Illya Kuryakin was tired. It had been a long day, a long boring days. One more long boring days.
They were looking at him with suspicion. Suspicion, he could understand. Things were not easy for him. Things were not easy for them. He didn't expect them to speak, to act friendly. No, surely he didn't. He didn't need them. All that Illya Kuryakin needed was just Illya Kuryakin. He wanted them to be indifferent.
"Please. Ignore me. Let me do my job."
Precisely, they didn't. They didn't let him do his job, the job he was good at. He had been told to take the role of an Uncle agent. A London Uncle HQ field agent. But for them, he wasn't an agent, and especially not a field agent. He was a pretext. Whatever they asked him to do, someone watched, someone peeped. Someone checked.
But suspicion, he could understand.
A Russian pretext. Not a defector, that would have been satisfying. No. A Soviet pretext. A communist pretext.
Russia. His government had sent him in France, then, in the UK. As a student. A brilliant student. And it had been a pleasant time, because people, around him, looked at him as a student, not as a strange animal. Then, Uncle, the Survival School. A challenge, but no that unpleasant. Defeating Cutter had been worth the effort. After, he had been sent in London. Suspicion.
He sighed, smiling bitterly. At the London Uncle HQ, his superiors, his fellow agents looked at him with barely disguised suspicion, because he wasn't a defector. And as a very bad joke, his own country, now, his own government who had sent him there distrusted him, as if he was one.
But still, suspicion, he could understand. He had a place to live. A place where he could take refuge, every evening, every night. A place where he could escape from their contempt. Their scornful gaze.
Why him? Of course, his government had been quite happy to get rid of this little boy. About the Survival School? A cheater! You couldn't believe, looking at him, that he would have survived Cutter's Survival School.
He could have showed them. He could have challenged them, but he hadn't. It would have been useless. He had gone on, and made his way towards... he didn't really know. Eventually, he could live with their suspicion, their contempt. All Illya Kuryakin needed was Illya Kuryakin.
"Ignore me. But if you can't help suspecting me, scorning me, bad luck, I'll cope with it."
It had worked well.
Until this day. He felt ill at ease, dizzy.
The London Uncle HQ chief had called him in. That simple thing was extraordinary. The man was sitting behind his desk, and he had looked at him, up and down, obviously aggravated.
Illya Kuryakin liked challenges. This one was simply unbelievable. Alexander Waverly wanted him to join the NY Uncle HQ.
-So, Mr Kuryakin, what do you think?
"Good riddance! Go away!" He didn't say it, but Illya Kuryakin could hear the words.
What did he think? Of course he would like to! And, of course he wouldn't go! He had set up an acceptable way of living. Of surviving. He was not sure he would be able to do it again. Being a Soviet Uncle agent was a challenge in London. In New York...
The man had went on, with an annoyed tone.
-Of course, you can't take the decision on your own. I told that to Waverly. Anyway, he wanted to know if you were interested, before giving notice to your government.
Words had escaped from his mouth.
-I... I am not interested, sir.
Wrong words. Liar. Coward.
He had read the other man's feeling. Surprise, incredulity, and, of course, suspicion. Suspicion and scorn.
The secretary has smiled at him, gently. She was nice to him. He had no friends, but a few, a very few people who looked at him as a human being. He felt that he could afford to loose them.
It might have been an interesting experience. But Illy Kuryakin never allowed himself to regret anything. He had always denied himself any chance of going back on a decision. Whatever the decision.
The phone startled him. A harsh voice which didn't let him say a word, except yes.
They knew. They knew Waverly's offer. They knew that he had refused.
And he should have known that he had no choice.
He would have to go.