Wednesday, May 14, 1969

The morning began with a tasteless breakfast, after which he was informed that his attorney was there to see him. He was led, handcuffed and shackled, to a windowless 10 by 12 foot room that had a green metal table and two chairs. The guards left, locking the door behind them.

“Hello,” said a young man in a light gray suit. He had the look of someone fresh out of law school. “My name is Joseph Dittrich, and I will represent you at the arraignment.”

“Do you work for UNCLE?”

“No, I work for a private firm.” He handed Illya a card. “Hartford and Sandbothe.”

“I hate to be critical, but aren’t you a little young for this?”

“You’re probably correct in that assessment. I haven’t really handled any cases yet. I’ve just been with the firm for a month. I’ll just be there for the arraignment. If need be, a more senior member of the firm will also be there to represent you.” He shuffled some papers. “I just want to let you know that the arraignment is set for Friday at 9:30. Mr. Solo told me to tell you that everything would be in place, and that he would be in court.” He put his papers back in his case. “I will see you then.”

“Thank you,” Illya said, closing his eyes as a spasm of pain clenched his back. If Dittrich picked up on it, he didn’t show it. He was scared as hell to be at Riker’s and looked as if he were ready to faint. He got up and shook Illya’s hand. “I’ll see you Friday,” he repeated.

The guards came back to the room, but instead of returning him to his cell, they took Illya to a small exercise room. They walked him inside, took off his shackles, and departed, leaving Illya alone in the room. Not for long. A few minutes later four men in prison garb entered the room. The largest of the men, a bald man with razor scars on his face and tattoos on his forearms, came up to Illya. “So I hear you like to fuck young men?” Oh, shit, thought Illya, here it comes. He had been somewhat expecting this welcoming party. There was no way out of the room, and he was out-muscled, with four of them and him in handcuffs. A red-haired man with a gold front tooth walked over and stroked his hair. “My, you’re a pretty one.”

Illya’s stomach lurched. Okay, he told himself, just stay calm and this will be over soon. He knew there was little chance of him fighting them off, and struggling would just mean he’d be beaten more. Just go limp and let whatever was going to happen, happen. The bald man and the red-head grabbed him by each arm while a third man approached him with a switchblade. “No sudden moves or you won’t be so pretty anymore.” He sliced open Illya’s prison coveralls and tore them savagely off of his body. “Me, first,” he sneered, opening his fly.

Two hours later Illya lay crumpled and naked on the floor of his cell. Every pert of his body ached. They had gone at him for most of the two hours, forcing him to perform fellatio on them and then taking their turns raping him. In between they used their fists and feet to inflict bruises and knots on his already battered body. Roy, the one with the knife, taunted him cruelly, threatening to castrate him. Instead he made shallow slices on his chest, laughing as the blood run in tiny streams down his abdomen and legs. They pretty much left his face alone; the injuries they inflicted would not show with his uniform on. After a second round of being passed from one to another, he lost consciousness. He wasn’t sure how long he was out, a few minutes or a few hours, but he was brought around by a cold pail of water that a guard threw on him. He and another guard dragged him back to his cell. Those inmates better wish for long sentences, thought Illya If I catch them out, they won’t be raping anyone else. He could pass off the beating in the police station and even the first one in his cell. He would have worked over a prisoner he thought guilty of such a crime, but this second part was pure sadism, which would not go unpunished.

The bleeding had stopped, and despite the pain, he managed to drag himself to his cot where he found a new blanket and a clean pair of coveralls. He pulled them on and lay face down, wrapping himself with the cover. Just try to disconnect and dream himself somewhere else for the next day. It was a trick he had used many times to endure hours of torture and deprivation. He thought of Angie, the pretty teacher from Sikeston, and imagined himself in her bed, the scent of her lavender soap filling his imagination. He smiled and felt her arms around him as he nodded off to sleep.

He awoke to near darkness. His body ached and his eyes strained to see in the shadowy cell. He got up and relieved himself and then walked to the bars. A young guard noticed the movement and walked over.

“So you’re finally awake. Are you all right?” he asked.

Illya seemed surprised at his concern, the first that anyone had shown since the “good cop” offered him coffee. Probably just another ploy to gain his trust. “Yes, just a little trouble in the exercise room.”

“You’ve been out since I came on duty. We tried to rouse you at dinner time, but you just groaned and said to go away.” He shot Illya a very sympathetic look. “You slept through dinner. Is there something I can get you?”

Do these guys think I am going to spill my life story to this naïve looking guard, Illya thought. Oh, well, I am hungry. Might as well see if I can get a meal out of him.

“Yes, that would be great. Anything would be fine.”

“I think I can rustle up a sandwich,” he said and then left. He came back just a few minutes later and after discreetly activating a tape recorder in his pocket, brought a ham sandwich over to the cell. His efforts to draw a conversation from Illya were unsuccessful. After finishing the sandwich, he went over to the cot and lay down again, feigning sleep a few minutes later. If he hadn’t hurt so much, he might have played games with this young guard, but he just wanted to get through the night and make his arraignment. The guard seemed to lose interest and went back to his desk. Illya lay awake, the nighttime noise of the prison in his head. From a few cells away he could hear an inmate cryng, begging for something to ease his withdrawal pains. In another cell a little further away a man was shouting curses and obscenities at whoever might be listening. Tuning out the voices and the miscellaneous clatter, Illya rolled soundlessly over on his side and succumbed to sleep.

*********************************************************************

Thursday, May 15, 1969

“Hey, you, get up!” the guard ordered. “You have five minutes to shower and dress before breakfast, and then you’re on the bus back to Manhattan. Hurry it up.” The shower did him good. The water was cold, but it still felt good on his bruised flesh. He wondered if they would let him wear his own clothes or if he would transported for arraignment in the gray prison uniform. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he walked back to his cell, where he found a breakfast tray and a clean jumpsuit Well, that answers that, he thought. He dressed and sat on the cot and finished the corn flakes and toast. He had just drunk the last of the black coffee when a guard came to get him. Once more handcuffed and shackled, he was led to a police cruiser and locked inside for the ride to the court building. When they arrived, two officers grabbed him roughly and led him to a small room in the courthouse, where he was chained to a leg of a metal table. One officer left the room while another stood guard. A few minutes later, the door opened, causing him to glance up. An older man, presumably an attorney, came in, followed by Napoleon Solo. The older man took a seat across from Illya and opened his briefcase.

“Officer, I need to consult with my client in private.” The officer left, locking the door behind him.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” the older attorney said, starting to extend his hand. Realizing that Illya was chained to the table, he withdrew the hand. “My name is Stephen Sandbothe, and I have been retained to represent you. Mr. Solo has informed me of some special circumstances, and following the arraignment, the three of us will meet in the judge’s chamber with the prosecutor and the senator.”

Illya looked at Napoleon. “So what is going on?”

“I have already spoken with the judge and the prosecutor and showed them the evidence we had, as well as some additional evidence gathered in the last forty-eight hours. He agrees from what he has seen that there is enough to dismiss the charges. I explained about Ola and her brother and our plans to try to trap them. Basically, we are going into the courtroom according to the normal procedure. Because of the high profile nature of the case, everyone coming in will be searched.”

“You don’t expect her to walk in with anything, do you?’

“No, we don’t, but the search will give us a chance to plant a homing device in her purse and on her clothing. Might as well have two to be sure. When the hearing is over, we will follow her to her nest.”

“If she goes back there.”

“If not, we’ll just have to be persistent till she does. Relax. This is almost over.”

“I hope she doesn’t escape the net.”

Napoleon looked undaunted. “We have a dozen agents out there in the courtroom and just outside, ready to pursue her. She’s not getting away.”

“A dozen agents? I can’t believe Waverly would spare so many on my account.”

“Well, just partially on your account. Remember, he and the senator are friends, and besides freeing you, he wants to make sure that the guilty parties are apprehended.” He pulled up a chair and sat next to his partner. “So how have you held up?”

Illya grimaced. “They worked me over pretty well, both at the station and at Riker’s. To be honest, everything hurts, but I’m sure it’s nothing a few days rest won’t cure.”

“Did you get their names and badge numbers?” Napoleon asked angrily.

“Don’t get so incensed. I can hardly blame an officer for the maltreatment. I would have done as much if not worse. And I have,” he said. “You’ve sat through a couple of sessions at UNCLE, and I’ve done much harsher interrogations at KGB headquarters. I don’t want to see these guys in trouble for beating someone they thought raped and murdered a college kid.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all.” The rest of it he chose to keep to himself. When he took care of it, he didn’t want his partner involved. Not just to spare him the involvement but also because he really didn’t want to talk about it. Napoleon would make too much of it, would worry about him, and drive him crazy. No, he would take care of this in his own time, in his own way.

*********************************************************************

Ola entered the courthouse and checked to see where the arraignment was being held. She took the elevator to the third floor and walked to the courtroom. A security checkpoint was set up in the corridor.

“What’s going on,” she asked a woman at the security table. “Why the security?”

“A high profile case, ma’am. Do you have business in this courtroom?”

Ola handed the woman forged ID that said she was a reporter for the Washington Post. The woman, who was a section three UNCLE agent, looked it over and handed it back.

“I have to do a quick check for weapons,” she said matter-of-factly. “The victim’s father is a senator, as I am sure you know, and we need to be extra careful today.”

The agent methodically checked Ola, finding no weapons, but leaving behind a tiny homing device. Other agents would be able to follow her movements as she left the courthouse.

The arraignment went without incident. Wearing a prison uniform, Illya entered the courtroom with a guard on either side of him and walked next to his attorney. He stood silently as the court officer read the docket number. The words “People against Illya Kuryakin” had a strange sound, even though Illya knew that this arraignment was a charade. People against Illya Kuryakin. How odd to hear that considering how frequently he had put himself on the line for the safety and freedom of the people. And had it not been for the diligence of his partner and some fortuitous events, these words would have held an ominous import. He watched patiently as the judge spent a few minutes perusing the file in front of him. Keep it authentic looking, he thought. The judge glanced coolly at the prosecutor. “Any notices?” he asked.

Illya heard very little of the next few minutes. Legalese and procedure, none of which would matter if everything went as planned. The sound of a gavel roused him from his reverie. The judge ordered Illya remanded, and as far as anyone in the courtroom could see, the guards led him back to a holding area. Ola wore a cautious smile, not wanting to attract any attention to herself. Let him squirm through the trial, she thought. The evidence would surely send him to the electric chair, or condemn him to a life sentence. If that happened, he would be taken care of in prison. Her father’s death would be avenged. She left the building and hailed a cab. She didn’t have to wait long; a yellow taxi driven by Altay Kataloglu, an agent on loan from Turkey, pulled up directly. He had been parked just a short distance from the building and had been on the look-out for Ola. They weren’t taking any chances of her getting away.

“Fifth and Sixty-fourth,” she said. Not able to control herself any longer, she let out an evil laugh, quiet but unmistakably evil.

He repeated the destination into a small mike, sending a small team scurrying to the co-op on the southeast corner just across from Central Park. The seventy-five year old building had once been the home of coal magnate Edward Berwind. Its graceful elegance seemed an incongruous residence for someone like Ola Cwiklowski, but then many buildings on Fifth Avenue had housed robber barons from a variety of enterprises.

Agents Martin Alexander and Marian Evans were the first to arrive. He showed his identification and Ola’s photo to the regular doorman. He confirmed that she lived on the eighth floor with her brother. Alexander quickly donned a doorman’s uniform and told the regular doorman to take a short break. He stood patiently at the door and waited for Ola to arrive. Marian, already dressed in a housekeeping uniform, took the elevator to the Cwiklowskis’ floor. Meanwhile, Illya and Napoleon were meeting in the judge’s chambers with the judge, the district attorney, and the detectives who had handled the case.

The judge explained the situation to the police officers. Senator Moore pushed his way into the room, bellowing.

“What the hell is going on here, Mike?” he demanded. Nathan Moore had known Judge Winston for years. He could barely believe what he was seeing.

“Calm down, Gordon. I don’t have time to go over all the evidence with you, but these fellows have enough to prove that Kuryakin did not kill Duncan, and the district attorney concurs. I’ll explain it all to you after they leave.”

“Leave? You’re letting him leave? Where is he going?” Moore blurted.

“To arrest the people who are responsible for your son’s death,” said Napoleon. “I promise you’ll receive your justice.” He handed Illya a small bag containing a change of clothing. “You probably don’t want to walk out of here dressed like that. Would probably cause a stir.”

“You can change in there,” said Judge Winston, pointing to his private bathroom.

Illya walked out a few minutes later in a pair of black pants and a white shirt. He held a tie and had a dark grey jacket thrown over his arm. “Let’s go,” he said to Napoleon.

******************************************************************

Agent Kataloglu pulled up in front of the building. “Three sixty-five.” Ola soundlessly handed him four dollars and got out of the cab. As she walked away, he whispered into the mike, “The suspect is on her way in.”

Agent Alexander opened the door, hoping she wouldn’t notice the absence of her regular doorman. He didn’t have to worry; she didn’t even make eye contact with him. “She’s on her way up,” he said to Agent Marian Evans who was waiting in the hall on the eighth floor. She turned on the vacuum and began methodically pushing it up and down the hall. Cwiklowski paid no attention to the woman as she exited the elevator and opened the door to her corner apartment.

Evans took her communicator out of her front pocket. “She’s in,” she said into the transceiver.

“We’re on our way up,” Alexander responded. Kataloglu had joined him, and they headed to the elevator in the lobby.

“Hold up!” said Solo, as he and his partner entered the building, followed by Detectives Shannon and Abernathy. When the six of them entered the mahogany paneled elevator, Illya pushed the button marked 8. Guns ready, the agents walked down the hall to Ola’s apartment.

“Wait till we get in,” Kuryakin told the police detectives. “You need a warrant, but we don’t. Once we are in, you can check on the disturbance that Agent Evans is sure to create.”

Detective Abernathy looked puzzled. “You’re going to break down the door?”

“Of course not,” said Napoleon, handing a small tool to Illya. “My partner is an expert at picking locks.”

“I like the element of surprise,” said Illya, kneeling down to work on the lock. It only took a few seconds. “There,” he whispered. “Let’s go in.”

The UNCLE agents slipped into the apartment. Kataloglu and Alexander crept down the hall to the first door on the right. Robert Cwiklowski sat at a desk, his back to them, looking over some papers. Soundlessly they waited on either side of the door while Solo and Kuryakin headed further down the hall in search of Ola. Wordlessly, the two communicated as they spied her in her bedroom. Gun drawn and his hands steady, Illya mouthed “one, two, three” followed by a loud “Now!” signaling the agents’ offensive move. The four of them burst into the two rooms, quickly and easily subduing the brother and sister.

Agent Evans stood in the entry hall and listened for the sounds of a successful apprehension. She called out to the NYPD detectives who entered the apartment. The ploy was fairly transparent, but they were sure that it would hold up. The sounds of struggle gave the detectives the probable cause to enter the residence. The detectives entered the living room as the Turkish agent joined them with Robert already in handcuffs. Agent Alexander followed carrying a stack of photographs he had found on the desk where the brother had been, providing a lurid documentation of the gruesome murder.

Down the hall, Kuryakin and Solo had guns aimed at Ola. She stood frozen in the middle of the room, an look of incredulity and failure on her face. All her dreams of seeing Kuryakin suffer, all her machinations of the past few months were dashed as the UNCLE agents had burst into the room.

“Game over!” Solo spat out. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her down on her knees. “And you lose.” Tears of anger streamed down her face. She glared at Kuryakin who looked back at her with a look of chilly revulsion.

“I can understand your desire to get revenge on me, however misguided,” he said icily. “Loyalty to a parent, even one that is a monster, is understandable. But to include the murder of two innocents in your plot to destroy me – that makes you a monster as well.” He pulled her up and handcuffed her.

“You can’t prove a fucking thing!” she said, venom dripping from her lips.

“No, but I’ll bet this can,” said Solo, holding a film canister he found on her dressing table. It was labeled Moore. “Just a little too arrogant, eh? What’s on here? A private souvenir?” The look on her face told him all he needed to know about the film.

Kuryakin seized her roughly by the arm and led her to the living room, Solo following behind with the evidence.

“What do you have there?” asked Alexander. He held out the photographs that they had gotten from the brother. “I hope it’s as incriminating as these are.”

Kuryakin took the photos from him and shuffled through them. They told the story pretty well. He saw himself lying unconscious on his bed, with an naked unharmed Duncan beside him. His hands were already tied to the headboard. Another photo was of himself disrobed. Then one of Robert with a knife from his kitchen, and then one of Robert stabbing Duncan in the back. And another. And another. How typically arrogant of a psychopath, he thought, wanting a memento of the event. This photographic evidence, along with all the other evidence they had gathered, was more than enough to convict them.

Evans and Kataloglu led the sibling pair from the apartment. Alexander took the evidence from Solo and headed out the door. “See you back at HQ,” he said.

“We’ll be there after we see the senator,” said Illya. “I want to fill him in on what has happened here.”

Detective Abernathy walked over to Illya, hand outstretched to him. “Listen, about what happened in the interrogation room,” he began apologetically. “I know I got out of line. I need to square this with you.” He paused, his cheeks reddening. “I am sorry.”

“That’s just because you’ve never seen me interrogate anyone,” Illya said with a mischievous laugh. “A phone book? You guys have to be kidding. I usually use something a little more devious. And painful.”

“I probably don’t want to know,” said Abernathy. “How can I make this up to you?”

“Just keep going after the bad guys. Napoleon and I can’t save the world by ourselves.”

“You sure it’s okay?”

“Seriously, yes. Besides, I think I’m just bruised enough to put in for a few days sick leave.”

“Sick leave?” said Napoleon incredulously. “You never put in for sick leave. You’re a glutton for punishment. After a day of sitting around doing nothing, you’ll be going crazy.”

“Oh, I don’t know. A little rest might be good for a change. And I was thinking about a short trip west.”

“West? Like to California?”

“Not to the West, just west. Like to Missouri.”

“Missouri? You have to be kidding. What could possibly be worth the time to fly there?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “That is if I told you.”

Illya holstered his gun and exited the apartment, leaving Napoleon behind to wonder what he had just missed. Let him wonder, he thought. He was heading to a little hick town with a great truck stop and a yearbook lady named Angie. He smiled and walked down the hall.