"Kuryakin's Crisis"

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

October 22nd, 1962...a date in which a speech becomes part of history.

Napoleon Solo watched his partner’s face blanch as news of the Cuban Missile crisis began to unfold.

President  Kennedy had been informed about the deployment of Soviet medium-range missiles on Cuba shortly after 8 a.m. on the morning of Tuesday, Oct. 16.  This was the beginning of the world coming closer than ever before to a nuclear war.

The United States had approximately 3,500 nuclear warheads capable of reaching the Soviet Union, a 10-1 advantage over them.  By building missile bases in Cuba capable of launching 60 nuclear warheads into the United States, Khrushchev would be able to redress this military imbalance somewhat, although it would have left him far short of achieving first strike capability.

Illya was quiet, saying little and felt it best to make himself scarce given the circumstances, as there were those at headquarters, despite Waverly’s warning, who did not hold the Russian in high esteem.  The words Commie, Pinko and Red Menace began to resurface, regardless of the fact that  Solo was watching his partner’s back...that was until Napoleon was sent on an assignment, leaving his partner to fend for himself.  

Not that Illya wasn’t capable of taking care of himself, still the situation made the American nervous for his partner.

There had already been an incident with Illya being cornered in one of the more lonely corridors in headquarters.  Nothing physical happened, but there were lots of nasty things said to him, and he was told to go back home to where he belonged with his Russkie comrades. 

He stood silently, with his arms folded across his chest, giving them no satisfaction by challenging them.  He was finally able to slip away, when someone from Security showed to break it up.

Illya was sure it wouldn’t be the last time as he’d have to deal with such prejudices. Several days into the crisis, he was called into Waverly’s conference room, and there he was confronted with the one thing he did fear.  

“Come in Mr. Kuryakin,”  Waverly called to him.

Illya’s gaze was focused on a man standing there dressed in a Soviet military uniform, one with the rank of Colonel.

“Mr. Kuryakin, please be seated,”

“If it is all right with you sir, I prefer to stand,” he answered calmly.

“Very well, then young man. I’m afraid I have some grave news for you. As part of our contractual agreement with the Soviet Government and the GRU, you can in times of conflict be recalled to your home country to fulfill your military duties.”

“I am aware of that sir.”

“This is Colonel Nemiroff, military ataché to the Soviet Embassy here in New York.  Colonel this is my number two agent, Mister Illya Kuraykin.”

The Colonel offered a sharp salute, which brought Illya automatically to attention, crisply returning the same greeting.

“Mister. Waverly, I do beg your pardon if Comrade Kuryakin and I speak in Russian?”

Waverly nodded, not letting on that he could understand a fair amount of the language himself.

Tovarishch Kapitan Kuryakin , vy tem samym vspominayut na deystvitelʹnuyu voyennuyu sluzhbu ...Comrade Captain Kuryakin, you are hereby recalled to active military service, given the potential state of war that may exist between Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and  United States of America.  You are to report to the embassy at 05:00 on the twenty- eighth of October, where you will be taken to the Soviet frigate Novgorod, and transported to your command of the new Foxtrot Class submarine, Odessa, which awaits you in international waters. Once in command Capitan Kuryakin, your boat will head for Cuba.  Your sealed orders will await you on board. Is this clear Comrade?"

"Da, tovarishch polkovnik. Kak vy dumayete, on pridet k voyne_"Yes Comrade Colonel. Do you think it will come to war?”

“Eto ne nashe delo, eto dlya nas, chtoby bytʹ gotovym zanimatʹsya etim imperialisticheskim amerikantsev_that is not our concern, it is for us to be ready to engage these imperialist Americans who think they can bully us, and the rest of world. This American blockade of navigation in international waters and airspace is an act of aggression that will now propel us into a world nuclear-missile war. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics will be ready to defend itself and its rights.”

Illya said nothing in reply...

“Mr. Waverly,” said Nemiroff, “I do apologize on behalf of my government for taking valued agent from you; given you are organization independent of current situation between United States, my country and Cuba, but should there be war, we will need all our personnel to serve the people of the Soviet Union. You understand.”

“Yes, unfortunately I do Colonel. Let us hope this crisis can be averted by peaceful means and not with nuclear weapons. It will not just be the United States and the Soviet Union who will suffer, but millions of innocent people around the world.”

“Thank you Mr. Waverly and I bid you, good day.” The Colonel clicked his heels, saluting sharply. The door opened and he was met by a member of Security to be escorted out of headquarters to the U.N.C.L.E. garage, where a diplomatic staff car awaited him.

After the Colonel left, Illya drifted to one of the windows in the office, staring out at the New York skyline and the city that was now his home. Yet Mother Russia called, and it was his duty to go, whether he liked it or not.

As much as he’d made a place for himself here, Russia was still his country, and his emotional ties to her beckoned him.

“Are you all right son?” Waverly asked.

“Yes sir. I always knew this day could come, but still hoped it never would.  I would like to thank you for the time I have spent with the Command, and hope that I will live to be able to return some day.”

“Those are my exact hopes young man. This organization had existed to help maintain world peace. We have sent envoys to both parties in hopes of expediting a truce, and I pray these two great nations will reach some sort of compromise before it’s too late.”

Illya gravely nodded to the man who had recruited him, and taken him under his wing. He left the conference room with a heavy heart, thinking perhaps it would be the last time he’d ever see it along with the Old Man...

Walking through the grey corridors of headquarters Illya averted his eyes as people passed by. He assumed he would be running a gauntlet of good and bad words, as the rumor mill moved fast in this place.

Surprisingly there were none, it was as if it were just another day. There were no snide remarks and whispered slurs, conversely there were no words of sympathy either...not that he wanted them.

Apparently Mister Waverly and Lisa Rogers had seen to his situation and kept it under wraps.

He headed to his office to pick up a few things, though he kept a few personal articles there, mostly clothing and a makeup kit, though he suddenly realized he’d probably not have need of them. As he gathered them he looked at Napoleon’s desk.

His partner was on assignment in France, but he was no doubt aware of the current situation between the United States, Cuba, and the Soviet Union.  He could call him on his communicator, but at the moment he thought better. He had to keep his emotions in check more than ever and saying goodbye to his best friend possibly forever would not do at the moment.

As Captain of a Soviet Submarine it would be his duty to let loose nuclear missiles, no doubt on New York and Washington. If he did so, everyone here that he knew and cared for would be dead.

Before leaving he pulled a piece of paper and an envelope from his desk drawer and wrote a note to his partner. Addressing the envelope to Napoleon, he sealed it and tucked it under the desk blotter with just a corner peeking out.

Illya left his office, not looking back and made his way to Reception. There he was met by a member of Security to whom he surrendered his weapon and his UNCLE identification.

Wanda who was manning the desk seemed not to take notice as all sorts of things happened at her station.

Illya nodded to her and she said she’d see him later...he only hoped that would be true.  Once exiting the dressing room Illya waved to Del, not saying a word and as he opened the door to the tailor shop, the little brass bell called out to him.

He would miss that sound…

A cab was waiting for him to take him to his apartment building where he dropped off his belongings. He’d asked the cabbie to wait and upon his return he was taken to the Soviet Embassy as he needed uniforms, since he no longer had any military garb.

He was allowed in without question, no doubt they were expecting him.  As he entered the building he was greeted by a clerk who directed him where to go.  For some reason the man followed him, acting as if Illya wouldn’t know the way.

Kuryakin stopped dead in his tracks, causing the man to bump into him. He addressed him in Russian. “If you are going to follow someone and keep them under surveillance, it is best to do so at a discreet distance.’

The clerk’s face blanched.”Proshu proshcheniya...Beg pardon Capitan Kuryakin, I was not watching where I was going.”

The man scuttled away, and another person appeared, walking behind Illya. No doubt it was another KBG or even GRU agent who was keeping an eye on him.

Illya arrived at his destination and picked up his uniforms as well as his papers commissioning him as the new Captain of the Odessa.

There  was no welcome back and other than the clerk he had chided about following him, not a single word was spoken to him. It was if a dark pall of silence hung over the embassy.

He supposed the thought of going to war, a nuclear war, had a lot of them contemplating their possible deaths.  Though the embassy would be evacuated soon as the Kremlin wouldn’t want any of their staff arrested by the Americans; that possibility existed no doubt.

Having left the embassy, Kuryakin returned to his apartment and after going through his personal belongings he at last opened a cardboard box in the bottom of his bedroom closet.

He tore back the dried tape and pulled the flaps open and began digging inside. First he pulled out his red Petrushka puppet, the one he secretly bought at an illegal stand one Christmas in Gorky, as it reminded him of one from his childhood.*** Next he removed a bible printed in Cyrillic, a set of Matryoshka dolls, and after digging beneath a few other bits and bobs, he found the hand-painted icon at the bottom of the box.

He stood with it in his hand, walking over to the bedroom window to look at it in a little better light. There was a piece of paper he’d forgotten about, rubber-banded to the back of it. And he recalled then, it was notes he’d written once after researching the portrait.

The image, painted in gold, was of Ignatius Brianchaninov with scenes from his life surrounding him and a beautiful example of a 20th century icons. Though not officially a saint, the Kazaki still venerated him, believing him to be one.

Illya had become curious and investigated this man Ignatius Brianchaninov as best he could and now he re-read his notes.

Born Dimitri Alexandrovich Brianchaninov to a wealthy landowning family in the 1800’s. and was educated at a prestigious school in St. Petersburg. He was successful in his studies, but found himself dissatisfied with life and in 1827 while in the military, he fell seriously ill and left the army, turning to a life of prayer.

He later took religious vows, receiving the monastic name of Ignatius. Soon after he was ordained a priest. and rose rapidly to the rank of archimandrite and at a young age was appointed superior of the Maritime Monastery of St. Sergius in St. Petersburg.

Twenty six years later he was consecrated Bishop of the Caucasus and the Black Sea, but he retired after only four years,  devoting  himself to more spiritual endeavours and writing a large amount of material regarding spiritual life and prayer.  Since he was not of Cossack extraction, Illya concluded that it was his writings that had attracted them to him. The  Christian Cossacks had an unorthodox way of looking at the Orthodox religion or perhaps it was because there were many Cossacks serving under Brianchaninov when he was in the military and his spirituality affected them...

Illya had tried once to find some of the written works of Saint Ignatius Brianchaninov, but his writings done for those in the monastic life, like all things religious, were banned. The young Russian dared not continue his research, lest it bring undue attention to him by his fellow agents, and superiors.

Illya glanced at the back of the paper as he held it in the light, seeing the quote he’d written from the Saint so long ago, and remembered that it was the priest, Father Demya who first quoted it to him as a child. At the time it meant little to him as he was so young, but now after all these years the words clawed at the soul he’d locked away for so long.

“He who is careless about prayer is careless about his salvation; he who quits prayer renounces his salvation...”

Illya laid back down on his bed, with the icon balanced on his bent knees. Images from his past...the good ones. flooded his head again. His thoughts went to Father Demya, the priest from Saint Andrew’s Church in Kyiv... for once Illya opened the door to his heart.

“Vo imyaOttsa, Syna i Svyatogo Dukha” He blessed himself, as he had been taught as a child and for the first time in many years, he let himself talk briefly to God, saying a prayer for all those around him, whom he loved so dearly, he did not want to become like the angel of death, Miykal, the bringer of souls, and be the one to kill them.

Illya dozed off, holding the precious icon to his chest. Perhaps it was a symbol of a religious belief to him after all? He whispered words he hadn’t spoken on this day in a very long time…

When he awoke, he tried on his new uniform and it fit perfectly. He stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom and saluted himself. 

“You are done for Kuraykin.”

He changed back into a pair of trousers and a heavy white turtleneck sweater, one he’d be able to wear onboard the submarine.  After packing his duffle, he added the icon to it, an Orthodox Bible written in Cyrillic, and a few books, one of which was Tolstoy’s War and Peace. He wasn’t sure why he chose that. And of course the Petrushka puppet.

Outside his living room window he heard a meow. It was the little black cat that he’d been feeding and he let it in.

“Hungry are you?” He opened up a can of tuna fish and fed it. “Sorry, this will be the last meal I will give you puss. You will have to find another friend to feed you.”

Once the animal was done eating, he picked it up and put it out on the fire escape, closing the window and locking it.

He lifted the telephone receiver, ordering a cab for himself to take him to the awaiting frigate. Gathering his duffle, garment bag and a small leather briefcase as well as his balalaika from the corner next to his old green sofa, Illya let out a deep sigh.

One last thing he stuffed in his jacket pocket and that was a silver flask given to him as a gift by his friend and partner; Illya then locked the door behind himself, not bothering to look back.

A checkered cab was waiting for him curbside though he had not expected it to be here so quickly. The rear door opened and someone unexpectedly exited the vehicle; it was Napoleon.

“Hi there, going somewhere tovarisch?”

“I thought you were in France.”

“I was, but given the situation between the U.S. and U.S.S.R. The Old Man recalled all his senior agents.”

Kuryakin turned cold, fighting back his feelings. “Napoleon, I must go. I have to catch a boat, and I can not be late.”

“No you don’t.”

“What?”

“I said you don’t. Apparently Kennedy and Krushchev have worked things out, and our countries are no longer on the brink of war. Mister Waverly told me to tell you, you are still his agent and here you’ll stay.”

Illya broke out in a big grin. “That is wonderful news.”

“Come on pal let’s go. I hear there’s a big party starting up at headquarters. Everyone’s celebrating the good news.”

After depositing his belongings back in his apartment and quickly changing into a suit, Illya accompanied his partner to Del Floria’s and headquarters.

Upon entering reception, Wanda greeted him like it was any other day of the week except this time she pinned Illya’s badge to his jacket lapel. 

“Oh and Security left this for you.” She held up a tray containing his gun and UNCLE ID card.

“Thank you Wanda.”

After Napoleon received his badge they entered the hallowed grey halls of headquarters and as the partners walked along, heading to the Commissary they or rather Illya received applause like a returning hero.

“Welcome back,” George Dennell called out. Several of the secretaries couldn’t resist giving Illya a peck on the cheek. Obviously the rumor mill, as he’d suspected it would, had seen to them knowing of his situation.

That of course made Napoleon give one of his disappointed looks, until he simply laughed. It was fine to let his partner be in the limelight for once.

In a way that did Kuryakin’s heart good.

* ref to"Zaporoche"

*** ref to "Petrushka"

both Illya backstories

Please excuse my Russian phraseology as some of it might not be grammatically correct...I'm trying.

Comments

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Very nice! And I do like the Saint Ignatius bit.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! It's good to get back into the swing of things. Writing has been tough, so I figured I'd redo this story a bit.

[pfrye.livejournal.com]

Outstanding - if we could get thru that perhaps there is still hope.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! And ain't that the truth!!!

[alynwa.livejournal.com]

I enjoyed the history lessons in this tale! Good job!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! You know me and my research. LOL!

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Your level of research and detail always astounds me, Cuz.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you cuz! I guess I've always looked upon research as a learning experience. It can become fascinating and often distracting from the task of writing a story. Sometimes I have to stop myself as I'll compile so much facts that I couldn't possibly fit into a story. Then I have to go back through it all and glean what's useful to the piece.