Alexander Waverly arose early as usual. Today, however, instead of going into headquarters, he needed to take care of a few things before his late afternoon flight. He looked over the clothes his housekeeper had set out for him to take on his trip. He picked up a black and red sweater and made a face. Where did this thing come from? The gift from the previous year's "Secret Santa" at the office wasn't his style at all. He had instructed Mrs. Hyde to give the hideous thing to the Salvation Army. Apparently she had ignored him.
He fingered the fine cashmere of the garment. At least the gift-giver had good taste. He wondered—for not the first time—if his Secret Santa had already bought the gift for Mr. Solo in the hopes of getting him for her gift recipient. It was certainly more like something the young man would wear in his leisure time. Mr. Solo liked his fine clothing, an affectation Waverly had reason to find displeasure in more than once. It was quite a drain on the U.N.C.L.E. budget when they had to replace Solo's ruined suits. Waverly himself was more of an off-the-rack tweed suit sort of man. In that respect he was rather more like Solo's partner, Mr. Kuryakin.
The thought of his Russian agent reminded him of the diary Kuryakin had kept as a young KGB trainee. Very stupid, that. Extremely sloppy spycraft Of course, Kuryakin was a boy when he started the diary. After reading the diary, Waverly felt it highly likely the writing of the diary went a long way in keeping the boy sane in an insane situation. He shuddered at the thought of what those pages had contained. Insane situation, indeed.
Still, even if Mr. Kuryakin had good reason to write the diary in the first place, not destroying it when he had the chance was a huge mistake. Waverly glanced behind him at the painting that hid the safe where the diary currently nestled amidst his important papers. He sighed and shook his head. A mistake he had decided to make, as well. As much as he should throw the diary in the fire and let it burn until it became just another pile of ashes, he simply couldn't bring himself to do so.
If he couldn't destroy it as he should, he needed to at least make sure it never saw the light of day again. It was not safe here in the house. Security could be circumvented. People bought and turned. That sort of thing. If THRUSH was ever able to get in there, they would surely discover the safe and find the diary. That would not just severely compromise one of his best agents, it could cause major difficulties within the ranks of the U.N.C.L.E. if the other Section I heads discovered just what they had in their midst.
Waverly trusted Mr. Kuryakin implicitly, but he knew the young man well. When Andreov first approached him about taking Kuryakin on, his Russian counterpart had told him what to expect. Waverly had been intrigued by the training Kuryakin had received and he felt what the young Russian could bring to U.N.C.L.E. far outweighed the possible stability issues. After all, Kuryakin was a part of the Soviet program attempting to make a super agent. U.N.C.L.E. could certainly use that kind of agent in its ranks. Andreov had assured him that his adopted nephew had some issues with psychologists, but was otherwise stable. Waverly took the young man on with the agreement that if he felt Mr. Kuryakin was more dangerous to U.N.C.L.E. than helpful, he would send him packing back to the Soviet Union.
It turned out to be one of the best deals he'd ever made. Illya Kuryakin was resourceful, a master marksman, a polyglot, able to shed his own metaphorical skin and slip into that of someone else with ease. To top it off, he had an eidetic memory and an intelligence that edged on genius—if it didn't cross that line. He had to circumvent the U.N.C.L.E. psych evaluation requirements, but in the years since the young Russian joined the U.N.C.L.E., Waverly had never had a reason to doubt the man's sanity. As a matter of fact, he often thought Kuryakin to be one of the most sane people he'd ever met.
Which was why Waverly often wondered why Kuryakin had such a phobia when it came to U.N.C.L.E. psychologists. He didn't seem to have a problem with enemy psychologists. Oh, he didn't like them. Loathed them, in fact. Yet he seemed less fearful of them than he was of U.N.C.L.E. doctors. No matter how many times Waverly tried to convince his agent their own psychologists could be trusted, his agent adamantly held to the conviction they could not. After reading the diary Waverly now completely understood Mr. Kuryakin's aversion. The very people the Russian boy should have been able to trust were the very ones that tried to destroy him. Yes, completely understandable.
He turned to regard the painting behind which the safe hid. Perhaps that, more than anything, was the reason both he and Mr. Kuryakin hesitated to destroy such a powder keg of a diary. Much as it went against good spycraft, he felt it was up to his agent to get rid of the book. Until then it needed to be kept very, very safe.
Waverly strode to the wall and took the painting off the wall. He put the proper sequence of numbers into the combination lock and opened the safe. He pulled the beat-up, stained little book from amongst the papers and slipped it into the large pocket of his tweed jacket. He closed the safe, scrambled the lock, and replaced the painting.
He moved to the bedroom door and opened it. "Nadine!" he called for the head of his household staff. Now that his wife was dead, he relied heavily on her.
An older, heavy set woman hurried into the hallway from another room and bustled towards him. "Yes, ducky?" she asked, her cockney accent still thick after all these years in America.
He smiled slightly at the nickname. She'd been with the Waverly family since Waverly was a small lad. He used to follow her while she worked. No matter how underfoot he got, she always treated him with respect and a smile. The nickname "ducky" just seemed to go with that. "I must run out for a bit," he told her. "Could you please finish packing for me? Do not include the small stack on the side." He waggled a finger at her. "You know how I hate that sweater."
She smiled sweetly. "It would look darlin' on ya. One o' these days I'll get-cha to wear it."
"Highly doubtful."
He donned his hat and snatched his cane as he made his way to the garage where his favorite roadster awaited him. The diary would be safe in the bank.
Ivan began his new life behind the counter at the bar owned and operated by a cousin from the old country. Towel tucked into his apron tie, he smiled and drew beers for the patrons. Little Russia was a comforting place to be, where he could hear his native tongue and the people were his people.
That was just the front of the house though. The face of Little Russia that the tourists saw. The back rooms were where the real business went on. The business out of sight from the police. High stakes card games. Illegal betting. What the police didn't see made far more money than selling alcohol in a neighborhood watering hole.
Opportunity gleamed in Ivan's dark eyes. Opportunity and ambition. He wasn't smiling at the customers as they thought. He knew that in America he was going to go somewhere. He was going to be king of Little Russia someday. Maybe even the New York underworld.
Illya shoved over some empty beer bottles to make room on the counter. He smeared jam onto toast for his breakfast. The pot one would normally use for tea had some strange liquid drying up in the bottom and he didn't want to take the time to clean it, nor the ambition to try, so he opened the fresh bottle of milk and had a glass of that. He felt safer in a THRUSH lab than he did in this kitchen.
A noise down the hall caught his attention and the, now dressed, female left his bedroom and closed the bathroom door behind her. He took the opportunity to go in and gather his books for class. When he returned to the kitchen he found her eating his toast and drinking his milk.
"Morning," she mumbled and smiled at him with blueberry lips.
"Good day." He could think of nothing else to say.
"You're new here, aren't you?" she asked.
He only looked at her as if studying a specimen.
"Olaf said you were the guy who answered the ad for a roomie. My name's Lindy. What's yours?"
"Il...er...Dima." He shook his head. He internally chastised himself. How could he be that careless? He took a deep breath and gathered his disguise in his mind. "Do you make that," he wiggled his finger toward his bedroom and the scene the night before, "sort of thing a habit?"
"Cory? Or the games?" she asked. A smile spread over her face but she didn't even blush.
He shook his head. "I think I better get going. I need to go to the library this morning." He collected his books and left.
Javier was sitting under an oak tree enjoying the morning sun on his face. His diner shift wasn't until 10 so he had time to relax and observe the habits of some of the people on their watch list. He let out a soft whistle when he saw Illya approaching.
The area was clear so the Russian agent walked over and sat down on the grass beside Javier.
"Here," Javier said as he passed a paper sack to Illya.
"What is this?" Illya asked.
"Sustenance." Javier smirked and took a drink from his paper cup.
Illya pulled out a packet of Pop Tarts and another take away cup full of liquid.
"I hope you don't mind coffee with cream and sugar. I didn't know what you wanted but anything has to be better than what you have at home."
Illya nodded. "I skipped breakfast. What is this Pop Tart thing?"
"Not sure," Javier shrugged. "I hear they are good though."
Illya tore the pack open and sniffed the contents. "You hear any more from UNCLE yet?"
Javier shook his head. "Waverly left this morning. Probably boarding right about now."
Illya took a bite of the pastry. It was very sweet, thick and a little tough but the filling was okay. "A whole month."
"I suppose we'll see how well Napoleon does in his shoes now."
"I am sure he will do fine," Illya said. He hoped Napoleon would be too busy to snoop around his case now. "I'm going to see about getting closer to Johnny today. I should be able to accidentally bump into him after class."
"Stop by the diner for dinner tonight. Let me know how it goes." Javier swallowed the last of his coffee and crushed the empty cup before slipping it into the paper bag. "I should have more from UNCLE by then."
Illya nibbled the pie-like thing for a while and drank the mediocre coffee. It was better than nothing. Then he headed to class.
Napoleon squirmed in Alexander Waverly's chair. It was plush and comfortable but didn't seem right. He wished he was in the field playing back up for Illya. It wasn't right having an unfamiliar agent watching over the assignment. Unfortunately, there wasn't much time to dwell on that fact as the daily routine started.
Although Alexander Waverly always looked like he had things running smoothly under his control, Napoleon was finding out that there was a lot more to the job than it looked. Case reviews had to be done. Budget requests analyzed. Activity studies performed. Agent reports came in constantly. High profile cases required decisions.
There was a good support staff who knew Waverly's patterns and preferences and Napoleon consulted them for input. He was confident about day to day running of UNCLE. He trusted the people and agents alike. There was only one exception on his mind during this time.
It wasn't normal for UNCLE to put their trust in a civilian. They weren't getting paid for the risks like Agents were. Sometimes it was necessary to make use of opportunities though. Nancy was Napoleon's ace in the hole this time. At least with her watching over Illya he would have extra eyes that he could trust. He wasn't as sure about Javier and he wasn't sure he wanted to tell Javier about Illya's recent background. Nor did he want to reveal too much about his personal interest in Illya.
He shuffled around some files on his desk and picked up the next one, the fifth of the morning. "Lab supplies," he read aloud to himself. A crooked half smile, half frown crossed his face. He imagined the short document written in Illya's own handwriting. Maybe it was a way to think of Illya being closer.
Illya tried to follow the lecture but found that the little things Professor Stillwell stated about Russia that portrayed the stereotypical American view of the people irked him. He still had trouble keeping his emotions under full control. U.N.C.L.E. personnel called him Ice Prince for a reason. His emotional control was legend among friend and foe alike. Lack of it just wasn't like him. Hadn't been since Sarkov got hold of him. His life seemed so changed from what it used to be. From what it should be.
Then he would spot Nancy staring at him from her seat two rows over. That was probably Napoleon's doing. He probably had her spying on him. What would that do to the mission? It was a simple enough assignment to get him back in the field. Napoleon seemed to be doing everything in his power to sabotage it. Illya's jaw clenched in anger. Why did the man he'd considered his best friend want to ruin Illya's chances at getting back into the field? He was ready. Well, for the most part. And the part he worried about Napoleon had no inkling of. So why?
Maybe this little taste of power was going to Napoleon's head. The American always did have a lot of ambition and he liked being in charge. Still, Illya never considered his friend to be what he would call power hungry. Yet what other reason could there be?
Illya hoped Waverly decided a month was too long to be away and would come back early. If he didn't and Napoleon kept it up, Illya would very likely want to kill his partner long before the month was up.
The reminder of Waverly sent his thoughts careening into yet another direction. One day Waverly would either retire or die and Napoleon would take over for real. When that happened, he would inherit everything pertaining to UNCLE from the old man. Including the diary. That damned diary! The idea of sneaking into the old man's house and finding it was really tempting. There wouldn't be a better time to try than now.
The lecture concluded with the professor assigning a chapter in a history book about the Czars of Russia. Illya hurried to the front as the rest of the student body began making their way out the door. He handed in his first papers showing he was trying to catch up on the missed introductions to the course since registering late. Luckily Stillwell didn't keep him to talk.
"Hey John! Wait up!" a voice shouted.
Johnny stopped and turned around to see who called him.
"Hi Kurt. What's up man?" he said as the two of them joined up in the corridor.
Kurt shook the hair back from his eyes with a flick of his head. He switched his books into his other arm. "I hear you can get some good smoke."
Johnny spun and socked his new acquaintance in the shoulder. "Shhh... Dammit. You wanna get me expelled?"
"Sorry man," Kurt said, lowering his voice. They headed outside and down the steps. "I didn't mean nuthin by it."
"It's okay," Johnny told him. "Just be more careful. Besides I don't carry it on me."
"But you can get some can't you?" he asked.
"I don't know. The supply is limited. Who told you anyway?" He had the nasty feeling that this was going to soon spiral out of control.
"David. He's in my class."
"Well don't ask me on campus again. I'll see what I can do," he promised.
"Great!" Kurt slapped Johnny on the back and began to dash off. "I'll catch you later."
Illya watched the other student run toward the door and decided he should approach Johnny before the student became entangled with anyone else. He trotted up behind him and called, "John?"
"No, no, no," John said, trying to cover his ears. He didn't turn around.
"Wait. What?" Illya said, confused.
"Don't even ask. Jeez man."
Illya didn't understand what was going on and followed him. "We met at the house party last night. You were at Olaf's apartment. I stay there now," he explained with the accent thicker than his normal one.
"Mikey, right?" John said, exasperated. "Look. Don't even ask."
"Dima," he corrected him. "Don't ask what?"
Johnny rolled his eyes. "All day long I've had people asking for ... Dad is gonna get me expelled if he makes me keep this up."
"Keep what up?" he asked.
"Don't you start."
"I don't understand. Maybe I can help," Illya offered.
"All day long... Listen man. I can't talk here." He just wanted to get a degree so he could move away from home and live his own life.
"If you want to talk I know a place that would be private enough. There will be no one from school around so we won't be interrupted. You look like you need to get away for a little while," Illya said.
Johnny was about to decline but another voice called out to him. He didn't want to talk to anyone else and made a snap decision. "Let's go now then."
In overalls with a company logo, armed with a clipboard with a work order, Javier Ponce walked into the administration building on campus. Using a thick Spanish accent he showed the work order to spray for insects in the records room and requested no one enter without the proper respiratory gear while he worked.
The initial confusion of the staff quickly dissolved when the huge spider he brought along was tossed through the records room door and he pointed it out. "See. It doesn't take long for them to spread once they get a foothold in any one area."
Javier was pleased to get in and was sure he wouldn't be disturbed as he checked out the records of several students. The look on the women's faces actually made him wonder if they would come in there by themselves at all in the near future. He made sure to scoop up and safely stow the tarantula in the tool case he carried. He would return it to the zoology department when he was done.
It wasn't the look of Little Russia that made it stand out as a community in New York. It was the people and their culture. Illya came to the area once in awhile to taste the genuine food from his homeland. This would have been a good chance to do that, but he didn't want to run into anyone who could expose his real identity when he was under cover. A beer or two might relax Johnny and help him open up. Illya chose a bar close to the EL station.
"I come here to hear voices from my homeland," Illya said. "I miss Russia sometimes."
Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Who would want to go there?"
Illya ushered him to a seat in a bench booth in the back. They could talk in private there. The locals wouldn't intrude or overhear their conversation. "It is a beautiful country. My Russian studies professor only knows the awful things printed in books," he said with some disdain. "I do not like how people in this country think of my homeland."
"Sorry," Johnny said, feeling like he could be more himself now that he was out of the social environment of school and his father's influence. "I meant no offence."
Illya shook his head and signaled the server for a couple beers. "It's okay. Maybe you learn more about the real people and you will know better," he said. "So what happened today? You seem a little up in tights."
Johnny snorted a bit at the mangled saying. "Oh, nothing." He nodded his thanks to the guy who brought their beer over. Then he raised his glass and took a swig. "I guess word is getting around about the smoke. Everyone wants to be my friend now."
Illya could understand that. "So why not just say no?"
"It's complicated. My dad..." he paused and then let out a growl of frustration. "It's my dad's doing."
"Tell me. Perhaps I help?" he offered.
"You have to promise not to say anything to anyone," Johnny said.
Illya nodded. "You have my word."
Johnny took another big drink from his glass. "I didn't want to do it but dad said I have to. He gave me the weed and told me to pass it on to a few people. He wants me to make friends with them and talk them into joining my dad's company. Naturally I had to share it with the others there, too. I couldn't just give it to one or two people and not the others."
"Why does your dad want to do that?" Illya asked.
"Well, I don't believe my eyes. So many years and thousands of miles and who do I see?" said, in Russian, a warm-toned voice that tickled Illya's memories from many years ago.
Illya's blue eyes widened in surprise. The face was older. The body now that of a man instead of the youth he knew back in the training he endured under Sarkov. But there was no mistaking Ivan Dobrolubov. The last time he saw Ivan it was with a sniper rifle in his hands. Now here he was carrying a crate of bottles to the back room.
"Uh..?" Illya stuttered, momentarily stunned.