NIGHT TRAIN FROM BUDAPEST

December 1973

The snow crystals on the rim of the lower window were sheltered from the stinging wind and flurrying snow by the small black ledge perimeter surround the frosted glass. Below; barely visible from the squares of shimmering gold light reflected from the line of train windows, smoke from the engine swirled below, providing a moving floor of cloudy mist. Above, silver tinted the midnight sky, encompassing the glowing moon in a shimmering haze of spherical incandescence. Between, beyond the foreground illumination and the distant special orb, there was darkness. What eyes could not see, however, his fertile imagination and vivid memories provided as he stared out into the Stygian void.

Far from Budapest, speeding swiftly, as rapidly as rail and fuel could fly, Illya Kuryakin was safely ensconced in the steely cocoon. The train car was little warmer than the outside temperature, but it was acceptable; he was accustomed to the cold. The rhythmic clicketty-clack of the wheels-on-rails served as a melancholy soundtrack to the lonely journey.

Only his reflection implanted itself on the landscape. No other part of him touched the rugged forests and hills he knew to exist in the invisible darkness. There was no need to see them, though, because he knew they were there; could smell their piney scents, could feel the crispy bite of the frost, could hear the crunch of the snow beneath his feet as if he were there again. Romania, Ukraine, Slovakia, up ahead, Austria, The tangible evidence of the land of fugitives, outcasts and gypsies was as real to him as his own breath clouding the glass, as his own blue eyes reflected inside, in an appropriate metaphor, while looking out to catch a vain glimpse of what he once knew as home, as what he once counted as his precarious safe-haven.

Long ago, when only a lad, he had called these places home. Running from the Nazis or the Russians, or whoever happened to be at war with his vagabond tribe, he had taken flight with his band. Foraging for food; when necessary stealing or killing. Anything to survive. In some ways it had been an adventure to outfox the mighty ones with guns and tanks. In many ways it was harrowing, frightening, unforgettably terrifying.

The years of hardship taught him so many useful things for spy survival. And little else. Did he have a choice with a profession after such an upbringing? Yes, always. Once he was in the West he could have done anything, but his sponsor – Waverly – had targeted him for UNCLE. It seemed the perfect fusion of his talents and intellect. Why not? The gypsy in him would never have to worry about vulnerabilities as long as he remained aloof, stayed smart and clever and mysterious. Yes, in many ways he still lived the gypsy life.

Natural training ground for a spy, he mirthfully smiled, knowing few would appreciate the joke more than he did. Staring out at the dark void, he knew one person who WOULD consider it an amusing, droll commentary. Someone who, for once, Kuryakin was glad was not at his side. Not tonight. Too dangerous. And his partner was all too American. Solo would be a risk to have at his side tonight, although he did miss the camaraderie; the bad jokes, but mostly, the solid support knowing he had a trusted and devoted ally at his back. Good thing Solo had been on another assignment, and not available to join him for the misadventure in Budapest.

The thoughts of his partner warmed the cold train car, but it sent a stab of guilt along his conscience. What would his gypsy mentors think of him befriending an American? Or anyone? They would chide him for his foolishness, for his life-threatening vulnerability. Never get close, never trust, never show weakness to another. Any exposure of a personal side left an opening for one to be conquered, tricked, betrayed, killed.

The lights flickered. Muscles tensed involuntarily. They were approaching the Austrian border. Passport check. Inside his thin, unlined jacket, his fists clenched. His reverie while traversing the countryside had not distanced him from his duty, but it had eased him into a sentimental remembrance inconsistent with the present. Reflections of gypsy mentors and early struggles were irrelevant. Pondering his friend was a distraction. Within moments he would face a true life and death test and all his mental and physical faculties needed to be in peak acuity.

Border guards were probably alerted for a spy – the burglary of the Secret Police station in Budapest had been sloppy. Bad luck that a security guard had been running late on his rounds. Illya had been forced to kill him to escape. The body was discovered far too soon and the alarm raised.

He had managed to come this far, no reason for him not to make it past the border to safety. An UNCLE agent was supposed to meet him on the other side in Austria. Home free. Deliver the microfilm in time – he nearly chuckled with black humor. Just in time for Christmas. Automatically, he glanced at his watch, realizing the midnight hour was nearly upon him – Christmas morning nearly here.

Christmas. A capitalistic holiday that no gypsy would ever celebrate. Yet, at his apartment in New York, there was a small tree with ridiculously inadequate tinsel, and a single present underneath. He had not bought the tree, of course. That had been his capitalistic partner. Smirking, he grudgingly admitted that the single present was also because of his partner – for his partner. Tangible evidence of his gradual descent into his seduction into Western culture.

The train slowed and he clenched his fists inside the thin pockets of the Communist-approved coat. He had let his guard down badly the last few years. Depended too much on a partner, a friend, an American! What would his gypsy family say to that? It was a vulnerability. It was distracting him and making him soft. Tonight, when he needed that hardness that he had learned in the snow-peppered fields of the old country, survival demanded that demeanor of ruthlessness, that scent of the lean and hungry, God-less child of the Eastern Bloc. He did not need to be thinking of a warm fire in a cozy apartment and a sentimental Christmas tree!

The train ground slowly to a halt and he stood as the car rocked slightly to a complete stop. Taking a breath, he fingered the forged passport he had manipulated himself, quickly shoving down a lance of insecurity – had he done a good enough job, they would be looking for an agent . . . .

Ambling to the rear of the line for passport checks, Kuryakin reviewed his basic-Spy-101 ground rules: Confidence – believe in what you are and others will believe it, too. Bluff when all else fails. Where was Napoleon when he could use a little moral support . . . . He was perfectly capable of accomplishing this himself – but wouldn’t it be nice to have a trusted supporter at his side? No, better the American not be involved – for a spy Napoleon could be so obviously a Westerner . . . . Focus! You are a day worker in an office on the other side of the border . . . . Pretend you know what you are doing . . . .

Three people away from the checkout. Two obvious, overbearing men in cheap trench coats and seedy Fedoras marked themselves as Secret Police. As they scanned his face their eyes moved on – taking no special note of his presence. The Customs guards, however, were carefully scrutinizing every passport . . . .

A light dusting of snow fleeced the shoulders of the black coats and dark hats of the men in front of him. Two people ahead – the armed guards were carefully reading and questioning the man at the gate. A cold wind whipped through the station, ruffling the pages of the documents and blowing the brims of the men’s hats, and the edges of the women’s scarves in the stiff gusts.

The guards were intently questioning the man just inches preceding him –

“Hey, what do ya mean I can’t get in with this passport?” came the loud, obnoxious voice of a stereotypical American.

Kuryakin nearly choked. He did not dare look across the border gate where a belligerent man was trying to ENTER the country from Austria. He did not dare acknowledge the familiar tone. He had never been so happy to hear that voice in his entire career, though! The cold, draughty night, the chill of apprehension faded. He was not alone. No matter what happened, there WAS someone at his back to help, to support, to offer anything necessary to get out of this alive.

“Look, I paid good money for this ticket and I insist I be allowed to enter your country!” Napoleon Solo yelled at the border guard and pushed toward the gate. “I’m gonna photograph some of your old cathedrals and my travel agent said this was good anywhere in Europe!” he insisted, nearly shoving into Kuryakin as the blond agent stood as the next person to cross the border.

Two beefy guards and both Secret Police converged on Solo, seizing him by the arms and pushing him away from the gate.

“Hey, what’s wrong with my money?”

Another guard, distracted at the overt show, glanced over Kuryakin’s papers and urged him to move along briskly as Solo returned with another wave of protests.

The slightly roughed-up American was released to go back the way he came, NOT obtaining entrance to the Communist country to photograph anything! Loudly promising his Ambassador and Embassy and Congressman would hear about this outrage, he overly made a production of keep possession of his camera.

The Russian sped through the station and out to the parking lot, now unable to keep the grin from his face. He paused at the exit, to brush snow from his jacket and glance behind him, to make sure his partner was all right. Pushing irate armed guards and Secret Police was not a healthy thing to do, and Solo’s brashness (he knew from years of experience) could be very annoying.

In a dark corner of the parking lot, Kuryakin waited, smiling as his partner strolled up to join him.

“Perfect casting,” was his droll opening. “The epitome of the Ugly American. Loud, obnoxious, spoiled –“

“Why thank you,” came the wry response. “Thought I would utilize my extraordinary talents in your behalf. I heard you were in a bit of a tight spot.”

“Slightly,” Illya countered, knowing it would not do to let his friend know how worried he had been about the border crossing. “My compliments. One of your better talents. The art of distraction.”

“Ah, yes, countless girls can testify to my skill at distracting. Consider it your early Christmas present. By the way,” he smiled as he glanced at his watch. “Merry Christmas.

Illya knew there would be some kind of sentimental dinner back at New York – there usually was when both of them were in town at the same time during this most syrupy of all holidays. There would be a present for him – just as he had a gift for his friend. All so prosaic and Normal Rockwell-capitalistic. So anti-gypsy and far from cold forests and danger and the spy craft. And just for a season, just for a brief holiday, for the non-capitalistic Kuryakin, that was just fine.

MERRY CHRISTMAS