Illya woke with a start. His eyes opened wide and he looked up at a ceiling he had never seen before. As he was disoriented it took him several seconds to realise he was disoriented. Then it got worse.

Nothing was coming back, he did not know where he was or how he had got there. He could not remember what he was supposed to be doing.

He could remember his name, Illya Kuryakin. He was an agent with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. His partner was Napoleon Solo and his boss was Alexander Waverly. He was born in the Soviet Union and lived in New York. But his current location and mission were a complete blank.

He was lying on a small bed in a tiny bedroom with a low ceiling. The walls were covered with colourful children’s pictures and the light from the small window was obscured by similarly patterned curtains.

He could hear voices coming from behind a white painted door. But he could not understand the words.

He tried to move, but his body felt strangely detached. He thought for a moment of Kafka and shuddered.

Illya looked down to check his body was still in one piece. It seemed all right. He was wearing just his underclothes and was covered in a sheet up to his waist. Nothing hurt, he just couldn’t move.

The voices still wafted in from the other side of the door, but the words they used were totally incomprehensible.

Which country was he in? What was he doing? Were the people on the other side of the door, friends or enemies? It sounded like two men and a woman and their language had an almost musical lilt.

What to do? He tried to move again. That apparently was not an option. So he could either wait or call out. One part of his body was now making itself felt and the need to relieve himself helped his decision.

"Hello," he called, glad to find that his voice was in working order.

The voices stopped and the door was opened by a attractive woman in her twenties. She had a fair complexion, long red hair and a delightfully retroussé nose.

"Well, hello yourself," she said, "how are you feeling?"

Illya was relieved to discover that she spoke English. "I have some questions," he began, "but first I really need to go to the bathroom and I don’t seem able to move."

"All right, Illya cariad..."

She knows my name, he thought, but was is ‘cariad’?

"...I’ll get the boys to help you."

The boys proved to be a hefty looking man in farm labourer’s clothes called Bryn and a dark haired young executive type in a business suit that the woman addressed as Aled. They lifted Illya to the bathroom for his call of nature and then returned him to the childishly decorated bedroom. The U.N.C.L.E. agent was dismayed to find that he was totally unable to move his limbs.

Back in the bedroom the woman was waiting. She had a tray with tea, scrambled eggs and bread and butter. After Illya was settled back in the bed, he allowed himself to be given a drink of the tea, but shook his head at the food.

"Please, can I ask my questions first?" he asked the woman.

"Of course, cariad bach," she answered with a sweet smile.

"Where am I?"

"Just north of Machynlleth"

"Where’s that? Which country?"

"You are lost!" She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "In Wales, of course."

"Who are you?"

"I’m Bethan Pugh and that’s Bryn Evans and he is Aled Edwards." She pointed in turn at the two men, who were looking curiously at the confused Russian. "We are agents from U.N.C.L.E.’s Cardiff office. Illya, I had no idea your memory was so badly affected. Don’t you remember anything? What about the accident?"

Illya shook his head.

"You were in your car and we were in the jeep. We were on the mountain road to Dylife, following Napoleon’s signal. Thrush had taken him and we were attempting to get him back. But they had a helicopter waiting and transferred your partner to that."

"Did we lose him?" Illya asked in alarm.

"We tried to follow the helicopter. But you crashed." Bethan sighed. "We stopped to help you. You were badly hurt, but also the signal receiver was in your car and it got broken in the crash. So we lost Napoleon."

"What are you doing to find him?" Illya asked. He was more concerned about his missing partner than his own condition.

"We’ve alerted London and New York, but they failed to pick up the tracer. He could be anywhere now. Illya you must rest you have been in a bad accident and your limbs are paralysed."

"Then why did you move me? If it is a spinal injury you may have made matters worse."

"It is not your spine." Bethan said firmly. "The doctor had you x-rayed at the local hospital and nothing is broken. It is some kind of physical trauma, but he is not sure what."

"Will I recover?"

"They are not sure at the moment. But it is important for you to rest."

"Illya, how much do you remember about the case you and Napoleon were working on?" Aled spoke for the first time.

Illya frowned. "Nothing, I don’t even remember leaving New York."

"UNCLE had discovered a replica of Thrush Central’s computer hidden here in the Welsh mountains." Aled explained. "It was obviously intended as a backup in case the main computer was destroyed."

"Were Napoleon and I supposed to take out this backup?" Illya asked.

"No, quite the reverse," Aled continued. "The computer had a start-up security code which was issued by Thrush Central. The numbers were issued for delivery to an UNCLE agent working under cover in their organisation. You and Napoleon were in London at the time and the operative gave half the code to each of you over a secure channel. The plan was for UNCLE to take over the computer and start it up so that we could tap into Thrush Central."

"So what went wrong?" Illya’s head was starting to hurt as he tried to remember any of the events he was being told.

"The UNCLE agent in Thrush Central was discovered." Bethan took up the story. "They killed him and delivered the body back to UNCLE. But he must have talked before he died and Thrush realised that you and Solo now had the code. That was why they were able to intercept you and why they kidnapped Napoleon. They probably did not realise that he only had half the code."

"So why did you bring me here?" Illya asked.

"To keep you safe from Thrush," Aled said. "They would probably expect you to be in a hospital. If they find out that Solo only has half the code they are going to be after you."

"Couldn’t they just write a new code or re-issue it from Thrush Central?" Illya questioned.

"We don’t think so." Aled continued. "The code was written by the dead UNCLE agent and the computer will now be useless without it."

"You had better start trying to find Napoleon. My half of the code will be useless too on its own. In any case, I can’t remember it at the moment." Illya scowled at the two men and the woman. None of this was even remotely familiar.

"Dr. Morgan will be here to see you later," Bethan said with the sweet smile that was beginning to irritate the perplexed agent. "He has to give you a pain killing injection. He also plans to use hypnosis to try and help you recall the code."

"I’m not in any pain." Illya protested. "I would like to speak to Mr. Waverly in New York before your doctor tries to mess with my mind. You know I can’t let you hypnotise me without his verification."

"Don’t worry Illya cariad," Bethan said soothingly. "Try to get some rest."

She pulled the sheet and blanket up around his shoulders and his visitors left him alone and very confused.

Napoleon was feeling very sore both in mind and body. He couldn’t see anything, but that was because the room he was in had no light. He couldn’t move, but that was due to the fact that his arms were manacled behind his back and through an iron ring set in the wall and his feet were tied together.

He was angry that their current assignment was going so badly. Thrush must have been tipped off as to their plans.

He had been confident that Illya and he would be able to take the sparsely guarded mountain retreat with no difficulty. In fact there had been incredible odds so it was not surprising that they had been overwhelmed.

His Thrush captors had been working on him for several days now to try and extract the computer code. He was battered and bruised. He had been drugged and beaten. But this was not exactly new to him and he was aware that they could only go so far without killing him and thereby lose the information in his head forever.

Right now he was more concerned about his partner. Illya always seemed to take the expendable creed, handed down by their boss, far too readily. Under extreme pressure he was always ready to die rather than yield. Napoleon tended to be amused by his partner’s gloomy Russian nature, but in this situation it scared him. Napoleon Solo, in spite of what he might say to Alexander Waverly, believed that no one person’s life was worth giving up for a tactical advantage. He preferred to play against the odds and he usually won. Illya was far too noble for his own good and that was what worried him.

The door to the room opened letting in a small beam of light. Solo blinked and wondered vaguely whether he was going to be beaten and interrogated or fed and watered.

Illya didn’t think he had been hypnotised, but the doctor had given him an injection which made him feel sleepy and lethargic. He could hear voices again in the same language as before. But this time they came from a small portable television set in the corner of the room. He tried to concentrate. Strange that they should leave the TV on for him, especially as he couldn’t even understand the language it was in. He opened his eyes to watch the picture. It was showing a programme obviously intended for children.

Illya spoke quite a number of different languages fluently and had a good understanding of many more, but Welsh was not one of them. However, the presenter spoke slowly with an abundance of body language, pointing to various objects as she did so. She sang a nursery rhyme, the words appeared on the screen and were also illustrated with a simple cartoon.

Dau gi bach (picture of two small dogs)

Yn mynd i’r coed (the dogs went into a wood)

Esgid newydd am bob troed (new shoes on their feet)

Dau gi bach yn dwad adre (the dogs going home again)

Wedi colli un o’u ‘sgidie (one lost a shoe)

Dau gi bach.

Illya looked up with interest at the pictures on the wall for the first time. Each picture had words underneath. There was a picture of a dog with the word ci. So ci or gi meant dog. Obviously the first letter of the word could mutate depending on the context.

Napoleon had often commented that his partner’s ability with language construction which, together with his photographic memory, made learning foreign dialects seem like child’s play to him. In this case it was.

The children’s programme was followed by a soap opera and this time there were English sub-titles.

Bethan arrived with a tray of food, half way through the programme. "Oh sorry cariad," she said, "Bryn was sitting with you earlier, we wanted to be sure you were all right after the injection. He must have been watching the telly and he’s left it on. I’ll turn it off."

"No, that’s okay," Illya smiled for the first time since he had been there. "It’s company - I was getting lonely."

"But it’s all in Welsh," said Bethan in surprise, "You don’t understand it - do you? You see it’s the only channel we can get up here."

"No I don’t understand it - but it doesn’t matter.

Bethan had tucked the napkin under Illya’s chin and was feeding him. In between mouthfuls he quizzed her about her native language.

"What does ‘Pobl yr Cwm’ mean?" That was the name of the programme Illya had been watching.

"People of the Valley".

"And dan grisha?"

"Down stairs."

"Periant rhif?"

Bethan looked confused at this one. Then she laughed. "Oh it’s computer. What were you watching, a children’s programme?"

"Yes, why is that funny?"

"It is just that modern words don’t fit comfortably into old languages like Welsh. periant rhif means literally ‘number machine’ it’s a very quaint expression. A bit childish, like saying ‘gee gee’ for ‘horse’ in English."

"I’ve never heard the expression ‘gee gee’ before either." Illya frowned. "So what would you say for computer in Welsh?"

"Computer." Bethan said simply. "We’d spell it differently though. C.O.M.P.I.W.T.E.R." she spelled out.

"How many vowels are there in Welsh?" Illya was warming to the subject now.

"The same as English, plus ‘w’ and ‘y’ and several compound consonants."

"Such as?"

"Double ‘ll’ which is pronounced ‘ch’ as in the Scottish word loch. Double ‘dd’ pronounced ‘th’, double ‘ff’ pronounced ‘f’- a single ‘f’ is pronounced ‘v’- and ‘ch’ which is what it sounds like.

What does ‘dyn’ mean?"

"Man"

"Enfys?"

"Rainbow."

"Ockor arach? Illya asked phonetically.

"Ochr arall?" Bethan pronounced it accurately, understanding what he meant. "It means ‘other side.’"

Illya continued quizzing her on Welsh language, until Aled arrived.

"I’ve spoken to Mr. Waverly about hypnotising you to retrieve the code." The agent said without preamble. "He says you are to co-operate. It is essential that you pass this mission on to us at once."

"Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear." Illya was not about to be browbeaten by this local operative. "I have to speak to Mr. Waverly, before I let you do that."

Aled produced a pen communicator. "Open Channel D," he said, "Overseas relay. Mr. Waverly please."

Almost immediately Number One, Section One’s voice came over the communicator. "Waverly here."

"Aled Edwards, sir. I would like you to confirm to Mr. Kuryakin your instructions for him to be hypnotised."

"Yes of course. Let me speak to him." Aled held the communicator in front of Illya’s face.

"Kuryakin here."

"Mr. Kuryakin, I want you to give the UNCLE operatives you are with your full co-operation and if that involves hypnosis, then you must comply."

"But sir..." Kuryakin was abruptly interrupted by his boss.

"I am sorry Mr. Kuryakin, but I have no choice. You were foolish enough to get yourself injured and it is imperative that this affair is handed on to others who are able to complete it. Waverly out."

The communication was ended. Illya knew his boss could be abrupt, but it was out of character for him not to even listen.

"I’ll get Dr. Morgan back this evening." Aled smiled. "Don’t worry Illya, it won’t hurt a bit."

He and Bethan left the bedroom, ignoring the worried expression on the Russian agent’s face.

The TV was now showing the Newyddion or as Illya figured ‘The News’. He concentrated harder than ever, matching vocabulary to pictures, reading captions as they appeared. His computer-like mind gradually making sense of what was going on. And not just on the television.

Napoleon Solo was in his least favourite position. Strapped to a chair, with electrodes attached to sensitive parts of his body. There were also attachments wired to a polygraph machine. His Thrush interrogators were becoming increasingly frustrated. Every time they activated the electrodes, sending shocks of pain through the semi-conscious agent, he would mumble another series of numbers in answer to their questions about the code. But each time, the polygraph machine indicated that he was lying.

The agents only spoke English when questioning him. They talked to each other in their own language, which Solo couldn’t follow.

"I am beginning to think," the Thrush agent in the suit said in Welsh to his burly companion, "that Bethan’s methods may prove to be more effective in getting information out of UNCLE agents."

"You could be right." The burly agent applied the electricity once more. "He hardly knows what is going on any more."

Solo groaned as the pain shot through his abused body. "5, 4, 3, 2, 1," he said automatically. The polygraph whizzed off the scale again, indicating that he was lying and lying deliberately.

"Let’s give him a break and re-think this." The guy in the suit, who was obviously in charge, spoke in English for once. His companion released Solo from the chair and chained him to the wall once again, but this time his hands were in front.

The Thrush agents left him in the darkness once more. In spite of his weak condition and the throbbing pain which he could no longer isolate to one part of his body, Solo smiled to himself. He had won another round. He wondered how Illya was faring. Would he give them his half of the code. They had told him that the Russian agent had broken, but that was just part of the game. "I wonder if I need to escape and rescue Illya," he thought, feeling his manacles to see if he could release his wrists. "Or will he be coming to rescue me." It had almost become a competition between them to see which of them could rescue the other first. Sometimes it was a close call and they argued over who had been the first to escape and save the day. But at the time it was a serious business. Solo concentrated on maneuvering the small piece of wire he had pulled from the polygraph contraption into the lock of the manacles.

Illya was concentrating hard too. He was mentally replaying the snatches of conversation in Welsh he had heard through the bedroom door. Certain words that he had gleaned from Bethan, from the TV programmes and the pictures on the wall, were beginning to coalesce into a scenario that made sense.

‘Man...down stairs....other side....trydan? what was that? Electricity... Siarad? That meant talk, speak.’ The idiom was not clear, but it seemed to Illya that they were using electricity on a man down stairs to make him talk. But why would UNCLE agents be doing that? Could the reference to ‘other side’ mean that they were really Thrush agents! That did make sense.

He heard Bethan’s voice. "Beth uw rhif y compiwter?" The tone was sarcastic.

"Dwy ddim yn gwybod - eto." the reply from Aled was equally scathing.

Illya knew the second phrase. It meant ‘I don’t know - yet.’ The first was harder. ‘What is/are numbers to computer?’ Playing it back in his head the nuances fell into place. Bethan was asking Aled what the numbers were to start the computer, but although he didn’t know yet, he would soon.

"Diwir dyn ddim yn helpu chi? Bethan was laughing.

"Paid y chwerthin felna. Pan mae Kuryakin yn siarad gyda hypnosis, fydd Solo ddim yn hir."

It took Illya several minutes to work out this exchange. Bethan had asked rhetorically, ‘isn’t the man helping you?’ Aled had told her to stop laughing and that once Kuryakin had talked under hypnosis, Solo would not be long.

The earlier exchanges had been partly guess work, but now Illya was sure he understood what was happening. These people were Thrush agents. They had somehow erased his short term memory and were now going to use hypnosis, with his compliance, to retrieve the code. The replication of Mr. Waverly’s voice over the communicator had been good. Although he had been a bit suspicious of the abruptness of the exchange. They had Napoleon prisoner down stairs in this house and were using electricity to torture his part of the computer code from him. The injections were probably causing his paralysis and possibly the memory loss as well.

The problem that now faced him was what to do about it.

Solo had one manacle open and was now busying himself with the second. He could not be sure if Illya was still in the same building and he wondered what methods Thrush were using on him to extract the vital code. The Thrush agents had argued, obviously about them, but since their conversation had been in Welsh, Solo had been unable to follow exactly what their plans were. Illya had been given an injection and had collapsed almost immediately. Solo’s internal clock told him that it was at least four days since his partner had been dragged unconscious from their prison.

The second manacle finally snapped open and Napoleon was free. He felt his way in the darkness to the door. He had not expected to find it unlocked and he was not disappointed. The wire would be useless here as it was an old fashioned heavy mortice. He thought of using something to smash the wood around the lock, but rejected that as too noisy. He had nothing that would burn or explode. The last option seemed to be to hide somewhere in the room and lie in wait for his captors. He could use the now open manacles as a weapon. He wished he were feeling stronger, but at least he had surprise on his side. For now that would have to do.

Dr. Morgan had dimmed the light in the small bedroom, turned off the TV and was setting up a small contraption which would emanate a spiral pattern. Illya had seen such a thing used for hypnosis before. He knew it was virtually impossible to totally hypnotise a subject without their full co-operation.

He was propped up in the bed by Bryn and Aled and the machine placed in front of him.

"Please relax Mr. Kuryakin." The Doctor studied him with a slight frown. "You are very tense."

"I can’t relax while my arms and legs are so numb." Illya raised his eyes to look up at them without raising his head. He knew it made him look vulnerable, which was the only card he had left to play. "It’s bad enough to have lost my memory, but with the paralysis as well....I..I feel too nervous." Illya added a stammer for effect.

"Can we get on with this." Aled was getting impatient. "Illya, you are a trained UNCLE agent, this shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, Mr. Waverly instructed you to give us your full co-operation."

Dr. Morgan shrugged his shoulders "Just try to relax. Now look at the pattern and let your mind go blank."

Illya appeared to be staring at the whirling lines, but he was mentally gazing at the wall beyond. He listened to the soothing words of the Doctor, who was encouraging him to let go. But he had been through such procedures before and knew how to appear to be succumbing whilst remaining in control. He thought hard about where Napoleon might be and whether he had formulated an escape plan yet. He considered the etymology of the Welsh word brat, which appeared to mean apron or pinafore, but had given the English language the word for an unruly child. It was similar to the Russian word bratik which meant little brother, but that was just a coincidence. The words had very different roots. He wondered what modifications Thrush had used on the pen communicator to reproduce Alexander Waverly’s voice.

He heard Bethan say "Mae wedi mynd."

Illya had let his eyes glaze, but knew he was still in control of his thoughts as he searched his brain for a translation. "‘He is going?’ No, it means ‘he has gone.’"

The Doctor’s voice. "What is your name?"

"Illya Kuryakin," the agent mumbled

"You are in London. Where are you?"

"I am in London." Illya repeated.

"You are with your partner, Napoleon Solo."

"Yes."

"You are listening to a message. It is important. It is a code to start a computer."

"A code to start a computer." Illya echoed sleepily.

"What is the message, Illya? What are the numbers?"

"The numbers?" Illya responded.

"Yes Illya. Say the numbers. What is in the message?"

"The message?"

Illya continued mimicking the questions being asked. He was not hypnotised and could not remember the message in any case. Occasionally he complained, with pained eyes, about the numbness in his arms and legs.

After about an hour of fruitless questioning, the doctor ‘woke’ him. Illya feigned a surprised wakefulness and looked at the agents in the room. "Did it work?" He asked innocently.

"Not yet." Aled snapped irritably. "We will try again later."

As the four left him alone again, Illya could pick out words in Welsh as they discussed their current problem, namely him and how to get the code.

He couldn’t follow the entire conversation, but enough to let him know his strategy was working. They obviously believed that the paralysis was interfering with the hypnosis and, although he was overdue for another injection, it might be better to let him recover some movement before trying again. It helped that some of the words such as ‘paralysis, hypnosis and injection were in English. As Bethan explained earlier, there was probably no Welsh equivalent.

Bethan came back several hours later with some food for him. She set the tray down and massaged his arms and legs gently. When she had finished Illya had enough movement in his right arm to feed himself.

"Why do you think my arms are getting better?" Illya asked her innocently.

"The Doctor used hypnotic suggestion to help you believe there is nothing wrong with your limbs." she lied glibly. "He thinks your paralysis is psycho-symatic."

"Oh, so when are you going to hypnotise me again?" Illya asked with more trust in his voice than he felt.

"The Doctor has had to go to Machynlleth. He will be back in the morning, we’ll try again then." Bethan turned on her sweet smile and tenderly pushed Illya’s hair back from his face. "Don’t worry, you’ll be all right. Do you want to go the bathroom?"

"Later perhaps." Illya remembered he had not asked about his partner for a while, which might be a little suspicious. "Is there any news of Napoleon?"

Bethan looked taken by surprise, but she recovered quickly. "Oh yes, didn’t we tell you. The London agents rescued him from Thrush yesterday. He is fine. When we get your part of the code he will complete the mission."

Napoleon was getting very stiff. He had been waiting for what seemed like several hours, crouched beneath the wooden stairs leading up to cellar door of his prison. The waiting made him apprehensive as it gave him time to dwell on the difficulties facing him. He was not by nature a patient man, he preferred action and he liked to be in control of the situation. The task ahead seemed monumental. He needed to overpower at least two men. Escape from this house. Find Illya and take over the Thrush satrapy and the backup computer. And he was not feeling at his best. He was hurting everywhere. He was very hungry and tired and now he was aching from lack of movement.

At last he heard the bolts on the door being drawn back and the sound of footsteps. "One man? No two. Damn," he thought.

A light switch was clicked on and the room was dimly illuminated by the single yellowish bulb.

A startled voice shouted, "ble mae o?" (Where is he?)

And a second voice "Beth sydd wedi digwydd?" (What has happened?)

Solo could not follow what they were saying, but they were obviously confused by his absence. The first man jumped the last few steps into the cellar, conveniently landing just in front of the UNCLE agent. Solo launched himself at the man’s legs, knocking him off balance so that he fell and hit the concrete floor.

Solo had landed on all fours and rapidly scrambled on top of the man he had knocked over, pushing down on his throat with the chain of the manacles.

The man was choking but still conscious and trying to get a grip on Solo’s arms. Meanwhile the UNCLE agent was aware of the second man coming up from the rear. Once Solo figured enemy number 2 was close enough, he let go his pressure on his victim’s throat and swung the manacles around, dealing a vicious blow in the face to the other man.

Solo was on his feet now. His second target had staggered backwards, dazed by the blow, but was reaching inside his jacket for his gun. Solo charged him headfirst ramming him in the stomach and knocking him against the wall. The gun fell from the man’s hand and clattered away into a dark corner of the cellar.

Napoleon followed through with another swipe of the manacles, desperately trying to finish this guy before the other recovered. He realised his luck had run out as something hard hit him across the back of the head. Solo fell to his knees, but turning slightly, managed to hit out at the legs of his assailant. The result was a satisfying grunt of pain, but almost immediately his small victory was quashed as the other Thrush kicked him in the ribs, toppling him to the stone floor. The man was on top of Solo, pushing his knee into the agent’s stomach and punching him repeatedly in the face.

The Chief Enforcement Agent felt the edges of his mind blurring into blackness as he pondered that this escape was not going as well as he might have hoped.

Illya flexed his arms and tried to wiggle his fingers. He did not yet have complete movement, but it was getting better and he did not want to wait any longer. He had not heard voices in the next room for a while, which meant his ‘colleagues’ were engaged elsewhere. Possibly with Napoleon.

Sitting up, he used his strengthening arms to lift his legs over the side of the bed. Gingerly he pushed himself up onto his feet, let go of the bedpost and fell over.

Annoyed at his weakness, Kuryakin hauled himself up and tried again, with the same result.

The agent pulled himself up a third time but instead of letting go of the bed he eased himself along the edge until he could almost reach the door. Rather than fall, Illya dropped to his knees and found he could move reasonably well on all fours.

The door was not locked, and the Russian pushed it open a little and peered through the gap. There was no one in the small lounge, so he crawled in and looked for the next exit.

Illya’s progress was slow, but he encountered no opposition as he found his way through the house. Initially he had not known which way to go or what he was going to do when he got there. Unlike Solo, Kuryakin disliked making things up as he went along, he preferred to do his homework and be fully prepared for every eventuality. It frequently amazed him that his partner fared so well with such little preparation or planning.

Kuryakin sat on the floor of the kitchen and looked around for a possible weapon. He pulled himself up to lean on a large scrubbed wooden table. There was a meat cleaver, but he decided that might be more of a threat to him than any enemy in his present weak state. He settled instead on a large iron frying pan and with his trophy, managed to stagger a few steps into a hallway on the other side of the kitchen.

As the agent leant against the wall, he heard the sound of fighting coming from a door at the far end of the passage. Dropping on all fours again, Kuryakin propelled himself forward towards the noise. He pushed open the ajar door and could just make out at the bottom of a flight of ten or so stairs, the source of racket. Aled was strangling Solo while Bryn held the UNCLE agent’s arms. Solo was fighting back by kicking at Aled’s legs, although he was not making much headway.

So intent were they on subduing Solo, that the Thrush agents did not hear or see Kuryakin as he launched himself feet first to slide painfully on his rear down the stairs.

Forcing his legs not to betray him by sheer willpower, Kuryakin managed to get to his feet and clout Aled across the back of the head with the frying pan. Bryn dropped Solo and stepped over the fallen agent towards Illya, but was met with a facefull of iron pan as it swung back in the opposite direction.

It was then that Illya’s legs turned traitor on him again and he dropped to the floor.

Aled had only been momentarily stunned by the whack on his head. If Illya been at full strength, the Thrush would have been out for the count. But the Russian was still weak from the paralysing drugs and lying in bed for too long.

The Thrushman wrested the iron pan from Kuryakin’s grip and returned the compliment by cracking him viciously around the skull. Illya fell back against the stone floor banging his head again. Aled kicked him in the ribs and Bryn, who had also recovered from Illya’s attack, introduced the Russian’s face to his heavy boot.

Solo was fuzzily aware that something had interrupted his impending demise and that something or someone was now getting the brunt of the Thrush agents’ temper. Then he remembered something really important. A gun. The second Thrush agent had dropped a gun. It fell about 4 feet to the left of the stairs. Solo forced his eyes to open. The Thrush agents were kicking a small blond figure who was curled up on the floor trying to ward off the blows. It was Illya. Shit! Solo thought, they going to kill him at this rate. Why do you always have to put yourself at risk to save me Illya?

Solo did not really resent his partner’s self-sacrificing approach, it was what made a partnership work. But at times it made him feel guilty, when he saw Illya suffer on his behalf.

As these thoughts passed through his head, Solo had been edging forward on his belly to where he knew the gun lay. It had only taken about 60 seconds to reach it, but as he listened to Illya’s groans, followed more worryingly by his silence, the time had seemed like an eternity.

Solo’s first shot hit Bryn in the leg, knocking him off his feet. The second missed Aled’s head, but Solo now had his full attention.

"You kick him once more and the next bullet goes through your temple. I promise you I will not miss again." The UNCLE agent growled low in his throat.

Solo got shakily to his feet, the gun still leveled unwaveringly at its target. He motioned for the Thrush to move away from his victim.

"All right." Napoleon said keeping his anger level. "Now get those manacles and drag your partner over here."

The Thrush agent looked around for a possible escape but, seeing none, complied with the demand, watching Solo warily as he did so.

Solo had forced Aled to manacle himself and his shot partner to the wall, when he heard voices from the passageway above. Bethan and the Doctor had returned.

The woman stepped down on to the top stair and, surveying the scene below, saw Solo’s gun pointing at her. She retreated immediately, slamming and bolting the door as she went.

Solo sighed deeply. Back to square one.

He knelt down by his partner. Illya’s nose was bleeding, there was a cut over his eye and his lip was split. He was wearing just a thin pair of pyjamas and was shivering, although probably more from shock than cold.

Napoleon looked around the room for something to cover his partner. He spotted his own jacket where it had been discarded in the corner, days before. Retrieving it, Solo was amazed and delighted to find his communicator still in the pocket and in working order. He then cursed himself for not checking this earlier, but it had been dark and he was not exactly firing on all cylinders.

He lifted Illya and, leaning him against his chest, wrapped the jacket around the injured agent’s shoulders. Then activated the communicator. "Open Channel D."

Solo sat on the floor cradling his partner as he waited for the back-up team to arrive. Eventually Illya opened one eye, the other was bruised shut.

"Hi there!" Solo greeted him. "How’re you doing?"

"I’ve no idea." His partner mumbled through his bloodied lips. "How about you?"

"Oh I’m fine." Solo said with a lop-sided grin. "Apart from being beaten black and blue, electrocuted until my hair stood on end and half-starved. I seem to have beaten up the bad guys, summoned help and saved you from being kicked to death. Just a normal day really."

Illya groaned and closed his good eye again. "I see your ego is still intact."

"Not entirely." Solo admitted shaking his partner slightly to keep him awake. "I was about to go under to those two goons when you arrived."

"So what’s the score, Napoleon?" Illya asked opening his eye to peer up questioningly at his friend.

"Let’s say draw no bet." Napoleon Solo raised his eyebrows in query. "Now wake up, Illya. It’s time to go home."

Alexander Waverly was in an unusually flippant mood when his two top agents limped into his office. "Well gentlemen, you seem to have overcome insurmountable odds yet again."

"Yes Sir, the Thrush backup computer yielded a vast amount of very useful information." Solo looked at his partner. "That was once Illya was able to remember his part of the code."

"We were also able to analyse the drug that Thrush used on me." Illya added. "Apparently it was experimental, that was why they miscalculated the total effect on my memory."

"Really Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly stopped trying to light his pipe and looked enquiringly at the number 2 agent. "In what way?"

"They wanted to erase my short term memory so that I would believe they were UNCLE agents. They made a good job of it and I had no reason to doubt they were anything other than they said they were." Illya explained. "If I had co-operated with their attempts to hypnotise me, I may well have given them my part of the code."

Solo took up the story "If their plan had succeeded with Illya, they probably would have done the same with me."

"So what aroused your suspicions Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly asked.

Illya broke into a rare smile. "I went back to school."

"I am sorry Mr. Kuryakin, I still don’t understand?"

"He learnt yet another language." Napoleon cast his eyes to the ceiling and screwed up his nose in mock contempt.

"They were Welsh speaking locals." Illya was still smiling, at much at Solo’s feigned indignation as the memory. "They naturally discussed their plans in Welsh, thinking I would not understand. And I didn’t to begin with. But I watched the TV programmes and read vocabulary from children’s pictures on the wall and asked the Thrush woman some simple words as if I just had a passing interest. Eventually I pieced together enough to follow what they were saying."

"So you now have a working knowledge of Welsh, Mr. Kuryakin. I will add that information to your file."

"Along with the other 20 languages." Solo added shaking his head.

"Very well gentlemen. That will be all for now." Waverly continued. "Take a few days off to recuperate. I shall look forward to reading your reports."

As the two stood up to leave, Solo pulled his customary face at the thought of report writing. Illya nudged him slightly and said, "Don’t worry about it Napoleon."

This was not lost on Waverly, who knew that his Chief Enforcement Agent was not above delegating the boring parts of his job whenever he could. "You will write your report yourself, Mr. Solo." He said disapprovingly. "Mr. Kuryakin has his own work to do."

They were almost through the door when Illya muttered half under his breath in his recently acquired language. "Stim ots ’da fi." (It doesn’t matter to me.)

Waverly’s hearing was good. "Mae ots gyda fi! Mr Kuryakin." (It does matter to me!)

The two agents simultaneously dropped their jaws in surprise as they turned to look at their boss. He was smiling at them in amusement.

Illya looked at Napoleon and said in amazement, "Not only does he speak Welsh, he corrected my grammar."

The End

Authors love feedback.
To send Liza Jones a note, click below: Liza Jones