A New Story-Chapter 5
Nov. 7th, 2014 09:26 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuWith heartfelt thanks to mrua7 for praise, encouragement and beta skills.
Friendly Fire is always a possibility in the career of a Section 2 field agent, when it happens; how they deal with it can either make or break them.
Link to Chapter 1-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5701682
Link to Chapter 2-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5717075
Link to Chapter 3-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5726660
Link to Chapter 4-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5738429
Chapter 5
Illya was grateful Lisa Rogers was away from her desk as he was in no mood for pleasantries since he was nursing his raw, untethered emotions as well as a hangover. Remnants of the headache were now a steady, dull throb at his temples.
Suddenly his shoulder holster felt strangely light against his ribs when he remembered there was no gun cradled in it.
“You’re losing it Kuryakin,” he muttered to himself.
It had become a habit, putting the holster on everyday without thinking.
Now it was just another unpleasant reminder of what was about to happen behind the cold grey metal doors of Alexander Waverly’s office.
Though ever the fatalist, he held onto one small thread of hope that he was innocent but chastised himself for such a thought and reminded himself that a child was dead with parents mourning her loss.
The Number 2 agent was determined not to appear vulnerable to the most powerful man in the entire U.N.C.L.E. network. As he stood poised outside Waverly’s office, he squared his shoulders, drew them back, and raised his chin high, mustering all his self confidence.
Illya fought the urge to shove his trembling hands into his pockets to hide them.
At precisely 11 a.m. he donned his poker face, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
Alexander Waverly stood, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out one of his office windows. Outside all remains of the previous night’s storm had evaporated with the heat of the morning sun.
His was in a somber mood as this was an unpleasant business both for him and Kuryakin.
Dressed smartly as always in his grey tweed suit and burgundy silk tie; he slowly turned to face his number two agent and noted the stoic facade.
The older man had heard the demeaning nickname given to the Ukrainian shortly after his transfer to the New York office from London. He was annoyed at the use of such terms but had to agree that “Ice Prince” suited him well.
He recalled the last time this young man and his cohort were in this office together and the non-verbal communication that took place between them. An entire conversation occurred without a single spoken word, Waverly mused. Now, the face of man standing in front of him was expressionless, without even the slightest trace of what might be happening just under the surface.
Illya observed his superior. He searched those wise grey eyes for a glimmer of his own guilt or innocence, punishment or redemption? The old man’s marble-like face was impassive.
At that moment each man shared the exact same thought about the other; “the man is a consummate actor.”
“Please sit down son.”
Waverly returned to his own seat at the conference table where a manilla folder waited for him. He reached for his pipe which seemed to have disappeared.
Kuryakin moved to his familiar chair a few seats to his boss’s left and sat down. Unaware he was holding his breath, he folded his hands in his lap and stared at the table.
“The ballistics report is back. I’m afraid it’s not good news,” the chief began and spun the round table to present the folder to Illya.
The blond agent’s heart sank. He struggled to suppress raw emotions that threatened to turn his cheeks crimson. He let out a silent sigh, drew in a long breath and opened the file. Pulling his reading glasses from his jacket pocket; he slipped them on and carefully read the first page.
STATE OF NEW JERSEY FORENSIC’S LABORATORY
DEPARTMENT OF SAFETY
DIVISION OF STATE POLICE
BALLISTICS REPORT
CITY OF: Montville
COUNTY OF: Morris
DATE OF SERVICE: April 22, 1968
MANUFACTURER/MODEL WEAPON TESTED: Walther P38/Carbine
SERIAL NUMBER: 1457623
REGISTERED OWNER: Classified
OWNER ADDRESS: Classified
REASON FOR TEST: Criminal investigation
TECHNICIAN NAME: Christopher Riley
Kuryakin scanned the next page to focus on the lab’s results at the bottom.
FINAL ANALYSIS:
FIRING DISCHARGED BULLET FINAL MATCH: POSITIVE
His mouth went dry and he swallowed hard. It was as if he had been punched in the gut and all the oxygen was suddenly sucked out of the room. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead and he wiped them away, pushing unruly strands of hair from his face with one quick swipe.
Even though in his heart he believed he was guilty, the pragmatist in him took over and seeing the official report, this fact hit home.
Responsibility for the little girl’s death now rested squarely on his shoulders.
Illya had read the newspaper in his office earlier that morning. A scan of the obituaries revealed her name; Nadine. She had been three years old.
“Three years old forever,” he thought, disheartened. There was a photograph of her shyly smiling and clutching a stuffed toy bunny. The obit stated that her funeral was this afternoon.
Illya wanted to apologize to her parents, let them know how desperately sorry he was. He had to make them understand that he would have willingly died in her place.
One question reeled to the forefront of his mind, “How do I live with myself knowing I have done this horrible thing?”
Mr.Waverly politely cleared his throat, jolting Kuryakin into the present once again. He glanced up at his boss and after mumbling, “Sorry, sir,” turned his attention back to the report in front of him and focused at the top of the second page to read it in it’s entirety.
Now, the Section 1 Chief waited patiently for the younger man to finish. Although this was not the first time an enforcement agent under his command was responsible for the death of an innocent child; it was his heart-felt hope this would be the last.
While his did not coddle his agents, he was not insensitive to the negative psychological effects a tragedy of this nature might inflict.
Of the six men with circumstances similar to the Ukrainian’s; two transferred to other departments, three resigned from U.N.C.L.E. and one committed suicide.
Alexander Waverly studied Kuryakin with scrutiny, believing he was made of sterner stuff and briefly turned his attention to the control panel console behind him for the elusive pipe. Not finding it, he turned back to study his Number 2 agent once again.
When Illya finished he closed the folder, returned his glasses to his pocket and placed his hands out of sight under the table, balled into tight fists. His appeared serene, his inner turmoil well hidden as he gazed once again at his boss.
Their eyes locked.
“There are legal ramifications to this friendly fire incident,” Waverly explained. “No contact of any kind with the victim’s family is permitted under any circumstance. To do so would mean immediate dismissal from the Command with requisite deprogramming and in your particular case Mr.Kuryakin, you would be deported and returned to the hands of the Soviet Government.”
Illya blinked, absorbing this information; his expression rigid and emotionless.
“You will present yourself to Medical today at 2 p.m. for psychiatric evaluation and any necessary treatment with Doctor...er.. Robert Marsh.”
Waverly saw the grimace Illya failed to disguise, but the old man ignored it and continued.
“One week suspension with pay pending internal investigation. Section 1 will meet to review all the facts of your case later this week and you will present yourself to me next Monday at 5 p.m. when I will apprise you of our final decision.”
Illya raised his eyebrows in surprise at this news and shrunk down in his seat ever so slightly, feeling like he was back at State school and had just received a reprimand from the headmaster. His boss’s stern words had that effect on him more times than he’d care to remember.
“This means I don’t want you anywhere near this building young man, unless you are traveling to or from Medical.”
Waverly’s voice softened as he added; “I don’t expect any foreseeable objections to your reinstatement, son.” There was a twinkle of kindness in his eyes. “Questions Mr. Kuryakin?”
One week suspension with pay? Illya was confused at that statement. He thought he’d be spending time in a holding cell or at the very least confined to headquarters until Section 1 made their final ruling. This was hardly what he had been expecting.
He had resigned to submit himself willingly to whatever fate Section 1 deemed appropriate.
Illya desperately wanted to argue against the rationale behind the no contact rule, but his apology or even attending the funeral were no longer options, to do that would bring a decisive end to his career and he did not relish the thought of returning home to the Soviet Union.
His reply to Waverly was delivered with a stone face, “I believe you’ve covered my questions sir.”
“Then we are done here, Mr. Kuryakin. All that’s left is to return your property to you; for personal protection only.”
The old man rose to retrieve a box from the cabinets along the wall behind him and placed it on the table.
“Your pipe, Sir.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You were looking for your pipe? It’s there. On the cabinet shelf next to where the container was that you just removed.”
“Oh yes quite, thank you, ahem....it’s more elusive than T.H.R.U.S.H.”
Waverly chuckled and recovered the errant smoking instrument, placing the unlit mouthpiece between his teeth for safe keeping.
He sucked on it thoughtfully as he spun the table one last time to present the box to his agent and studied him carefully for any reaction.
The blond stood with his arms at his sides. He reached over, removing the lid and set it aside. His hand hesitated over the contents of the box for one brief second before he reached inside.
In a literal blur of movement that left Waverly speechless; Illya removed his Walther with the initial ‘K’ monogrammed on the grip, checked the magazine, as well as the chamber and slipped the weapon into his holster.
When Waverly recovered, he spoke again,“Errr...firing range this afternoon might be a good idea.”
Kuryakin nodded, turned and was gone.
To Be Continued.
Friendly Fire is always a possibility in the career of a Section 2 field agent, when it happens; how they deal with it can either make or break them.
Link to Chapter 1-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5701682
Link to Chapter 2-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5717075
Link to Chapter 3-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5726660
Link to Chapter 4-http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563967/chapters/5738429
Chapter 5
Illya was grateful Lisa Rogers was away from her desk as he was in no mood for pleasantries since he was nursing his raw, untethered emotions as well as a hangover. Remnants of the headache were now a steady, dull throb at his temples.
Suddenly his shoulder holster felt strangely light against his ribs when he remembered there was no gun cradled in it.
“You’re losing it Kuryakin,” he muttered to himself.
It had become a habit, putting the holster on everyday without thinking.
Now it was just another unpleasant reminder of what was about to happen behind the cold grey metal doors of Alexander Waverly’s office.
Though ever the fatalist, he held onto one small thread of hope that he was innocent but chastised himself for such a thought and reminded himself that a child was dead with parents mourning her loss.
The Number 2 agent was determined not to appear vulnerable to the most powerful man in the entire U.N.C.L.E. network. As he stood poised outside Waverly’s office, he squared his shoulders, drew them back, and raised his chin high, mustering all his self confidence.
Illya fought the urge to shove his trembling hands into his pockets to hide them.
At precisely 11 a.m. he donned his poker face, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
Alexander Waverly stood, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out one of his office windows. Outside all remains of the previous night’s storm had evaporated with the heat of the morning sun.
His was in a somber mood as this was an unpleasant business both for him and Kuryakin.
Dressed smartly as always in his grey tweed suit and burgundy silk tie; he slowly turned to face his number two agent and noted the stoic facade.
The older man had heard the demeaning nickname given to the Ukrainian shortly after his transfer to the New York office from London. He was annoyed at the use of such terms but had to agree that “Ice Prince” suited him well.
He recalled the last time this young man and his cohort were in this office together and the non-verbal communication that took place between them. An entire conversation occurred without a single spoken word, Waverly mused. Now, the face of man standing in front of him was expressionless, without even the slightest trace of what might be happening just under the surface.
Illya observed his superior. He searched those wise grey eyes for a glimmer of his own guilt or innocence, punishment or redemption? The old man’s marble-like face was impassive.
At that moment each man shared the exact same thought about the other; “the man is a consummate actor.”
“Please sit down son.”
Waverly returned to his own seat at the conference table where a manilla folder waited for him. He reached for his pipe which seemed to have disappeared.
Kuryakin moved to his familiar chair a few seats to his boss’s left and sat down. Unaware he was holding his breath, he folded his hands in his lap and stared at the table.
“The ballistics report is back. I’m afraid it’s not good news,” the chief began and spun the round table to present the folder to Illya.
The blond agent’s heart sank. He struggled to suppress raw emotions that threatened to turn his cheeks crimson. He let out a silent sigh, drew in a long breath and opened the file. Pulling his reading glasses from his jacket pocket; he slipped them on and carefully read the first page.
STATE OF NEW JERSEY FORENSIC’S LABORATORY
DEPARTMENT OF SAFETY
DIVISION OF STATE POLICE
BALLISTICS REPORT
CITY OF: Montville
COUNTY OF: Morris
DATE OF SERVICE: April 22, 1968
MANUFACTURER/MODEL WEAPON TESTED: Walther P38/Carbine
SERIAL NUMBER: 1457623
REGISTERED OWNER: Classified
OWNER ADDRESS: Classified
REASON FOR TEST: Criminal investigation
TECHNICIAN NAME: Christopher Riley
Kuryakin scanned the next page to focus on the lab’s results at the bottom.
FINAL ANALYSIS:
FIRING DISCHARGED BULLET FINAL MATCH: POSITIVE
His mouth went dry and he swallowed hard. It was as if he had been punched in the gut and all the oxygen was suddenly sucked out of the room. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead and he wiped them away, pushing unruly strands of hair from his face with one quick swipe.
Even though in his heart he believed he was guilty, the pragmatist in him took over and seeing the official report, this fact hit home.
Responsibility for the little girl’s death now rested squarely on his shoulders.
Illya had read the newspaper in his office earlier that morning. A scan of the obituaries revealed her name; Nadine. She had been three years old.
“Three years old forever,” he thought, disheartened. There was a photograph of her shyly smiling and clutching a stuffed toy bunny. The obit stated that her funeral was this afternoon.
Illya wanted to apologize to her parents, let them know how desperately sorry he was. He had to make them understand that he would have willingly died in her place.
One question reeled to the forefront of his mind, “How do I live with myself knowing I have done this horrible thing?”
Mr.Waverly politely cleared his throat, jolting Kuryakin into the present once again. He glanced up at his boss and after mumbling, “Sorry, sir,” turned his attention back to the report in front of him and focused at the top of the second page to read it in it’s entirety.
Now, the Section 1 Chief waited patiently for the younger man to finish. Although this was not the first time an enforcement agent under his command was responsible for the death of an innocent child; it was his heart-felt hope this would be the last.
While his did not coddle his agents, he was not insensitive to the negative psychological effects a tragedy of this nature might inflict.
Of the six men with circumstances similar to the Ukrainian’s; two transferred to other departments, three resigned from U.N.C.L.E. and one committed suicide.
Alexander Waverly studied Kuryakin with scrutiny, believing he was made of sterner stuff and briefly turned his attention to the control panel console behind him for the elusive pipe. Not finding it, he turned back to study his Number 2 agent once again.
When Illya finished he closed the folder, returned his glasses to his pocket and placed his hands out of sight under the table, balled into tight fists. His appeared serene, his inner turmoil well hidden as he gazed once again at his boss.
Their eyes locked.
“There are legal ramifications to this friendly fire incident,” Waverly explained. “No contact of any kind with the victim’s family is permitted under any circumstance. To do so would mean immediate dismissal from the Command with requisite deprogramming and in your particular case Mr.Kuryakin, you would be deported and returned to the hands of the Soviet Government.”
Illya blinked, absorbing this information; his expression rigid and emotionless.
“You will present yourself to Medical today at 2 p.m. for psychiatric evaluation and any necessary treatment with Doctor...er.. Robert Marsh.”
Waverly saw the grimace Illya failed to disguise, but the old man ignored it and continued.
“One week suspension with pay pending internal investigation. Section 1 will meet to review all the facts of your case later this week and you will present yourself to me next Monday at 5 p.m. when I will apprise you of our final decision.”
Illya raised his eyebrows in surprise at this news and shrunk down in his seat ever so slightly, feeling like he was back at State school and had just received a reprimand from the headmaster. His boss’s stern words had that effect on him more times than he’d care to remember.
“This means I don’t want you anywhere near this building young man, unless you are traveling to or from Medical.”
Waverly’s voice softened as he added; “I don’t expect any foreseeable objections to your reinstatement, son.” There was a twinkle of kindness in his eyes. “Questions Mr. Kuryakin?”
One week suspension with pay? Illya was confused at that statement. He thought he’d be spending time in a holding cell or at the very least confined to headquarters until Section 1 made their final ruling. This was hardly what he had been expecting.
He had resigned to submit himself willingly to whatever fate Section 1 deemed appropriate.
Illya desperately wanted to argue against the rationale behind the no contact rule, but his apology or even attending the funeral were no longer options, to do that would bring a decisive end to his career and he did not relish the thought of returning home to the Soviet Union.
His reply to Waverly was delivered with a stone face, “I believe you’ve covered my questions sir.”
“Then we are done here, Mr. Kuryakin. All that’s left is to return your property to you; for personal protection only.”
The old man rose to retrieve a box from the cabinets along the wall behind him and placed it on the table.
“Your pipe, Sir.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You were looking for your pipe? It’s there. On the cabinet shelf next to where the container was that you just removed.”
“Oh yes quite, thank you, ahem....it’s more elusive than T.H.R.U.S.H.”
Waverly chuckled and recovered the errant smoking instrument, placing the unlit mouthpiece between his teeth for safe keeping.
He sucked on it thoughtfully as he spun the table one last time to present the box to his agent and studied him carefully for any reaction.
The blond stood with his arms at his sides. He reached over, removing the lid and set it aside. His hand hesitated over the contents of the box for one brief second before he reached inside.
In a literal blur of movement that left Waverly speechless; Illya removed his Walther with the initial ‘K’ monogrammed on the grip, checked the magazine, as well as the chamber and slipped the weapon into his holster.
When Waverly recovered, he spoke again,“Errr...firing range this afternoon might be a good idea.”
Kuryakin nodded, turned and was gone.
To Be Continued.
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