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Napoleon dropped into his chair, waving a distracted ‘good morning’ across the adjoining desks as he set down his coffee cup and grimaced at his overflowing in basket. A Russian physicist might argue that matter couldn’t be created or destroyed, but the American agent had seen ample evidence that Section Two paperwork multiplied spontaneously whenever their office was unoccupied for more than a few hours. Either that or a mad Thrush scientist had found a way to bypass the Law of Conservation of Mass and devised a plot to bore UNCLE’s chief enforcement agent to death.
If Illya noticed either the CEA’s greeting or the brooding silence that followed, he didn’t bother to respond. He looked to be at least halfway through his report on their most recent mission. It was a shame they’d spent too much time apart for Napoleon to pawn off his own report on the industrious Russian. And speaking of time apart, he would have asked sooner if not for a few pleasant distractions …. “You don’t look any the worse for wear from your brief sojourn in bayou country,” he said, watching his partner’s fingers fly across the keyboard.
“There were a few close calls,” the Russian muttered with a faint upward twitch of his shoulders but without glancing away from his typewriter.
Napoleon grinned. “I had a couple of close calls myself, but luckily Miss Ackers was there to, ah, render first aid.”
Illya finally turned his direction … probably only so Napoleon would see the exaggerated eye roll. “You always seem to find an attractive young lady to provide succor when you need it.”
“Well, since you’d abandoned me …” Napoleon forced his thoughts away from the unease he’d felt when Illya had followed Adrian Cool’s kidnapped daughter into dangers unknown. “And speaking of attractive young ladies … Coco Cool seemed quite interested in continuing her acquaintance with,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “the fuzz.”
“I am not, technically, fuzz,” Illya said without a hint of inflection, apparently able to type without looking at his hands and to keep straight two distinct mental threads, a conversation and a mission report, at the same time.
“And I’ll bet she thought a superspy was even more appealing.”
Illya rolled his eyes again but Napoleon saw a flash of sadness as he turned away. “Miss Cool is practically a child, Napoleon.”
“I doubt she’d agree with that assessment,” Napoleon said, recalling the curves barely contained by a pink bikini. “And she sure doesn’t look like one.” He studied his friend for a moment, puzzled as usual by Illya’s reticence with the legions of attractive females who threw themselves at him in the course of their work. “Miss Cool is brave and pretty and smart …”
“And she reminded me — very briefly — of my sister.” The words were flat, and so soft Napoleon wasn’t certain he’d heard them correctly.
“You have a sister?” Napoleon wondered whether the Russian was prevaricating. He didn’t think a secret like that could have escaped Illya’s personnel file … much less the notice of his best friend.
“Had.” Illya took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking his head as though trying to clear it of painful memories as he pulled a page of his report from the typewriter and set it atop a neat pile on his desktop. “I had a sister.”
Illya picked up a folder and opened the cover, dropping his eyes to what appeared to be a diagram of the astromomy tower on the island home of the Cools.
Skilled in interrogation techniques, and accustomed to his friend’s taciturn silences, Napoleon waited patiently. He was almost certain Illya wouldn’t have brought up his sister if he didn’t want … or at least need … to talk about it.
“Kateryna was three years my junior,” Illya said after huffing out a resigned sigh. “We were two of the few survivors of the German offensive that destroyed our village outside Kiev in 1943.”
Illya’s personnel file stated, without details, that he had lost almost his entire family during the brutal and destructive German retreat from the Russian front in the second half of World War II. He had never previously mentioned other survivors and Napoleon had never inquired. “So you both went to an orphanage?”
“Orphanages, Napoleon. Boys and girls were placed in separate facilities. It was easier — for the administrators — that way.”
“And your sister looked like Coco Cool?” That could definitely have led to problems if boys and girls were housed in close quarters.
Illya snorted. “The last time I saw Kateryna, she was seven.” He paused, tilting his head to the side and running a hand through the hair that fell across his forehead. “But she was blonde and petite. And brave and and pretty and smart,” Illya added, echoing Napoleon’s description of Adrian Cool’s daughter.
Napoleon waited while his partner slipped a new piece of paper into the typewriter, turning the platen knob and then slapping the carriage return a bit more sharply than necessary to move the blank form into position. “You’ve worked around plenty of pretty blonde females over the years,” he pointed out casually once Illya’s fingers were once again resting on the machine’s keys. “What was different about Coco Cool?”
Illya took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know. Something about her eyes, perhaps, or the lilt of her voice.” He tapped the keys without enough pressure to force the type bars into the ribbon, as though the restive movements might drive away painful memories. “Kateryna and I used to sing together … when we were small … before ….”
“What happened to her? To Kateryna?” Napoleon asked gently, unclear whether the girl had died or whether her fate and her whereabouts were simply unknown and unknowable. That would be far worse. Hundreds of thousands of people had disappeared during the years of destruction and deprivation, any surviving loved ones left with a lifetime of wondering.
“There was a disease outbreak at the orphanage where she was living. I don’t recall the disease … or even whether I was told. The exact organism didn’t matter. Such occurances were not unusual, and even a disease that might otherwise be controllable or curable will cause mass fatalities in an overcrowded facility where the residents receive little food and less medical care.”
“So the last time you saw her was her funeral?”
Illya let out a short huff. “There was no funeral, Napoleon. Only mass graves for the victims … much like other mass, unmarked graves during the war.” He paused, taking in another deep breath. “Of course, even if there had been a funeral, I would not have been allowed to attend. The risk of contagion was too high, and mourning the dead would have been considered improvident when there was so much work to do to support the living.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were supremely inadequate, but any words would be. Napoleon had few family ties of his own, but at least he knew exactly what had severed them. There were ghosts in his past but few real regrets or tragedies. “If there’s anything I can do …”
Napoleon held his breath. Early in their partnership, an ingrained sense of self preservation would have prevented Illya from acknowledging pain or accepting even a hint of sympathy or comfort, no matter what the circumstances. Now, even though struggle was evident in his set jaw and stiff posture, friendship and trust won the brief battle. “Thank you,” the Russian said, his voice gruff but his eyes warm. “Actually there is something you can help me with.”
“Anything.”
If Napoleon hadn’t been paying close attention, he would have missed the twinkle of amusement before the calm professional took control of Illya’s expression. “I am still baffled by a few incongruities in the English language. Can you explain to me why a hermit would wish to be on a stage, with his name in lights, and hounded by people seeking autographs.”
Napoleon blinked, but he wasn’t actually surprised by the change of topic. Illya hadn’t rebuffed the offer of emotional support, but he’d shared all he was willing to share for today. “Ah, I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“Because Miss Cool assured me that, if I were willing to give up all of this,” Illya waved one large hand over the stacks of paper between them, a glimmer of a smile twitching the corners of his mouth, “the two of us could be bigger than Herman and the Hermits.”