"The Lost Flight" Part 5

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4


As predicted the snow had arrived and it was coming down too heavily to launch search helicopters.

The signal from Illya’s communicator was growing weaker, preventing them from pinpointing the exact location. The weather wasn’t helping either the techs told Solo, as the atmospheric conditions were somehow affecting the signal as well.

Once the approximate location was determined, it was in three hundred mile radius. Napoleon knew there was a big problem besides the size of the search area as it was located in Soviet territory, somewhere in the Karelian Isthmus. He was aware that territory to be very remote and sparsely populted but that wasn't going to make a rescue any easier...that's if passengers of the missing jet were still alive.

Even though the Soviet Union was a member nation of U.N.C.L.E. there was a good possibility they’d shoot down any plane or chopper violating their airspace. He wondered if that was what had happened to the Learjet.

Alexander Waverly’s already worried brow furrowed at this news.

Since it was not a national emergency, Waverly was forced to wait until morning to make a call to the Chief of the Directorate of the GRU, Colonel-General Korabelniko Vladimirovich, who in turn would notify the Kremlin that an U.N.C.L.E. plane had gone down in Soviet territory.

The instant reaction would be that of spying, so of course Alexander would tell Vladimirovich his wife and grandchildren were on board, as well as Agent Kuryakin. He wouldn’t expect admission if the plane had indeed been downed by the Soviet air defense.

It was Vladimirovich himself who offered Kuryakin to the Command, making the young and very green agent their country’s representative.

Waverly had no illusions; he knew the GRU thought Illya Kuryakin would probably die in the first year of his employment with UNCLE, thought he obviously hadn't and had become one of the Command’s best agents.

What did it really matter to the Soviets, as long as they received their monthly intelligence reports? That was the price for giving away Illya Kuryakin. If he died, they’d merely send another greenhorn as a replacement. Yet his continued survival and excelling at his job might have been a slight embarrassment to Vladimirovich, but hat was neither here nor there as far as Waverly was concerned.

The CCO of U.N.C.L.E. was well aware of the situation with the KGB wanting their revenge against Kuryakin for his refusal to spy for them. It made him a marked man, and at the moment since the Secret Police were in favor with the Kremlin over the GRU, that complicated matters even further.

His only concern was to get to his people and his family out of there before the KGB got to them, that is if they were still alive.

He banished that thought from his mind, telling himself he needed to remain positive.

…..

As the sun rose in the cold winter sky, Father Pavel was already up and about early to start his day with his morning prayers.

He had fine bowls of porridge ready for everyone to eat along with scrambled eggs and toasted brown bread with butter. Jam was a luxury Father Pavel used sparingly, though he made is himself from the local berries when in season. He had dried diced apples which he rehydrated in water to put atop the porridge.

There was steaming hot tea and warm milk to go with this hearty breakfast.

After eating, it was time to see to the animals in the barn, and again the children helped Pavel with his chores. Hay for the reindeer, grain for the chickens and gathering more eggs and last of all, milking the cow.

Before going outside he asked Estelle to go through a trunkful of clothing, but didn’t tell her why. It was donations he’d collected and was planning to give to the poorer families in the area, though there were few of them. He simply said she should look for clothing that would fit Illya, she and the children.

After returning red cheeked from the cold the children were ready for more tea, bread and jam. While they ate Pavel spoke of the clothing.

“We must have you looking like locals should we have any unwanted visitors, so you must change your clothing. As far as speaking is concerned; Illya is Russian so there is no problem with him, and you Mrs. Waverly speak Russian well enough but anyone with good ear will know you are not native speaker. However, it is children who will be biggest problem.”

“They do speak a modicum of Russian as you've heard, and understand it well enough. Susan seems to be the better at it than her brother, “ Estelle said.

“Are not!” Thomas suddenly spoke up.”

“Am too!” Susan shouted at him.

“Not!”

“Am!”

“Not!”

“Am!”

“Enough!” Illya bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. “If you keep up that sort of prattle you will get us all killed. Do you understand me?”

He probably would have felt guilty had he been able to see the look of fear in the children’s eyes.

“Illya dearest, no need to shout. Children you should heed what he says. We are in a very dangerous situation.”

“But can’t Grandad come get us?” Thomas asked.

“I’m sure your grandfather is searching for us and will be here soon,” Estelle ran her fingers reassuringly through her grandson’s hair. It was her hope their rescue was near at hand, but one could never be sure; still she had to remain strong and positive for the children’s sakes.

They all changed into the clothing she’d selected for them, and when done they looked like a perfectly normal Russian family, at least to her. Pavel disappeared again to pray.

A cover story was concocted; Estelle would play the part of Evgeniya Kershakova, Illya’s mother. His first name would remain the same, but he’d be Illya Kershakov.. He was the children’s father; Susan’s name would be Syuzanna, and Thomas’s name would be simply Toma...close enough to both their real names.

Evgeniya, Illya and the children lived nearby but with the cold weather their small home wasn’t warm enough so they came to stay the winter with their friend Pavel. Being blind, Illya could no longer take care of their home, and his family relied upon the help of others to survive.

They even brought their milk cow with them, giving him her milk as a small thanks for Pavel’s hospitality.

“It sounds like a good plan for now,” Illya said, though he warned against Mrs. Waverly speaking unless she was forced to do so. The children, were instructed to give yes or no answers and nothing more, and told to act shy, but it would probably be fear that would keep them from speaking.

Kuryakin’s eyes were still no better, as Mrs. Waverly checked his wounds and changed the bandage on his shoulder. The laceration on his head was healing nicely, and she decided to leave it uncovered, his shoulder however had her concerned. The skin around the wound was red and warm to the touch, a sure sign of infection, though Illya had not developed a fever as of yet.

He insisted on dressing himself without assistance, thinking if his condition were permanent, then he better get used to taking care of himself.

Illya changed into the brown woolen pants she’d selected for him, wrapping a wide black leather belt around the waist to hold them up. He slowly wriggled into a traditional Russian style shirt, a simple homespun that Illya was told was black.

Mrs. Waverly most likely chose it as black was what he favored, but in old Russian tradition it carried a meaning. It was more of an country tradition but people who wore black were older, in the second stage of life, it was worn by spinsters, as well as monks. It possibly meant a disability, but generally it signified a great ‘no’ to the outside world.

The color choice worked well for his cover identity, given his blindness.

Mrs. Waverly in the role of Babushka would work, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into the part...though her choice of clothes, mainly the colors were not quite appropriate after all once Pavel saw them.

“Here Madam,” he handed her a black shift, shawl and kerchief for her head. “No offence meant but a woman of your age would not be wearing such colors. Black is tradition.”

“Oh how dreadful. Not even a hint of color?”

“No, I am sorry. A grandmother here does not dress thusly.”

She sighed, “What shall we do with our own clothing?”

“We must burn it, as I am sure unwanted visitors will insist upon searching my home. If they find it, then I am afraid…”

“I understand Pavel.”

There was disappointment in her voice; she wasn’t a vain woman but she appreciated the finer things in life. Her beautiful dress and winter coat had just been purchased for the trip. It seemed a waste to destroy them when someone else here could eventually wear them, but that wasn’t possible, was it? That would put someone else in danger.

Illya spoke up,” He is right Mrs. Waverly, the clothing must go.”

Everything was tossed into the fireplace, and what hadn’t burned completely was taken outside and buried beneath the pile of soiled hay filled with the manure from the barn.

The falling snow helped hide their tracks to the steaming pile that was a fair distance away from the church. It was hauled on a small flat sledge by the reindeer, with Pavel walking beside it while holding the reins just that morning as the and the children had cleaned the barn and the chicken coop.

The milk cow alone could produce 68 kilos of droppings a day, so that along with the manure from the reindeer could make quite a task at removing it.

The chicken coop, also inside, needed cleaning but not as often as there was a droppings board.The bedding under the droppings board could be left up to 4 to 6 weeks. The coop was deep cleaned twice a year, and would be done in the Spring.

Once the remnants of the clothing was disposed of, Pavel retreated upstairs to pray.  Estelle decided not to intrude, though she was curious about what was there.

Once he returned, he was surprised as Estelle with a little help from Illya, had prepared their supper.

Baked potato bread, and a nice big pot of mushroom soup, to which she added grain, which thickened it up quite nicely. She made a salad of hard boiled eggs and pickles. She baked some pickled vegetables she’d found in jars in one of the cupboards, and used some of them along with more of the mushrooms, and onions to make stuffed pelmeni, this with Illya’s direction.  He could at least give her some instructions on how the dumplings were made, though in the end she really didn’t need his help.

She was just humoring him to make him feel useful at the moment.

He’d always claimed to his partner that he couldn’t cook, except for survival style...that was roasting meat he’d caught on a spit over a campfire.

He could actually make quite a few Russian dishes but chose not to do so. Illya told himself that needed to acclimate himself to living in New York city and America, though most of the time he ended up eating Chinese take away with his partner.

When he felt the need for being Russian again, Illya would disappear to Brighton Beach over in Brooklyn where a fair population of Russian and Ukrainian expatriates lived.

When the table was set, Thomas again helped Illya to his chair, and just as they all sat down to their meal, headlights suddenly appeared outside the church.

Pavel rose and quickly peeked out the door. It was a black sedan, typical of the kind of car driven by KGB.

“They are here,” he ominously announced before returning to the table.

The gravity of the situation was evident in the old man's voice.

Part 6

Comments

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

You don't half know how to write a cliff-hanger!

Ps. Thanks for the link to the fairy tale yesterday. It was in the good old fashioned tradition of blood-thirsty tales for children :-)

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

LOL! Thank you. I do love my cliffies, don't I. These perfect break points just were there and weren't planned.
I wrote the story as a whole and then had to go back to divvy it into chapters...