a far-away voice. "It's priceless."
finis