Illya was brought to his first of what he was sure was going to be one of many interrogations, as he was put into a featureless room with no windows. Only a buzzing flourescent light that flickered intermittently above his head gave any illumination. The room was furnished with only a simple wooden table, two chairs and of course a desk lamp to shine in his face. That would be just the beginning of the session. The light in the eyes; then who, the what, then where and when questions would follow.
He was handcuffed to the chair facing the wall chair, with each of his arms secured to the arm rests, then left sitting alone with his back to the door. He was sure the solitude was to give him time to develop a sense of nervousness, they probably did this with all prisoners; letting them sit alone and sweat in anticipation, wondering what was to come?
There was acually little he could tell them if he chose to cooperate but of course he would not do that; even though he was very aware the STASI were notorious for their interrogation techniques. But one never really knew what to expect from them as they were quite creative.
They had taken his fingerprints and given he was still listed in the database as GRU; they knew his identity and of course they would also know of his association with U.N.C.L.E. He sighed as he waited, trying to prepare himself for what was to come.
The door finally opened as an older, balding man entered the room, carrying with him a rather thick file, and a white jacket draped over his arm. Illya knew the file was his dossier and was somewhat amused at the thickness of it.
The man placed the jacket on the back of his chair, then the file on the table as he quietly sat in the chair opposite the Russian. Taking out a pair of reading glasses; the man was being very deliberate in his movements as he opened the folder in front of him. He looked it over, thumbing page after page ever so slowly as it were his first time reading them, taking his time; making the Russian watch him in silence.
Illya knew this was strictly for effect, again to increase the level of anticipation, and simply a ruse as his interrogator had already read his file thoroughly.
"You know this really is not necessary. I know you are already familiar with my file. What interrogator would not approach an initial questioning unprepared, especially when facing someone such as myself?" Illya spoke in German.
"Sie sind so sicher, dass Herr Kuryakin_are you so sure of that and yourself Mr. Kuryakin? I have just arrived and had not the time to prepare. So a moment bitte_please, if you would indulge me a moment to read further?"
A few minutes later, he closed the field carefully then removed his reading glasses as he leaned his elbows on the table, touching his fingertips to his lips as his hands were clasped together as if her were in prayer.
He stared at Illya's face for a few moments then smiled rather strangely.
As Illya expected, a few moments later the desk lamp was switched on and the bright light was directed to shine in his eyes, making him squint at the now faceless voice sitting behind it.
"Also sollen sie diese in Deutsher oder Russcher oder Englischer sprach vielleeict_so would you prefer this in German, or Russian or perhaps English?" he smiled.
Illya smiled back at him responding dryly. "Oh please what ever makes you most comfortable, this is after all your interrogation."
"Alright then," he answered in English," we'll start with the basics of course?"
"Of course."
"I know that you are Illya Nickovich Kuryakin, formerly of the GRU and now an agent for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."
"No surprises there." Illya quipped.
"What are you doing here in the German Democratic Republic Mr. Kuryakin."
"business...and you are?"
"Oh yes, how rude of me? But my name is of no consequence at the moment and yes, a businessman...that was your cover story wasn't it? So what was the nature of your business then if you insist on playing these word games with me. Why are you here?"
"I am thinking of branching out into a side line... a little extra income to put away for my retirement."
He sniggered at the answer. "And what is that side line...going rogue perhaps? Your current employer would not take kindly to that, but then perhaps we might be interested in engaging your services? If you are indeed doing what you say. He winked at the Russian, suggesting things could be worked out between them.
Illya picked up on that and ran with it; thought he had not planned on the direction the conversation was taking. He quickly decided that it would give him a way of diverting the interrogation to at least prevent it from escalating for the the time being.
"How astute of you to have deduced that fact...that I am going rogue that is." Illya spoke with a tone of sincerity in his voice as he smiled at the man again.
"Interesting? Perhaps you would enlighten me as to this business opportunity of yours then?"
"And what, let you get in on my action? I think not," he paused," One must not give away things without a price...if you get my drift?"
"And what price might that be Mr. Kuryakin?"
"My freedom of course." Illya smiled.
The interrogator squinted, looking at Illya instensely; not taking the Russian's bluff.
"You belong to us now and it is immaterial as to whether you are rogue or not. You entered into our country under false documentation and you are a known spy working for an organization that bases itself in a rival country that is very much against the existence of the GDR. What value do you really think you could be to us?"
Illya shrugged at him. "I assure you U.N.C.L.E. is not opposed to the GDR irregardless where our headquarters is located, just some of the policies it promotes. We do not take political sides, technically speaking."
The interrogator smiled again as he stood, picking up the white jacket from the chair and putting it on, but saying nothing. It was a lab coat and that had certain implications.
Illya was very familiar with standard interrogations proceedures. First explore the suggestability of the prisoner to find their receptiveness. Offer suggestions though not necessarily verbal, spoken or read. They could be a smile, a glare or in this case a lab coat. Encourage cooperation as the subjects self worth is attacked, then give the subject an opportunity to redeem himself. Manipulate, imply more than conversation was yet to come such as an action against him with more non-verbal suggestions...
So far it was all the classic steps in standard interrogation techniques...the last of which, putting on the lab coat was an attempt to intimidate him and make him afraid. Though in this case none of what had been said or done was successful in shocking the Russian, as he was a master at interrogation himself.
The man walked towards him slowly."Mr. Kuryakin, or should I call you...oh kleinen_little one?"
Illya's eyes betrayed his surprise at hearing those words, but said nothing.
"Yes I think so." he smiled, producing a scalpel from the pocket of his coat. He reached down slicing open Illya's right jacket sleeve and shirt, exposing his forearm, then bent down examining the skin carefully.
He then applied the edge of the sharp scalpel, scraping until the area he concentrated on became pink with irritation as he cleared it, revealing the blue tattooed serial number scratched into Illya's skin so long ago.
"Very clever of you to cover it up with makeup little one?
Illya's face blanched. "Who are you?" he whispered.
He switched back to German. "Ah so dass Sie nicht an mich erinnern mein Kleiner_oh so you don't remember me my little one? I'll give you a reminder. The man reached down touching his hand to Illya's crotch, fondling him ever so softly.
Kuryakin's face went white, his breathing quickened as he remembered that night in the concentration camp in Kyiv...Sryets.* It was his tenth birthday...
"See," Voelker crooned," that doesn't hurt does it?" he said as he pulled Illya's pants down as he continued to touch him. "Nooooo," Illya begged him to stop."
"Voelker...Karl Voelker," Illya mumbled, the fear evident in his voice as he identfied the man who had molested him the night that he and thirteen others escaped the death camp.
"So you do remember me little one. Nice to know I made such an impression on you?" Voelker smiled at him pleased that he had possibly found the Russian's Achilles heel.
"Stop calling me that! It was a lifetime ago and means nothing to me." Illya growled at him defensively.
Karl Voelker let out a disturbing laugh, then walked to the door; opening it. He snapped his finger summoning a pair of guards.
"Take him to his cell for now." He said as he walked out of the room, still laughing.
They dragged Kuryakin down several corridors, taking him deeper into the building until they stopped in front of a dark steel door; stepping back aiming their rifles at him as he was ordered to strip.
They threw a set of prison clothes at his feet for him to dress himself in and when they decided he was moving too slow to suit them, one of the guards slammed Illya in the shoulder with the butt of his rifle, knocking him to his knees.
Illya shivered as he slipped into the thin, grey and white vertical striped pants and shirt; realizing they looked the same as uniform that the prisoners had worn in the concentration camp so many years ago.
The door slammed behind him with a loud metallic boom after he was shoved uncermoniously into the cell. It was long and narrow, barely wider than a closet with a wooden bunk, a filthy straw-filled mattress on top of it and a threadbare woolen blanket. There was a small barred window in the wall opposite him and he quickly climbed on top of the bed, pulling himself up as he grabbed the bars to peer outside. There was nothing to see but a darkened courtyard with wall at least fifteen feet high topped by razor sharp concertina wire.
Illya lowered himself down, slipping to the bed and covering himself with the blanket as he continued to shake, but questioned as to whether it was from the chill of air or was it from the fact that his interrogator had been Karl Voelker?
He felt very unsettled and now his prisoner's uniform served to bring back his fearful childhood memories from his time in the camp...as well all the saddness stemming from the death of his family. He thought he had dealt with that and had laid them to rest, but by the way he was feeling right now; it was apparent he had not. He felt another twinge of fear, thinking there was always the possibility that he would never see his wife and son again.
He tried dismissing those thoughts, now concentrating on the fact that he was getting hungry and wondered when and if some food would finally show up?
His thoughts drifted for a moment to his partner, praying that Napoleon would be able to get him out of this one?. He had to believe it...that Solo would indeed do as he always had and arrive in the nick of time to save him.
Illya had nothing more to do now but to wait and hope as his stomach growled in protest.
* reference to "Beginnings"