Chapter Twelve

Little evidence was gathered in the coming days and Waverly was becoming anxious for the agents returned.  Napoleon had searched Roy’s house several times.  He had spoken to Roy about the death threats.  Still progress had not been made.  Roy had not kept the death threats choosing to toss them instead.  Now, Napoleon regarded Illya as they sat in the library.  The Russian had taken his customary position, in the chair, next to the fireplace.  He was reading another diary entry and it worried Solo.  The case may never be solved and it was time for Illya to face it. 

He stood up, and took the chair opposite Illya.  “Illya.  We need to talk.”

“About Lisa’s death?  Have you found something?” Illya asked hopefully.

“No.  And we may never find anything.  You’ve got to face it.”

Illya eyes became cold, angry.  He said, “I will find who did this.”  He returned to reading the diary.

Napoleon was stung by the finality of the statement.  “It’s been over a month,” he said slowly.  We still have jobs to do.  We can’t stay here forever.  Waverly is already starting to ask questions about when we’ll return.  I tell you what,” Napoleon said hopefully.  “We can come in the evening and work on it.  I can make sure we don’t get out of town missions.” 

“I’m not going back, Napoleon.  Not until I find out who killed Lisa.” 

Napoleon was frustrated.  “And what do you plan to tell Waverly,” he said angrily.  “Are you going to tell him that you’re too busy solving one case, to hell with the rest of the world, with Thrush?”

Illya’s eyes narrowed.  “I don’t care.  I’m staying here.”

“And if Waverly insist on your return?”  Napoleon asked.

“Tell him he can have my resignation.”  Illya stood up and started walking out of the library, diaries in hand.  Napoleon grabbed his arm.

“What the hell are you thinking?  You’re ready to throw away an entire career, our partnership, maybe be sent back to Russia.  For what?  Even if you find the killer, it won’t bring her back” Napoleon said and immediately regretted the words.

Illya snatched his arm away.  “I will find him.  I will find him and he will pay.”

Napoleon looked at his friend.  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  “Listen.  I know you loved her, but she’s gone and nothing you can do will bring her back.  You think she would want to see you destroy yourself?  Your career?” 

Illya’s clear blue eyes met his.  Illya turned and walked out of the library. 

Illya fell asleep with a diary in his hands and dreamed of midnight blue eyes.  He could smell the faint scent of her perfume. See her as if she were still alive.  He reached for her and she dissolve into nothingness.  He awoke with a start, fighting to control the scream that wanted to erupt.  For the past few weeks he dreamed of her nearly every night.  The dream always started with her being alive and ended with her death.   He opened the diary he still had in his hands. He had read all of them before, but he couldn’t stop reading her diary.  They somehow brought her back to life. 

He read one of her entries that was in English:

The old man was sitting there, in the park, waiting for me.  He was dressed in a pale gray suit, and I knew that he wanted me to take a picture of him.  I approached and he smiled.  We talked about so many things.  He was so happy when I took his picture.  He smiled for hours afterwards.

We sat on that park bench most of the afternoon.  And then I had to go. 

Illya touched the clear lines that represented Lisa’s handwriting.  He regretted the argument with Napoleon.  His friend was only trying to help him.  Napoleon had risked a lot by staying here and helping him solve the murder.  He felt guilty that he had repaid his friend by arguing with him.  An apology was in order and an explanation.  He had to admit that Napoleon was right—they may never solve this case, yet how could he live with himself if they never did.  He still loved Lisa, loved her as he had loved no other woman.   

Sometimes he fantasized about kissing her sweet lips, holding her in his arms, making love with her.  He was obsessed and he knew it.  He looked at the clock.  There was little doubt that Napoleon was asleep, but he was desperate.  He needed to talk to his best friend.  And then he heard the door open and Napoleon stood there.

“I saw your light on and I thought…  Well, I’m sorry, Illya.  I shouldn’t have said those things earlier.  I mean… I”

“No.  I’m sorry.  You were right.”  Illya said.

 “You want to talk?”  Napoleon asked, taking a seat on the bed.

“Yes.”    “I need to talk about something, but it’s hard, even after all this time.”

Illya paused then continued   “When I met Lisa, I felt that she was a kindred spirit.  Here was someone who had suffered, who had struggled for survival in spite of the odds.  She reminded me of what I had gone through years ago, when I was a child.”

Napoleon was silent as his friend continued to talk.

“It was not easy.  My family had been killed by the Nazis.  I was alone and only seven years old.  My parents had been very loving, yet in one brief second they were gone and there was no one.  You see, nobody wanted me.  I had aunts and uncles, but they had their own family to protect.  So I lived on the streets.”

Illya paused.  “The Nazis hated all Russians.  They made my life hell in many ways, they called me sub-human.  They said that I did not deserve to live.  They made a sport of seeing that I didn’t.”

Napoleon watched Illya, watched him fight for control of his emotions.  He was losing.  The room was silent except for the steady ticking of the clock.  Napoleon moved closer to Illya, placing his hand on his shoulder.

The Russian continued.  “One man.  One man, in particular hated me.  His name was Kessler.  I can still remember the cold blue eyes, the way he used to twirl his watch around.  I had been captured and forced to serve in a concentration camp.   He was one of the top men there.  He would beat me Napoleon, beat me till I cried for death.   He was a cruel man, a man who craved power and enjoyed exploiting what little he had.”  Illya shuddered.  “I still have nightmares about him, even now.”

Napoleon didn’t know what to say.  Illya was in pain.  A pain born of years of suffering.  He listened as his friend continued.

“He did things to me.  Unspeakable things.  Things that no child should suffer through.”

Illya took a deep breath, holding it, his body shaking at the memory.  “He didn’t stop until he was ordered back to Germany and left me to the mercy of others.  For years I was afraid of intimacy…with a woman.   For years I questioned my sexuality.   Illya stopped talking for a second, looking at nothing in particular.  “Do you know what it’s like to question your masculinity because someone…someone… I was so ashamed.  Ashamed that people knew just by looking at me.  Feeling that I deserved every bit of hatred the world had to offer because of what he made of me.  I was ashamed to tell even you, my best friend.  I couldn’t bear to see the disgust in your eyes if you knew.  To see you turn away.”

Illya stopped talking and Napoleon reached for him only to see him stand and walk to the window.   “In time, I learned how to forget my past, to move on, to have a woman in my life and appreciate her.  But I never found love.  Not till Lisa.” 

Illya turned and looked out the window.  “And now that has been taken from me and I don’t know how to continue to live without her.” 

Napoleon slowly approached his friend.  “Illya look at me.” 

Illya continued to look out the window. 

“Look at me, Tovarish.”

Illya turned and met Napoleon’s eyes. 

“I have nothing but respect for you.  When you look at my eyes, you would never see me turn away or  look at you with disgust.  You’re my best friend, my brother.  I don’t ever want you to feel ashamed.  Never.  What happened… what happened was not your fault.  You’re not to blame, Illya.  Know that as I know it.”

Illya stood there and the tears ran down his face.  He didn’t try to hide them nor turn away from his friend’s eyes.  “You don’t know what that means to me.  You’ve no idea,” he said, his voice low.

“I just wish there was some way to erase what happened to you, to Lisa.  I know that I can’t, but allow me to help you.  To help you get through this.” 

Illya turned and faced the window.  Napoleon put his hands on Illya’s shoulder.

“It could mean that both of us will be unemployed, you know.”  Illya said slowly.

“Yeah, but we are UNCLE’s finest.  I’ll talk to Waverly tomorrow.  Explain how important this is, to you, to us.  He’ll listen.”

“And what if Waverly declines to allow such a leave?” Illya asked.

“Well, then, in the words of my best friend, he can have my resignation.”

Chapter Thirteen

            From Lisa’s diary:

The old man talked about his past.  It’s strange that we have become friends.  And, yet, we are.  We meet everyday in the park.  I still don’t know his history.  He keeps that part a secret for some reason.  Tomorrow he said he will tell me. 

It had been two months since Lisa’s death and Illya and Napoleon had moved to OakWood to investigate the case full-time.  Money and time was running out.  Napoleon had to resort to using money from his trust fund in order to buy the bare necessities.  Waverly had been somewhat understanding when Napoleon had requested leave for  both of them.  He’d finally granted it when Napoleon told him that the Russian would be of little help in the field in his present condition. 

The two agents worked exclusively on the case.  April had come by earlier in the month to see if she could use her psychic abilities to help solve the case, but could sense nothing.  In fact, since she had never met Lisa, it was like looking at a blank wall.  Finally she had left, mostly through the insistence of Waverly.  He simply could not have all of his top agents taking leave especially on a case that was going nowhere and had nothing to do with world security.  And then the first glimmer of a clue revealed itself in the form of Lisa’s diary.

Illya had read all of the diaries, but then one day Roy came with another one that he had found hidden in a secret compartment of Lisa’s closet.  Illya had devoured the book in one afternoon.  He noticed that there was a break in the diary entries.  Lisa had always recorded something each day, even if it was just a sentence.  This time, however, a week had gone by before another entry appeared.  Illya had figured that she was working on her photographs during this time.  But her final entry told a different story.

How do I tell Illya without destroying him?  God has forgiven the man for his sins.  He has accepted Christ, but how do I continue to see him in the same way after what I know? And without betraying Illya?

Illya wondered what Lisa  had discovered and had it been the cause of her death?

Illya decided to hide the diary from Napoleon.  He didn’t want to share this information with Solo.  He was getting closer and didn’t want his friend involved.  He vowed to find a way to get Solo to leave.  Perhaps convincing him that he should return to work. 

Now he sat in the kitchen, photographs and diaries spread all over the table, listening to Solo speculate on who killed Lisa.

“I don’t believe she was murdered because of her race,” Napoleon said taking a sip of coffee.

Illya felt a pang of guilt because he knew he hadn’t given Solo all the information. Illya poured some tea into a cup and took a teaspoon of jelly stirring it into the tea absently. 

“Okay.  Let’s retrace her steps during the last days of her life.” Napoleon said.

Illya tensed.  “We spent most of the day together, but I don’t know what she did at night.  I don’t think she took pictures anywhere, but she may have.”

Napoleon cleared his throat nervously for the next question.

“Did she seem anxious to get rid of you?  You said you left early.  Any reason?”

“No.  We both agreed to call it a night and think about our relationship.  We were planning to meet the next day to discuss it.”

Illya looked down at one of the pictures.

“Was Roy there?” Napoleon asked.

“No.  He was still at the store.  He usually stayed late whenever I was visiting Lisa.  Probably to give Lisa and I some privacy.  We couldn’t go back to my place.”

“Why not?”

Illya looked up sharply as if deciding if an insult had been given.  When he saw there was none he answered.  “She was a lady, Napoleon.  And a lady does not go to a gentlemen’s house.”

“I’m sorry, Tovarish.  I had to ask.  I needed to make sure she wasn’t expecting someone and needed for you to leave early.”

“The only person she was expecting was her father, Napoleon.”

Illya returned to looking at the pictures that were strewn all over the table.

“Maybe we should look at Roy’s house once more.  Could be more diaries or something else that could offer a clue.”

Illya rubbed tiredly at his eyes.  “I don’t think anything else will be found there.” He said simply.

Napoleon rose from the chair.  “You’re probably right,” He stretched, fighting the stiffness of sitting for so many hours.

“I think I’ll talk to Roy anyhow.  You never know.”

Illya abruptly stood his eyes meeting Napoleon’s.  “I’ll go.  You stay here and look at the pictures.  Maybe there’s something we missed.”

Napoleon seemed surprised, but sat down at the table again looking through the pictures.

“You sure?  I don’t mind going.”

“No, Napoleon.  I need to do this.  Alone,” he said, the note of finality evident in his voice. 

Illya sat in the living room speaking to Roy.  He hadn’t planned to come here, but he didn’t want Napoleon to get suspicious.  Now, he became fascinated as Roy brought out more of Lisa’s pictures of Mr. Finch.  Illya was surprised at how many pictures Lisa had been allowed to take of the old man.  Most pictures were taken in the park, but a few were taken in the house the man shared with his daughter. 

Illya looked at the pictures while Roy went to prepare tea.  One picture captured Illya’s attention.  The old man was standing in front of a church.  He was smartly dressed in a gray suit and held a bible in his left hand.  He seemed so fragile, his body hunched with pain. 

“That was Lisa’s favorite,” Roy said as he returned, sitting the steaming mug of tea before Illya.  “Lisa had finally got Mr. Finch to attend church.  He hadn’t gone in years, saying he wasn’t worthy. “

“When was this picture taken?” Illya asked.

“Mmm, about a few weeks before she died. I remember it well.  Lisa had taken that bible he’s holding to see him in the park.  She gave it to him after he confessed to her.  Lisa was a very religious girl.  It had taken her months to convince Mr. Finch that he could be forgiven for his sins, no matter what they were.  Finally he believed and accepted Christ.  The next week they went to church together.  Then that shrew of a daughter found out and put an end to the entire relationship.  So sad.”

Illya sat there listening to Roy as he continued to talk about what an evil woman Karen had been.  He clutched the picture of the old man and looked at him, really looked.  What he saw caused him to stand abruptly, spilling tea, and heading for the door.  Roy called after him, but Illya didn’t hear, his mind had gone back to time when he had been an innocent seven year old boy.  Illya had said nothing as he left the house, but he knew.  Knew with the core of his being when he saw the eyes.  How had he missed it before?  But he knew the answer.  The scars were so devastating that he hadn’t taken the time to really look at the man.  The burns had destroyed him physically, changing his features and the way he walked.  Age had done the rest, giving him stooped shoulders and grey hair, but he was still Kessler, no matter what he called himself now. 

Illya recalled the proud baring Kessler once had.  The way he twirled his watch as he walked through the concentration camp.  The way he sat it on the bedside table when he came to him. 

Illya drove the car with abandonment.  He scarcely noticed how fast he was driving.  He didn’t care.   All he could see was the man who destroyed his life, who took Lisa away from him.  It was near dusk, the sky had turned an orange-yellow color.  Illya looked at the gun lying so close to him in his car.  Somehow the old man had caused Lisa’s death.  Somehow the man who now called himself Finch would pay.  He would see to it.

Illya’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as his mind wandered back to a little blond boy whose innocence was so boldly taken.  He felt the icy grip of hatred overtake him as the tears stung his eyes.  He wondered how Napoleon would feel once he found out what he was about to do.  He was happy his friend was not aware of this turn of events.  He would spare him the knowledge of what had to be done.  Kessler was a murderer.  How many innocent children had he destroyed?  How many lived as he had lived—ashamed.  His life had been permanently altered by him.  He had spent a great deal of his life, afraid and alone.  Wanting to be touched, to share an intimacy, but afraid because there was always Kessler.  Always Kessler.  Now he had the chance to get revenge and he would take that revenge at all cost.  He would right what should have been done years ago— during the trial.  But men like Kessler ran in the night and they lived normal lives. 

Illya pulled up to the house and observed the neighborhood for witnesses.  He got out of the car and headed to the door.   He approached the door and then opened it without knocking.  He heard the tick of an old grandfather clock as he entered and saw Kessler’s daughter sitting by the fire knitting.  Illya was struck by the innocence of the woman.  In a short time, her father would be dead, and she, free to lead the life she probably desired--away from this house of rotting wood and darkness.  He wondered if she, too, was a woman destroyed by Kessler.  Her sole purpose in life was seeing to his needs.  Seeing to the needs of an old man, destroyed by the ravages of fire and time.  Illya wondered if he could take the life of a man while his daughter watched.  And then what of the daughter?  Should he act as a cold blooded murderer and destroy all witnesses?  But then, he knew he would not.  Kessler was his only target.  He would see to his death and turn himself in.  He didn’t care what happened afterwards.

The daughter looked up as if she were expecting him.  She showed no surprise as he approached.  She merely looked at him and returned to her knitting as if he were merely visitor coming down to have tea.

“I see you have arrived, Mr. Kuryakin,” she said, her attention focused on the yarn she held.  “I knew that it would not be long.  A man of your talents would certainly figure it out?”

Illya wondered what she meant.  She seemed so calm as if she expected the inevitable to happen.  Perhaps lived for it. 

“So you are Karen Kessler, I presume?” Illya said. 

“He is an old man.  An old man who has more than suffered for his crimes.  Don’t you think?”

“He could die a million deaths and never pay for his crimes,” Illya said taking a seat on the sofa across from the dark-haired woman, the gun concealed in his hand. 

Karen looked up.  I wanted to kill you too, but of course it would prove difficult considering your allegiance with UNCLE.  I wrongly figured I would simply wait it out.  Surely you had a life to go back to.  But no, you remained here and I waited nightly for your appearance.”

Illya could hear the faint trace of a German accent as she spoke.

“My father has killed no one.” The woman continued, her eyes finally meeting Illya’s. “At least not recently.  I am the one who took the life of your paramour.”

Illya’s face remained a mask, but inside he felt the rage well up, threatening to overtake his cool demeanor.  He hated Karen, hated her for what she had done.  He felt the need that justice be done for the life she had taken.  But, he didn’t want to kill her.  His object was still Kessler for it was he who created the monster who sat before him now.

Karen returned to her knitting.  “I suppose you want to see that justice is served,” she said, her hands working the needle in and out of its target. 

“Why did you kill her?”

“Because my father confessed,” Karen said.  “Confessed as if he had nothing to fear.  And Lisa forgave him.  She actually read from the bible and told him all his sins were forgiven, darn fool.  But I couldn’t take the chance.  Even now he is a hunted man.  If his identity is revealed, he will be sent to jail.” 

Illya wanted to yank her from her seat.  He watched as she smoothly continued her knitting as if she spoke of the weather and not her callous taking of another’s life.

“So you killed her to stop her from talking.”

“Yes,” the woman spoke with a monotone voice.  “You see, he has paid for his sins.  Look at him,” Karen said behind Illya.  Illya followed her eyes and saw Kessler standing in the doorway.

Kessler advanced into the room, his puckered skin seeming impossibly tight as he stood there. 

“You are Illya Kuryakin,” he said in German.  “I remember you well.  I had hoped that you would not recognize me.”

Illya bowed his head and for an instant he didn’t see the scars and it was just Kessler standing there as he had been nearly thirty years ago.  His breath caught as he found himself raising his gun and walking toward the man who had stolen so much from him and yet lived here in this quiet suburb of OakWood.

“You…you took my life.  You…I..” Illya stopped talking.  He had no words to say. Was he capable of murder?  But he knew the answer.   He raised the gun then he heard the click of another.

“You will die here, Mr. Kuryakin,” he heard the hard voice of Karen say behind him.  Somehow Illya wasn’t afraid.  So many times he had looked death in the face and survived. 

“Get the gun,” Karen ordered and the old man approached and took the gun from Illya’s hand.  Illya turned and faced Karen. The final moments of his life loomed so close, yet Illya was incapable of feeling anything  but rage.  He wanted revenge.  He wanted to see this man die. 

“Bring it to me,” Karen commanded and Kessler walked towards her.

Kessler spoke to his daughter, “You were all that I had.  All that I would ever have.  Fresh, clean, without sin.  Yet you soil me with this murder.”

 “How can you say that?” Karen said, the gun pointed menacingly toward Illya.  “She would have destroyed you.  Destroyed you.  I did it for you Papa.  And I will kill him for you.”

The old man shouted.  “Don’t you see?  I was already destroyed.  I’ve done things.  Evil things.  Things I would have continued to do had it not been for the fire.  I have asked the Lord for forgiveness and he granted it, but I shall not find forgiveness on this earth.  Now you have joined me in this private hell.  Well it stops here.  I won’t see you become what I once was.”

Karen held the gun, but her hands were shaking.  “You’ll forgive me, father.  I know you will.  But first I must eliminate the only man left who knows.  I must kill him.”

Illya braced himself as he watched Karen aim the gun; saw the old man walking towards her.  And then he heard the inevitable shot and Karen crumbled to the floor.

Kessler fell to the floor, dropping the gun.  Illya was stunned.  He had expected to die, knew that he was a dead man, yet Kessler had saved his life by killing his own daughter.  The old man crawled to his daughter and cradled her in his arms, tears streaming down his scarred face.

Illya slowly advanced and retrieved the gun.  Karen was dead, but the rage still boiled in him.  How could one woman’s death account for all he had lost?  He backed up, the gun raised in his hand.  He heard a sound at the door and knew Napoleon was standing there without turning around.

“How did you know, Napoleon?” Illya asked.

“Roy called. I figured it out after he told me what you two had been talking about before you left.”

“What happened Illya?” Napoleon asked, coming into the room, and meeting his friends eyes.

Illya told his friend about Kessler.  Told him how he shot and killed his own daughter. He took quick glimpses at Kessler as the man sat still cradling his daughter.

“He must pay, Napoleon.  Pay with his life for what he has done.”  Illya said raising the gun.

“Not like this.  Illya give me the gun.” Napoleon said, his hand outstretched.

“No, Napoleon.  He has taken everything from me.  Everything that mattered.”

“No he hasn’t.  You still have a life here.  Please don’t do this.” Napoleon pleaded.

Kessler looked up.  “I’m sorry for what I’ve done.” 

“Napoleon leave!” Illya ordered.

“I can’t let you do this, Tovarish.” Napoleon said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Then shoot me dead.  It’s the only thing that can stop me.”

Napoleon removed his gun and aimed it at the Russian.  Their eyes locked for a few minutes and then the Russian turned his back and again raised the gun towards Kessler.

Kessler sat there his eyes filled with tears, but all Illya saw was the man he once knew.  He heard a sound as Napoleon walked out of the room, closing the door softly as he departed.

“You must learn to forgive, Illya.  It’s the only true salvation,” Kessler said rocking the body of his daughter

“Forgive.  You’re asking me to forgive you after what you’ve done?” Illya asked his voice hoarse with emotion.  “How many children did you destroy?  How many before the burns ended your ability…” Illya’s hands were shaking, but Kessler never looked up, never looked at him.

“God will not forgive you if you can’t forgive me.  Don’t you see, your very salvation is in danger.” Kessler said weakly.

“I stopped believing in God a long time ago.  You see, if there was a god, he would surely not have let something like you exist. You took everything from me.  Everything.  Now you come to me for forgiveness, well I have none to give.”  The rage Illya felt couldn’t be contained.  Nothing could stop him from killing Kessler outright.  Kill him for everything he once was.  Everything he was now.    

Illlya raised the gun,, his heart was pounding.  “It’s time for you to die,” he shouted, then released the safety.

Napoleon sat on the porch watching as the leaves swirled under the pale moon.  He was powerless, powerless to pull the trigger to prevent Illya from murdering a man.  Yes Kessler deserved it and much more.  But what now?  What now after Illya killed him?  Could he simply go on, return to UNCLE as if nothing had ever happened.  Could Napoloen live with the knowledge that he had done nothing to prevent him from doing it?

Napoleon looked up at the full moon as if the answer could be found there.  He was not a praying man, but now he found himself asking God to step in that room and prevent his friend from killing a frail old man.  In his mind he knew that Illya wouldn’t pull the trigger.  He knew the man who had emerged from the pain of his childhood.  The man who stood by him in the field hoping to right the wrongs of society using the arm of the law.  He simpy couldn’t walk away from that—not even for Kessler. But Solo also had a glimps of the child.  The child who was haunted by a man who took his innocence.  It was the child who stood in the room with Kessler now.

Napoleon heard the sound of the door opening.  He sat quietly as Illya joined him on the porch.

“Thank you, my friend for not pulling the trigger.” Illya said.

“I had no choice.  It would have been like killing myself.”  The statement hung in the air, enveloping the two men who stood there.

“So what’s next?” Illya asked.

“We go home, Tovarish.  We go home and talk and I help you get through this…if you let me.”

Napoleon stood meeting Illya’s gaze.   He saw pain, love, and fear in the eyes of his best friend. 

Illya breathed in the crisp air.  “Yes, my friend.  Let’s go home.  We have some phone calls to make.”

Two weeks before his trial Johan Kessler killed himself.  He was seventy-five years old.

For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

—Matthew 6:14-15

Fin

Author notes:

The character of Carolyn was introduced in ‘Insatiable’.

The character of Roy was introduced in ‘The Hunt Affair’.

Of course the house was introduced in ‘The Victorian House Affair’.