Life at the New York Headquarters of UNCLE Northwest was what he expected so far after his reassignment there.
Illya Kuryakin, having been stationed in both London and for a short time in West Berlin, had learned the ways of the Command under the supervision of Harry Beldon.
The man was not exactly a model of efficiency as he led a decadent and slothful lifestyle in the eyes of many, including the somewhat austere Soviet transplant.
Harry had an unknown agenda, and Illya did not like being a part of it, whatever it was. It wasn't good, still he had no proof other than his instincts and they'd always served him well.
It was a relief when Alexander Waverly, the man who'd recruited him three years earlier in Moskva, had him transferred to New York. The fact that Illya was a Communist didn't sit well with a some people in London and Berlin. Now here in New York among so many Americans, he could feel the distrust emanating from a fair few of them as well.
Mostly he tried to keep to himself and remain invisible while at headquarters, but that wasn't always possible.
There were times he would get the occasional shoulder bump as he was knocked into him while walking down the grey halls of headquarters.
Illya would be polite and shrug it off. " Sorry, my fault," he'd say, or "Beg pardon."
After it happening a number of times, he caught on that it was deliberate and wondered if this was a sort of hazing for a new arrival. He knew it meant something else at home in Russia, but wanted to think the best of his new compatriots here.
It wasn't until he heard the mumblings of things like "Stinking Commie, Red, and Pinko go home," that he realized those shoulder checks were anything but playful greetings. They meant the same as back in Russia after all.
The act of intentionally striking another person's shoulder with your own shoulder as you walked past them was not a friendly action. If it were a mere bump then it was a sign simple disrespect.
The more rough the shoulder check meant it was a display of open aggression.
The trouble was the shoulder bumps were indeed becoming more rough and frequent; Illya supposed it because they were not getting a rise out of him.
Still, they were letting him know he was being watched, and his presence was anything but welcome.
One morning after finishing his workout in the gymnasium on the parallel bars and rings, Illya had gone to the locker room. He showered and dressed when two large men still dressed in their suits appeared. It was obvious they were here for a different sort of workout as they blocked his way when he tried to leave.
Apparently there was a third man standing lookout at the door.
"Hey Commie, you're not welcome here."
Illya was nonplussed at that statement. He'd heard such words before.
"Did you hear me? I said you're not welcome here." One of them who stood a few inches taller than Kuryakin shoved the Russian back against the wall.
Illya sighed as he knew this was not going to end well.
"I think Mr. Waverly transferring me here says otherwise. If you are unhappy about my presence then perhaps you should go to his conference room and take up the matter with him."
"Why you smart ass little runt," he growled at Kuryakin.
Pulling back his arm signalled to Illya that it was time to duck. He managed to evade the punch and instead the man's fist slammed into the tile wall.
He yowled, cradling his hand.
Illya's training put him on automatic; his instincts told him to disable this attacker, and since he'd ducked down to evade the blow, he was ready to strike.
Kuryakin slammed his fist upwards into the man's groin, sending him doubled over in pain. He hit him again, this time a karate chop to the back of the neck.
The lookout came running in, joining the remaining man and together they proceeded to pin Illya back. One holding the Russian in place while the other began to beat the snot out of him.
Illya tried kneeing the attacker but his height made that problematic. He was just about to slam his foot down on the man's toes when someone came into the locker room.
"Hold it right there!" A voice bellowed.
Kuryakin was released and they all froze.
"You wait just a darn minute! I don't want to know what started this but you better knock it off. I'll let it slide today, but if I witness brawling like this again you can bet your bottom dollar you'll all go on report to Mister Waverly. Golly, you oughta be ashamed of yourselves. Now get out of here before I change my mind."
The two assailants helped their injured friend hobble from the locker room, leaving Kuryakin.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes sir Mr. Dennell, I will be fine." Illya waved him off.
"Well you have a split lip and looks like you're going to have one heck of a shiner...and call me George by the way. You been having a lot of trouble like this?" It wasn't hard for him to cop onto what had just happened here.
George Dennell came across to most as four-eyed bookworm who knew his stuff when it came to technical things, but was awkward in social situations. He was more meek than anything, though he had no trouble finding his voice at the moment.
Kuryakin was their new agent from the Soviet Union and the rumor mill whispered that his presence here wasn't appreciated by some. The three men, who were all Section III agents, numbered among those 'some.'
"You might want to go up to the medical suite and have yourself checked."
"Thank you, no...George. I will be fine."
"Well okay then, suit yourself." Dennell headed over to his locker without another word.
Illya went to a sink and after examining himself in the mirror, he splashed water on his face to wash away the blood from his lip.
He had his tinted glasses in his pocket and luckily they had not been damaged. After slipping them on to hide his eye, he decided to head to the Commissary and get some ice for it. He'd think of a reasonable explanation for a black eye if someone asked.
No Medical for him as there would be reports filed. The last thing he needed were his three attackers or perhaps more coming after him for being an informant...a donoschik. What they called in English, a 'snitch.'
Illya walked out of the gym as if nothing had happened, though now he knew he'd have to be on guard even here in headquarters, a place he thought he could consider safe.