Illya woke early the next morning feeling refreshed and surprisingly serene. He had made his peace, having truly said good bye at last to his family, and had resigned himself to God's will by accepting if it was his fate to die on this mission.
It was an adjustment in his usual attitude that he had displayed for so many years, being the fatalistic Russian. Every time he had stepped out U.N.C.L.E.'s door with Napoleon, he expected to die. He had lost track of how many times he had uttered the words, I think I am going to die, to his partner.
Dying wasn't a possibility, to him it was a given. And every time he lived he was surprised. But now there was difference, the the possibility of death was still there, but now he accepted with a feeling of reverence rather than one of impending doom.
When Elliott and then the children came into what he had always felt was his ill-fated existence, he dared to hope. He never wanted to die, his survival instincts would not permit that, though he always prepared himself for the worst scenario as it just made things easier, but now his feelings had changed had he had renewed his dialogue with his maker and because of that his feelings about dying seemed less fatalistic.
He couldn't quite explain the difference, but supposed that if death came, then this time he knew he'd be in God's hands and would see his family again, as opposed to his old view of just ceasing to exist. That determinist way of thinking was gone as now he felt comforted by his new feelings about death and that he supposed was a good thing.
Illya bathed, shaved and then put the damnable contact lenses in with a hiss, as his eyes were still burning terribly. Once ready, he went out and found another café and ate a quick but hearty breakfast, wanting to get an early start.
Dreading the thought of climbing back into the car; he stood outside it, spreading his precious map on the bonnet of the car, deciding it would be best to at least stop once en route to Moskva to rest both his back and his eyes, and for a moment chuckled to himself, thinking of his sore zhopa as well. He brought his attention back to the map, running his finger along the route he would need to take, then noted that Bryansk would be the best place to rest, though it was nearly seven hours away.
"It is what it is," he told himself, as he lowered himself back into the car, sitting on his folded coat for a little seat padding, then headed southwest on Khreshchatyk Street toward Proreznaya, then to Prorіzna, and continuing onto the Bessarabian Square, to Red Army Street and Chervonoarmіyska...seeing these winding streets one last time was another sort of farewell.
He didn't dwell on the fact that he was leaving his childhood home, the fact that the city looked so different help him distance himself from that idea and at the moment that helped him to focus on the task at hand.
The were a number of more convoluted turns again until he left Kyiv, finally exiting onto E101 and then off to other motorways. This journey would take him just over eleven hours, but with the stop in Bryansk he estimated he would arrive in Moskva in fifteen hours. He had an appointment to keep not just with his C.I.A. contact but at KGB headquarters as well and had to push himself to make it, there was no being late when the Kremlin was involved, in that he was not joking to the courier he had met the day before.
He sighed, as the pain in his lower back had proven to him that he was pushing himself too much. Seven hours of hell until he reached his next stop, still 379 kilometers southwest of Moscow."Oĭ vyeĭ," he groaned.
After his long ride,the Syrena rumbled into Bryansk on time, with Illya having made only one stop to relieve himself, but after driving that many hours, the pain in his lower back was now as unbearable as that in his eyes.
"Time to give it a rest Kiril." Illya suddenly realized what he had called himself and was not liking it at all. "Do not lose yourself in this role durak," he called himself a fool as chastised himself.
Bryansk city was an industrial center and an important railway junction between the Moskva, Kyiv, Smolensk, Oryol, Vyazma lines. It also ran through the "Druzhba" oil pipeline as well as an international airport. It had made better recovery from the war than other towns.
It had a large number of Soviet partisans who fought bravely during the war, but it's claim to fame was it's association with Mikhail Kalashnikov who at the time was a Senior Sergeant tank commander. He was wounded at the Battle of Brody but made it to a hospital on foot, where he received medical attention. While recovering from his injuries, Kalashnikov started experiencing flashbacks of the raid and became obsessed with creating a submachine gun that would drive the Germans from his homeland. This battle served as the catalyst for the invention of the AK47 as well a subsequent improved versions of it.
"Avtomat Kalashnikov Modernizirovanniy" - Automatic Kalashnikov Modernized AKM, Illya recited, having remembered when the weapon first appeared in 1963, it was was lighter than the AK47's. Then from that weapon, Kalishnikov developed a squad automatic weapon variant, the Ruchnoi pulemyot Kalashnikova - Kalashnikov light machine gun and the Pulemyot Kalashnikova machine gun. The man was an armaments genius in Kuryakin's estimation.
The city was large enough that he found a rooming house and a place to eat without difficulty off Boulevard Shorsa, then after a few hours of cat napping, he poured himself back into the car for the last leg of his journey.
Moskva was a welcome sight as he arrived at the anticipated time, with the sights and sounds of the city coming back to him, even though his last time there was just before he left to join U.N.C.L.E. was so long ago. As he drove through the city, he looked around at the sterility and drabness of the Soviet architecture, with its numerous statuary depicting Communist functionaries and military figures. Yet there was still much beauty there, as the city suffered minimal damage during the Great Patriotic War, the old mixed in with the new. This was his Russia and as troubled as it was, it made him smile seeing Moskva again.
He stepped out of the Syrena, throwing his duffle over his shoulder, after he parked the car in front of an apartment building, it's Georgian-style architecture slightly run down, but intact. This was where Kiril Andropov lived. There was a woman in the lobby sweeping the floor as he walked inside, but as soon as she saw him her eyes were filled with a look of fear.
She backed away, reaching for the handle of a nearby door while not taking his eyes off of him. Illya laughed at her, assuming his brothers demeanor, augmenting her fear of him as she opened the door, slipping inside. He heard the bolt click as she locked it. It was obvious that she'd had a run in with his brother, and only wondered what Kiril could have possibly done to make her so afraid.
He walked up to the second floor, taking a key from his wallet that had been among Kiril's possessions; if it didn't work it would be no problem for him to pick the lock.
Luckily the key was the right one, and Illya slipped in quietly, only to find himself with the cold metal of a pistol barrel shoved against his cheekbone.
But just as suddenly, it was withdrawn. "O vremeni vy poluchili vash grebanyĭ zad zdesʹ_about time you got your fucking ass here."
He was grabbed in a bear hug by a thin blond man. "Kiril my love you look a bit different, your ordeal has taken its toll on you."
Then next thing he knew his face was being pulled into a passionate kiss.
Instinctively Illya pushed himself away. Strangely, the man's stature, build and hair, resembled that of Illya Kuryakin. "This was not good," he thought. It was obvious that Kiril was involved with the man, though homosexuality was highly frowned upon in the Soviet Union but with a man that resembled the brother that he hated so much. Kiril had one twisted mind.
Suddenly Andropov's abuse of women made more sense, telling him that Kiril Andropov was even more troubled that he suspected. From Tolya's demeanor, it seemed that he was not subjected to the abuses that Kiril inflicted upon his sexual partners of the feminine persuasion.
"O vremeni vy poluchili vash grebanyĭ zad zdesʹ_I thought you were dead, and after two months you push me aside? You have no idea how I have longed for you...my beautiful Kira." He reached out, touching his hand to Illya's auburn hair.
"Stoi," he responded, pushing the hand away.
"Andropov you really are a son of a bitch sometimes. How can you be so cruel to me, I thought I had lost you. Am I not still your Tolya? " He ran his finger along Illya's face, then running it across his lips. " My heart leaped for joy when I heard you were alive and coming home. Please make love to me? From the moment I heard you lived, I have longed to feel you..."
Tolya tried pulling Illya's coat off, but his hands were again driven away.
"Nyet Tolya, not now. I must report to the Kremlin...I have to clean myself up."
"Kira, your voice sounds different? What did those Americanskii bastards do to you?" He tried hugging Illya again.
"Nyet!" Illya barked at him. Razve vy ne ponimaeteznachenie slova nyet_Do you not understand the meaning of the word no?" Illya snapped at him. Then he reached out, cupping Tolyas chin in his hand. "I am sorry. It has all been very difficult for me, you must give me some time." He tried softening his voice, sounding more tender.
"Please Kira, do not make me wait?" Tolya leaned in trying to kiss him again, but Illya turned his face away.
"Fine, be that way Kiril Nicovich!" Tolya threw a melodramatic fit. "I will be at my apartement when you are ready to be with me!" He threw on his coat with a flourish then stormed out the door, slamming it in a huff.
Illya locked the door behind him, then realizing that would do no good as Tolya surely had a key; he grabbed a chair, shoving it beneath the door knob to jam it closed, then leaned his forehead against the door, letting out a long stress-filled sigh. Kirl was a homosexual? Or to be more precise, bi-sexual. That was an unexpected realization that hit him hard. Kiril took a great risk, living that sort of life style in the Soviet Union, if discovered anyone would be automatically sent to a gulag.
Illya had no time to dwell on this as he stripped from his clothes, stepping into the small bathroom shower. His brother's apartment was what they called an efficiency in America, with the bed and cooking facilities together in a single room, but the private bathroom made it luxurious compared to most state apartments that had only communal bathrooms on each floor.
He stiffened as the cold water hit his skin, noting some things still hadn't changed in Moskva." Once he dried himself with the coarse towel, he wrapped it around his waist, then began rifling through Kiril's dresser for some clothing and was disgusted when he found pornographic photographs of both men and women...and children. Kiril with children...that horrified him.
His guilt over having killed his brother was completely gone when he saw what kind of man he truly was...no, more like hedonistic animal. With him there were no boundaries of decency, no sense of right or wrong. He could accept the bisexuality, but being a pedophile? Illya threw the photos back into the drawer in disgust, then continued his search.
There were a few shirts and suits hanging in the closet, and Illya chose the best. A grey shirt, suit and a silver-grey tie to wear for his visit to the Kremlin. He slipped his feet into a pair of black leather Italian shoes that Kiril no doubt had picked up on the black market, or perhaps even smuggled in from Italy.
Lastly, he put the contact lenses back in, accustomed to the stinging sensation now and combed back his damp hair, put on his wool coat and and walked out the door, heading towards the the Kremlin.
Fifteen minutes later he entered the walled fortress via The Resurrection Gate, the northern entrance to Red Square, just a few hundred meters from the statue of Marshal Zhukov mounted on his war horse. Though he had seen the statue many times in the past for some reason today, the horse's look seemed shocked to him and embarrassed that it had accidentally trodden on and destroyed someones special heirloom.
Though Illya knew it was trampling one of the Nazi eagles... a common symbol of the fascist Germans and a visual reminder that Zhukov had been appointed the defender of Moscow as the Germans closed in on the city. Then later it was he and his troops who captured Berlin as he was the commander of the Soviet occupation forces in Germany after the war.
Illya gazed out to a sight he thought he would never see again, the bright domes of St Basil's cathedral at the opposite end of Krasnaya ploshchad'_Red Square. Just as it had happened the last day he had seen the church so many years ago, the rays of the sun shone down upon the domes, illuminating an intensifying the blues, reds greens and golds of the the onion domes, and beneath each lay nine separate chapels, with one under the tall central tower unifying the structure into a single whole.*
To Illya it was still as breathtaking as when he had first seen it when he was brought to the orphanage, Moskva school no. 7, and visited the Kremlin for the first time when he was but ten years old. To this day he still thought it the most beautiful structure in all of Krasnaya ploshchad'_Red Square.
The name red square had not come about as a reference to communism, or even to the large amount of red brickwork around the square, instead it was originally a reference to St Basil's. Krasnaya could mean either beautiful or red, but it was the term beautiful which was originally applied to the cathedral, but then shifted in meaning and location to become Red Square as Communism took control.
In front of the cathedral was a statue of Kuzma Minin and Dmitry Pozharsky, who drove Polish invaders out of Moscow 200 years before the French under Napoleon Bonaparte came to grief in this same place. This statue once stood in the middle of the square, but the Communist government moved it in front of the cathedral because it was impeding parades. Today there would be no parades, as on May 8th, May day, the square here would be filled with people and marching soldiers. Parades would take place in many cities across the Soviet Union...including Gorky.
The large Glavnyi Universalnyi Magazin_GUM department store dominated the eastern side of Red Square and was synonymous with fat cat communists with their political connections and bribery, who enjoyed a life of comfort and luxury above the daily grind of ordinary Russians.
GUM stood for state universal store, but its tsarist name of upper trading rows was more appropriate, because it did not consist of a single undivided building, but rather three rows of shops, each of which is built on three levels. At the time of the October Revolution there were over a thousand separate shops in this building, with more in the middle trading rows located across Ilyinka Street, directly to the south.
He shook his head, seeing it with different eyes now, knowing the separation of the classes was perfectly illustrated by this so-called State run store. It was so expensive that the average worker could not imagine being able to buy anything there, and would have to continue to suffer waiting on lines in hopes of finding what they needed at some local State run shop.
Illya was exactly on time, as he had been instructed to wait by the Minin-Pozharsky statue to meet his C.I.A contact. After that meeting he was to head to Lubyanskaya ploschad', and the Lubyanka, the location of KGB headquarters. There he expected to be escorted to somewhere near the Palace of Congresses. The thought passed his mind that at that very moment that Soviet leaders were most likely planning an invasion of Czechoslovakia.
A handsome dark haired man wearing a black trench coat was walking directly towards him, and Illya's mouth was surely hanging open as his eyes focused on who it was. There would be no need for codes and passwords with this man.
"Tovarishch," he greeted him with that infectious Solo smile.
"You are my contact?" Illya was in shock.
"Da, ya , izvinite zasyurprizom_Yes I'm, sorry for the surprise."
"I thought you could not speak Russian." Illya challenged."
"I lied," Hannibal Solo whispered, cocking his eyebrows just like his brother.
"I cannot believe this...how?" Illya was still feeling dismay at the identity of his contact."
"Let's say I can move in different circles because of my diplomatic credentials and certain Russian officials like the little gifts I give them while they think they're bilking a stupid American for information, when it is me in fact who is doing the bilking."
"Does your brother know?" Illya whispered.
"No and I have to ask you to keep this our little secret. Napoleon must never know who my real employer is. Our father doesn't even know, and it has to stay that way." Hannibal said." You can do that, can't you...that is, keep your mouth shut?"
That request being put to him not make Illya feel comfortable at all. Though he and Napoleon each had their secrets, they were kept of their own volition and not at the behest of others. Illya was not sure he could make that promise to Hannibal as there was no love lost between the tow of them. Now he knew why his instincts pushed to have him an instant dislike of Hannibal Solo when he first met him in Venice.
But then he asked himself what good it would do revealing this to his partner; coming to the conclusion it could do more harm than good. It was something that needed to be worked out between the two brothers.
"I will make no promises Hannibal, but you need to talk to Napoleon about this when all is said and done. Now let us do what we came here to do, I have an appointment elsewhere to keep."
Hannibal pulled a cigarette case from his breast pocket, offering a smoke to the Russian.
"No thank you I quit."
"That's right, you and my brother are reformers...well do you mind if I...?"
"Go ahead..." he twisted the saying a bit, "it is not a free country." Illya smiled.
Hannibal lit up his cigarette, taking a long drag on it then exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.
"Hmm, Turkish," Illya commented, smelling the distinct odor. He would have been lying if he said he did not like the smell of the blend, as he had smoked most of his adult life. " You speak Russian, smoke our blend of cigarettes, so have you developed a taste for other things Slavic?"
"Unlike my brother, I have developed an affinity to vodka, I don't know how he can drink that bloody scotch."
"Neither do I." Illya smiled genuinely this time.
"So where is your appointment?"
"The Lubyanka."
"Shit, that's a prison. Look I have authorization to pull you from this mission if..."
"Lubyanka is also KGB headquarters, I prefer to look on the bright side and believe I will have only a meeting there. After all I do need to recount the death of Illya Kuryakin to my superiors," Illya smiled. "I have been told that I am to receive a medal as a Hero of the Soviet Union for killing an enemy of the State."
Hannibal dropped his cigarette on the cobblestones, extinguishing it with his foot. "Yeah, right."
"Better pick that up, or you might be arrested for littering on a national treasure, "Illya quipped. " Now give me my instructions, as I must leave."
Hannibal flashed him a dirty look, then bent and picked it up and shoving the butt into his coat pocket.
"Alright, it's your call." He opened his cigarette case again, offering it towards Illya.
"I told you I no longer smoke."
"Take the cigarette on the left, your instructions are on the paper. Just make sure you destroy it when your done."
"Excuse me, I know what I am doing." Illya snorted.
"I hope so.
"I have one last question. Why was I not warned that Kiril...likes men?"
"He likes women too, "Hannibal smiled, "well maybe like is too strong a word to use in relation to them. We figured you already knew that he swung both ways. Sorry. You didn't have any problems with his lover did you?"
"Luckily not."
"Look, I want to say... I mean given you're my brother's best friend, I'm sorry I've rubbed you the wrong way. Good luck and get home safe."
The look in Hannibal's dark eyes gave an inkling that was he said was genuine, but that didn't mean that Illya liked Hannibal Solo any better, in spite of his lame apology. He stood there and watched as the younger Solo disappeared into the crowds of people wandering the cobbled stones of Red Square.
* ref "The Last Good bye"