"Come on, wake up Illya." Solo patted his partner’s cheek a little more sharply. "You can’t sleep all day, wake up."

Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Agent for the U.N.C.L.E. was impatient for his Russian colleague, Illya Kuryakin, to be up and ready for action as soon as possible. His own endurance was at its limit.

In spite of having no sensation in his legs and a rather nasty feeling in his spine, Solo had managed to pull himself out of the wrecked plane and drag his partner clear before the gas tank caught fire and exploded, spraying debris over them both. The American had shielded Kuryakin with his body and managed to protect his own head and face by curling away from the worst of the flames. But their initial survival had left them vulnerable to the possibility of a second attack, added to which they were miles from civilisation, with no food, water or immediate means of communication. Solo had injured his back when the single engine Cessna crashed abruptly and now he could not even walk.

He tested his partner’s pulse again, it seemed regular enough. There was a nasty lump on the back of his head, but other than that the Russian seemed unscathed.

"Wake up dozey, we need to get moving." Napoleon pulled Illya half upright, leaning his unconscious partner against his chest, caught his face in his hand and patted his cheek again.

This finally had the desired effect and the blue eyes opened, unfocussed, but open at last.

"What time is it?" Illya whispered groggily.

"Time you were awake. How’s your head?"

"I don’t know, I can’t feel it." Kuryakin mouthed the words so quietly, Solo had to strain to hear him. "Are you all right, Napoleon?" Illya pulled himself up a little more, turning to squint at his partner.

"I think I’ve injured my spine, I can’t walk." Solo slapped his right thigh to test for any return of feeling. "My legs are totally numb and I can’t move them."

"Do you think it’s permanent?" There was the nearest thing to anxiety that Solo had ever heard in his partner’s voice.

"Hard to tell. My back hurts like hell, but below that I can’t feel anything."

"You must try not to move. If it’s a spinal injury you could do more damage."

"Too late for that, I already moved quite a bit. I don’t think my spinal column is severed, it hurts too much." Solo didn’t want his partner to get overly morose about his condition. "I’m sure it will get better."

Kuryakin decided not to dwell on the problem either. There was little they could do about it at the moment anyway. "I thought you checked the plane for explosives?"

"I did, we weren’t hit by bandits at 3 o’clock. The aircraft just lost power." Solo pulled his attention away from scanning the horizon to look at his partner in surprise. "Don’t you remember?"

"Uhuh, it’s coming back. Was it THRUSH?" Illya’s voice was getting quieter. "Where have they taken us?"

"Nowhere." Solo was puzzled now. "Illya, why are you whispering?"

"It’s so dark, I presume we are in some kind of prison."

Napoleon frowned. The Russian was gazing just past his shoulder, not making eye contact at all. "Illya, it’s bright daylight and we are in the middle of an open plain." He waved his hand in front of the blue eyes. There was no reaction, no blinking. "Illya, can’t you see…" Solo trailed off as he suddenly realised that was beyond doubt the case.

"No, I can’t see anything," his partner confirmed. "If this is broad daylight, then I’m completely blind."

*****

"So where are we now?" Kuryakin seemed unusually edgy. He felt rather vulnerable sitting in the middle of the African tundra by, what his nose told him, was the smoking remains of their crashed aircraft, unable to see what might be coming next.

"There’s nothing much around us except grass and a few grazing antelope and zebra." Solo tried to paint a picture of their surroundings. "I can see some trees in the distance to the South, about half a mile away. To the North there is nothing but open savannah, the same to the East. To the West is a mountain range, but that starts about 5 miles from here."

"Why do you suppose we were attacked?" Illya gazed unseeingly at his partner with an intensity he never employed when sighted. "It’s odd. We’d finished our mission and were on our way home."

"We were always on shaky information with this report of THRUSH developing a new type of missile." Napoleon looked back into the blue eyes; it was hard to believe his partner could not see anything. "Just because we found that experimental base and closed it down, doesn’t mean we didn’t miss something. Perhaps it was a red herring."

"A what?"

"Red herring, a ruse. A false set-up to lead us away from the real one." Solo pointed out. "It wouldn’t be the first time. Look at that business with the THRUSH ultimate computer."

Kuryakin considered this for a moment, remembering how he had been gulled into blowing up the wrong computer. "Yes but that was suspicious, it was too easy. This last mission was hardly that."

"Nevertheless…" Solo decided not to press the point. They had other things to worry about just now.

"Do you think we’ll be able to salvage anything from the plane?" Kuryakin automatically turned toward the wreck, even though he could not see it.

"The explosion scattered quite a bit of debris around. It might be worth taking a look." Solo was still massaging his legs trying to find some feeling. "I was holding my communicator when we were hit, so only God knows where that’s gone. I couldn’t find yours in your pocket. I don’t suppose you have one secreted somewhere else about your person by any chance?"

"No, it was in my pocket." Kuryakin shook his head to clear it, which did nothing to reduce the pounding ache that had now set up home there. "Shall we begin the search?"

"Okay. The plane still looks too hot to handle. There’s some stuff about 200 yards to your left."

Kuryakin walked to his left until his partner called out. "Stop. Three paces right, now two forward." The Russian bent down and felt about until he found something. But it was only useless shrapnel.

"Move more to your right." Solo called. "About 10 paces."

Kuryakin stood once more and did as instructed. This time he was rewarded with one of their communicators. It was, however, not working. Nevertheless, he took the prize back to his partner for a visual inspection.

The two agents spent three hours examining the strewn debris and, eventually the wreckage. The search finally yielded, along with the broken communicator, a scorched first aid kit with most of its contents intact, an operational U.N.C.L.E. Special and a spare clip of sleep darts which had miraculously not been damaged in the fire, a bag of peppermints, a rug, a cigarette lighter and, most importantly, a gallon can filled with water.

"How long do you suppose before anyone at U.N.C.L.E. misses us?" Kuryakin dropped the latest collection of firewood on the growing pile. It was getting dark and the temperature had dropped dramatically.

"I’d just finished the report I was making before we were hit. Mr. Waverly finished off by telling us to take a week’s vacation. I guess they won’t miss us until then at least." Solo bit his lip as he strategically balanced the last piece of wood on his campfire in preparation for lighting it. Then scowled as the whole thing toppled over.

"How’s the fire coming?" his partner asked innocently.

"Fine!" Napoleon began to rebuild the little pyramid, suspicious that Illya’s hearing had told him exactly what had happened.

"Good, I’m starving."

"What’s new?"

"Did you gut the pig you shot yet?"

"Don’t be so impatient Illya. It’s not easy to butcher meat with just a jagged piece of shrapnel."

"It is if you’re hungry enough."

Solo took a mint from the bag, caught his partner’s wrist and slapped the candy into his palm. "Have another peppermint and don’t crunch it this time."

It was another hour before the agents sat in front of a healthy fire, chewing roasted meat off the pig bones.

"Your cooking is improving no end, Napoleon."

"That, I presume, is an insult."

"At least it doesn’t have ketchup and mustard on it."

"Such gratitude, after I’ve been slaving over a hot campfire all day." Solo pulled another meat-laden bone from the embers on the edge of the fire. "Can I tempt you to some more?"

"No thanks, I’d only eat it."

"Hmm, yes I guess we’d better save some for later." Solo began collecting the remains of the cooked animal and placed them in some large leaves which Illya had gathered earlier. He wrapped the bundle tightly with a bandage from the first aid kit. "Would sir like to finish his meal with coffee and brandy or would he prefer a swig of water from a Jerry can?"

"Hard choice," Kuryakin’s unseeing eyes smiled in the eerie glow of the flames. "You decide for me."

Solo handed him the large can and watched thoughtfully as his partner felt for the spout and lifted it carefully to his lips. "We can’t both stay here, Illya. You’ll have to go for help. Waverly will have no idea where we are, even when we don’t report in."

"I can’t leave you on your own in the middle of nowhere, unable to walk. Besides, what use am I going to be if I can’t see where I’m going?" Illya countered.

"Well you can’t carry me. There’s no sign of anything for miles." Napoleon grimaced at the ache in his back. Pain tablets from the first aid kit had relieved the agony a little, but he was still hurting. "Besides, I don’t know if I can cope with being lugged about."

"Maybe if we wait, your back will get better." Kuryakin tried optimistically.

"And maybe it won’t."

They both lapsed into silence, each frantically trying to think their way through the problem.

"Shakespeare!" Solo suddenly broke the silence.

"What about him?" Kuryakin rubbed his eyes with both hands, as if in hope that his vision would suddenly return.

"Umm... It’s a quote that wandered into my head." Solo threw some more wood onto the dwindling fire. "King Richard the Third, I think."

"Oh yes - very useful." Kuryakin supplied the line. "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse."

"Yes." Napoleon nodded. "Wouldn’t that be nice."

Silence again.

"I saw some zebra earlier."

"Zebra?"

"You know, stripey things, look like horses."

"I know what zebra are, Napoleon. I used to… oh no, you can’t be serious! I’d get kicked to death. I can’t even see. How am I going to…No, I’m not even going to attempt it. There has to be something else."

The silence returned. This time it lasted even longer.

"I suppose if you could bring one down with a sleep dart…" Kuryakin eventually suggested.

In spite of the pain in his back, a broad grin spread itself across Solo’s face. He knew his partner well enough to know that planting the idea was often sufficient persuasion. He then needed space to think it through and make it work.

*****

The agents started on their project at dawn. As it turned out, Illya did have to carry his partner, but only to a strategic spot, about 500 yards away, to the edge of some long grass where, Napoleon had observed, zebra were wont to graze.

"I’m going to pick off a young female," he said, taking aim. Adding, before his partner could, "something at which I’m most adept."

"Don’t forget to put at least two slugs into it." Kuryakin stood rooted the spot where Solo had told him to stand so that he would not get in the line of fire. "Otherwise it probably won’t even notice."

Solo took a bead on a female yearling and fired three darts rapidly and accurately into the beast’s hindquarters. "Got it!" He turned to the Russian. "Okay, your turn. Are you ready?"

Kuryakin held up the halter they had made by plaiting lengths of the torn rug together. Illya had been able to do the straightforward weaving of the strands, while Napoleon had fashioned the device into the right shape. They had also made a long and sturdy rope from the remaining bandages and their neckties.

"Walk forward thirty paces," Solo directed. "Stop. Turn to your left. Forward five paces. Stop. Reach down. There."

The rest of the zebra herd had fled as Kuryakin approached and as he reached down and touched the warm hide, he felt the creature tremble in obvious terror. It was still conscious, even with three darts in it. This was not going to be easy.

Gently, he eased the improvised halter over the zebra’s head, speaking softly in Russian to try and calm the nervous animal. Then, having slipped the home-made rope around its neck, he moved his hand down the creature’s back to its flank and removed the sleep darts.

"Come on, nyeh byespakoityes - hup, come." Gingerly, Illya pulled on the rope with one hand and the halter with the other, urging the beast to its feet.

After ten minutes of gentle encouragement the animal shakily gained purchase with its hind legs and pushed itself onto all fours.

"Come now. Davaj. Walk on." Illya tugged gently and could feel the zebra begin to follow him a couple of paces. "Does it look all right?" he called to his partner.

"Yes she’s quite…Illya watch out!" They had both been unprepared for the animal’s sudden return to life. Illya was pulled off his feet as the zebra bucked back and front and then took off in a panic-stricken bolt. The resolute Russian hung on to the bandage rope and was dragged along the grass until he managed to get some purchase with his feet and pull back, slowing the creature a little. The agent’s one thought was don’t let go.. don’t let go.

Eventually the animal stopped, exhausted and sweating. Illya pulled himself up, battered and bruised but the rope still tenaciously grasped in his hands. The Russian felt his way to the animal’s neck, gently patting and soothing the sweating hide, and felt the pounding heart. It was obviously terrified. He was loath to shout for fear of startling the zebra into another dash, but now he had no idea where he was.

Get a grip he told himself sternly. Think. When he had stood behind Napoleon the sun had been full on his face. Then he had walked forwards. Okay, he reasoned, if I put the sun in my face now and then turn and walk away from it, I will be going in the right direction.

"Come on zebra." He pulled firmly on the rope and the exhausted, nervous animal reluctantly followed him.

He had covered about 500 yards, tripping and stumbling every so often over unseen hazards, when he finally heard Napoleon calling to him and turned towards his partner’s voice.

"So, we have a horse." Solo eyed the quivering animal as the unlikely pair of blind Russian and untamed zebra arrived to where he was lying, propped up on his elbows.

"No, Napoleon." Illya rubbed at his bruised thigh. "We have a wild zebra. You are not going to be able to ride this. I’ve probably battered myself almost to death for no purpose. We may as well shoot it and use the meat."

"Illya how could you?" Napoleon could see his partner’s point, but was not about to give up. "Perhaps if we give her a name."

I don’t see how that will help." Kuryakin was not the type to get overly sentimental about animals.

"Well, it might stop you from eating her," Solo reasoned. "We could call her Zee?"

"We could call her Dinner?" Kuryakin scowled.

"No, I’m going to call her Spot," Napoleon decided.

*****

Spot eventually stopped trying to pull away from Illya as he stroked and whispered to her, gradually calming with his soft words and gentle caresses. When her heartbeat had slowed enough, the agent decided it was time for the next step. He tethered the rope to a heavy rock to stop her bolting and slowly eased himself astride the animal’s back.

At first she stood calmly enough, but suddenly realising something very strange was happening, bucked with all four legs, leapt high in the air and dumped the rider on the ground.

Illya rolled quickly away from the stamping hooves, certain that he had enough bruises for one day. "Where is she Napoleon?" He scrambled up to his feet again, resolutely determined not to be beaten.

"It’s okay, she’s still tethered to the rock. Are you all right?" Napoleon was feeling a little guilty that he couldn’t help more.

"I’m fine. Just let me get my breath back and I’ll try again." Kuryakin stood still. Disorientated by the fall he didn’t know which way to go. "It doesn’t exactly help not being able to see."

"Maybe if you equalled the struggle a bit." Solo suggested. "How about blindfolding Spot. I’ve seen that done with horses, if they can’t see, it calms them down."

"Bribery works well too." Kuryakin worked his way towards Solo’s voice. "I wish we had some sugar-lumps."

"How about peppermints?" Solo shook the bag of candy.

A piece of lining from Solo’s jacket was used to fashion the blindfold and Kuryakin, with directions from his partner, sometimes helpful, sometimes not, eventually managed to cover Spot’s eyes. At first she twisted her head this way and that, trying to be free of the encumbrance, but finally gave up and stood quietly. Illya then unwrapped a peppermint and, feeling down the animal’s nose, located her mouth and pressed the treat against her teeth.

Once more she was startled by the strange new experience, but crunched the candy, then butted against the Russian’s arm, obviously anxious for more.

"She likes it!" Solo exclaimed. "And you two have something in common."

"Which is?"

"You both crunch."

Another hour and half a dozen peppermints later, Kuryakin finally sat astride Spot, without her bucking or protesting in any way.

The two agents made a quick meal from the remains of the roast pig. Then Illya lifted his partner up from beneath his arms and managed to manoeuvre him so that he could grasp Spot’s neck. Napoleon held on firmly as Illya lifted the paralysed legs over the back of the zebra.

"How does that feel?" Kuryakin still kept a firm grasp on the rope as he reached down and felt about for the sack that Solo had improvised from the remains of the rug.

"Not too bad. Beats the hell out of a camel." Napoleon noticed his partner’s fumbling. "The sack is to your left."

Illya hoisted the bundle holding the remains of their possessions over the zebra’s neck, counter-balanced by the heavier Jerry can of water on the other side. "How much daylight do you think we have left?"

"About six hours I would think," Solo estimated.

"So which way do we go? Since you’re the only one who can see where we are, I suppose I’ll have to rely on your navigation." Kuryakin took the halter in one hand and waited for directions. "As we’re lost already, I don’t suppose it matters much."

"I think we should be able to make it to the mountains before sundown. That’s probably our best bet for finding more water at least."

"So - which way?"

"Head West young man."

*****

Had there been anyone to see, the trio would have made a strange sight. Two men dressed in battered and torn business suits, one riding a blindfolded zebra, hanging on tightly around the animal’s neck. The other leading it, with one hand held out defensively in front as though he were walking in the dark.

After two hours of steady travel, the terrain began to get a little more rocky as the three approached the mountains. Illya, with Napoleon’s help, found a long twig to use as a stick. It helped him to avoid the smaller rocks without his partner having to constantly alert him to hazards. The Russian was tempted to unblindfold Spot so that at least she could see where she was going, but decided against it, not wanting to risk Napoleon being thrown.

"Stop Illya." Napoleon suddenly ordered. "I think I see water."

The Russian halted Spot, waiting for directions. "Which way?"

"Turn to your left. No back to the right a little. That’s it. Okay now straight ahead."

As they approached the small waterhole, Solo could see quite a few other animals, antelope, a couple of giraffe, some kind of bovine with long horns. "Wait for a moment." Illya halted once more. "We need to be careful, there could be lions or other dangerous animals here."

"Do you want to get the gun out of the sack?" Illya suggested. "Maybe you could bag supper at the same time."

"Good idea," Napoleon agreed. "Does sir fancy anything in particular, or would you like the dish of the day."

"Anything, except…." Illya trailed off sounding a little embarrassed.

"What?" Napoleon had guessed what his partner was going to say and was not about to let him get away with it. "Zebra?"

Illya pulled himself up straight and put on his most aloof expression. "Well it wouldn’t be very good manners - would it."

*****

Both agents were bone tired by the time they curled up by the campfire for a few hours of well-deserved sleep.

They had decided to camp a good way away from the waterhole and, after refilling their can, having a perfunctory wash, and letting Spot have a good long drink, they trekked on for another twenty minutes.

Napoleon had bagged a large turkey and while he set to his work of plucking, gutting and roasting the bird, Illya collected firewood as well as armfuls of long grass for Spot’s benefit. He tethered the zebra to a rock near the fire as protection against predators and, after removing her blindfold, added a couple of peppermints to her feast.

As the Russian petted Spot and doled out the candy, she nudged him playfully, gradually becoming at ease with her new owner.

"You realise Mr. Waverly will never let you keep her." Napoleon looked up from fiddling about with the broken communicator. "Besides, you’d never get her to live in your apartment."

"Napoleon, I’m just making friends with her, I don’t want to marry her." Illya left Spot to enjoy her grass and felt his way over to join his partner. "What are you doing? Anything useful?"

"I’m attempting to see if there is anything to be done with this communicator." Solo twisted a small piece off the antenna and made a minute adjustment to the internal workings.

"And is there?" Illya flopped down on the grass.

"Well the power pack is still functioning, however, I can’t raise anybody on it. I think the receiver may be working over short distances, but that’s about it."

"So it’s no use?" Illya was itching to get his hands on the device, but without sight, there was nothing he could do.

"Maybe I could make it into a homing device." Napoleon carried on twiddling. "If I can just get this bit to…"

"What use is that over short distances?" Illya felt for some firewood as he could feel the blaze lessening. "If headquarters can’t pick us up, there’s no point."

"At the very least, if I wear the homer, you could carry the receiver," Napoleon suggested.

"What good would that do?"

"It would stop you getting lost all the time." Solo finished adjusting the instrument. "There, that’s got it. I won’t have any voice left if I have to keep calling you back every time you wander off."

*****

The following morning the strange little trio set off again. Spot was now behaving very well without her blindfold, although she did tend to butt Illya every so often in the hope of eliciting more peppermints.

"Stoi, stoi," Illya muttered, pushing Spot’s nose gently away. "You’ll rot your teeth."

They made their way around the edge of the mountains, hoping to find a road of some kind that might lead to civilisation. But three hours of trekking revealed only more mountain to their left and more savannah to their right.

"Illya, could we take a rest." Solo groaned a little and his partner halted Spot and turned to him.

"Are you all right?"

"Not really. My back is hurting like hell and hanging on to Spot’s neck is not the best position I can think of." Napoleon tried to ease himself back a little to sit upright, but couldn’t quite make it. "There’s no sign of anything in any direction. No point in rushing off to nowhere."

Illya tethered Spot to a bush, then lifted his partner down from the zebra and made him as comfortable as possible on the ground. "Do you want some water?" Kuryakin suggested, "and some tablets, there are plenty left."

"Yuh." Solo grimaced. Although Kuryakin could not see him, he could tell his partner was in pain. It was not like Napoleon to complain, unless he was really suffering. He retrieved the water and tablets from the zebra.

When Napoleon sounded a little more comfortable, Illya realised the zebra must be thirsty too. "Can you see anything into which I could pour some water for Spot?"

Solo looked around. "There are some shallow rocks about 20 yards straight ahead. I think if you feel for an indentation in one that should work."

Illya set off with Spot, carefully following Napoleon’s called directions. He was getting quite good at this. He found the flattish rocks and felt about until he came to a suitable indentation. Playfully, the Russian splashed some water on Spot’s nose, which made her sneeze, so he apologised with a peppermint, but held it low by the water he had poured to give her the idea of where to drink.

Napoleon watched in amusement. "You know what they say Illya. You can lead a zebra to water, but…"

"What? What is it?" Illya sensed the sudden alarm in his partner’s pause.

"A plane, there’s a plane heading this way."

"I don’t hear it." Illya stood up and listened intently.

"Neither do I." Napoleon pushed himself up on his elbows for a better view. "It’s as though it doesn’t have an engine."

"No engine?" Illya turned towards his partner. "Napoleon, that’s what happened to us."

"And it’s going to happen to these guys as well." Solo was frantically trying to measure the airplane’s trajectory to see if Illya and he were in immediate danger. "That plane is going to crash."

They both waited in silence.

Illya flinched at the sound of the explosion. The plane had blown up on impact, hitting the ground about half a mile away from the agents.

"That’s a bit too close to home to be a co-incidence," Solo commented dryly. "Except that whoever was in that plane won’t be riding out of here on a zebra."

"So we definitely were attacked and there is obviously something we missed earlier." Kuryakin realised that Spot had finished drinking and allowed her to wander about grazing, whilst he followed, keeping a firm hold on her rope. "What do suggest we do now?"

"Until we get back to civilisation, I don’t think there is much we can do about it." The American lay back down on the makeshift pillow he had made of his jacket. "Personally, I’m going to have a nap."

"Hmm - that should help." Kuryakin continued to follow Spot, as she nosed her way across the grass.

Fifteen minutes had passed when Illya heard the sound of a helicopter approaching. "Napoleon, Napoleon, where are you?" There was no reply. Either his partner was sound asleep or he had wandered out of earshot. "Well Spot, where are we?" He could hear the helicopter descending fast, but of course, had no way of knowing if it contained friend or foe.

The machine landed quite close by. The occupants had obviously spotted the two agents. Kuryakin stood his ground as they approached.

"Who are you?" A male voice demanded; it didn’t sound like a friend.

"Illya Kuryakin. Who are you?"

"And your friend over there - who is he?"

"I think you owe me a name first."

A bullet whanged off the rock beside Illya, making him jump and Spot to rear backwards in alarm, pulling the rope from the agent’s hand. "Just answer the question," the voice growled. "What’s your friend’s name?"

"I’m Napoleon Solo." The American answered for himself. He had been asleep when the helicopter landed, knocked out by the tablets he had taken. The shot fired had woken him with a start.

"What are you two doing out here, dressed like that?"

"Bird watching." Solo’s sarcasm was more for Kuryakin’s benefit than the questioners. His partner could not see the THRUSH uniforms, but that comment would tell him who these men were.

Illya felt the man draw close to him and stood passively as he was searched. There was not much else the agent could do and he was not going to give away the fact that he was blind by making any stupid moves.

"What’s this," said the THRUSH triumphantly as he withdrew the gold card from the Russian’s jacket. "U.N.C.L.E."

"Yes, we’re just the advance party," Solo bluffed. "We’re onto you and we’re expecting a full contingent any moment."

"No you’re not." Even Solo had to admit it was not a very good bluff. "You, get over there by your partner."

Illya felt himself shoved in the back and started to walk towards the direction of Napoleon’s voice.

"And you." The THRUSH waved his gun upwards at Solo as they approached. "Get up."

"I’m afraid I can’t do that," Napoleon admitted. "Seem to be having a little trouble with my legs."

Kuryakin stumbled over a clump of grass, nearly losing his balance. He grabbed out to save himself from falling and accidentally caught hold of the THRUSH’s arm. The man, thinking he was being attacked, pulled away then fired automatically.

The bullet tore into Illya, searing through the flesh just above his waist. The agent gave a small cry and crumpled forward, hitting the ground face first and clutching at the wound.

"Illya!" Solo called out in alarm.

The second THRUSH had been over near the helicopter, probably to radio his satrapy for instructions, and was now returning at a run. "Why the hell did you shoot him?" he asked breathlessly.

The first THRUSH turned Kuryakin over with his foot. "He tried to jump me."

Kuryakin was conscious, but only just and the wound had made a bright red stain on his shirt, his hand and the ground. "I didn’t," he muttered. "I slipped."

"Leave him alone," Solo said with a tone that was more dangerous than he felt. "It was an accident. He can’t see. He’s blind."

"You two are a sorry pair for dangerous U.N.C.L.E. agents." The first THRUSH laughed disparagingly.

"Anyway, it doesn’t matter," the second THRUSH continued, "our orders are to bring one of them in and kill the other."

"Which one?"

"It doesn’t matter," THRUSH #2 gestured towards Solo. "We may as well take that one, if he can’t walk, he won’t give us any trouble."

"You kill him and I’ll show you how much trouble I can be," Solo growled. Although, right now, it seemed a pretty empty threat. How much trouble could a cripple and a wounded blind man with a pet zebra give?

Solo’s mind was working in top gear, in spite of the drugs he had taken. As the two men lifted him between them and lugged him to the helicopter, he desperately tried to think of some way to stop them from shooting his partner.

"Kuryakin would be quite a prize for THRUSH you know." Although the agent knew they were both expendable, he did not want Illya to die so pointlessly, with a bullet through his head from a THRUSH gun, as he lay wounded and blind.

"Forget it." THRUSH #1 dumped the agent in the back of the helicopter. "We have our orders."

Before Solo could protest further, both THRUSH men had headed back towards the prone Russian. He heard a shot, then, a few minutes later, the men returned.

God Illya, I’m sorry, Solo thought as the helicopter took off. There was nothing I could do.

*****

Solo said nothing more during the short helicopter ride, lost in thought about his partner’s untimely end. He felt even more depressed when he saw from the helicopter how close they had been to a road, probably less than a mile. If it hadn’t been for my damn carping about the pain in my back, Illya would probably still be alive.

The small glass-domed craft followed the dirt track for another two or three miles and finally landed beside a building which, although conspicuous, blended in well with the local culture. It was a wooden and straw construction, about 100 feet long and raised off the ground on criss-crossed stilts, about four feet high. There were several smaller buildings made from similar materials around it and the whole had the appearance of a normal African village.

Solo was carried into the large building and dumped on a small cot made of wood and raffia. Unlike the usual long-house, this place was divided up into a series of small sections, with a corridor running down the centre. The agent had been put in a room half way along the building.

A beautiful dark-skinned woman in a sarong brought him some water, fruit and flat bread. Napoleon spoke to her, but she appeared, or preferred, not to understand. Another half an hour passed before a short, rotund, ruddy-faced man dressed in a white safari suit and smoking a fat cigar sauntered into the room.

"Well, well, Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E.’s finest." The little fat man shook his head and rocked back on his heels chuckling. "What a sorry state in which to find so illustrious an agent."

"Should I know you?" Solo said in a disdainful voice. He may be down, but he was not yet out. Not ‘til the fat lady sings, he thought, and she’s not even clearing her throat yet.

"Jeremiah B. Sting at your service Mister Solo." Sting gave a low mocking bow to the agent. "Or should I say, you’re are at my service?"

Solo not only hated this man already because he was THRUSH and had almost certainly ordered the death of his partner, but the agent was also irritated by the way the man sarcastically emphasised words as he spoke. "Oh yes." Solo closed his eyes as if in deep thought. "I seem to remember seeing your name in an U.N.C.L.E. file. One of the lesser minions of THRUSH as I recall."

"That may be Mr. Solo, but not for long." Jeremiah B. moved over to grab hold of the agent’s arm, pushing his face threateningly into Napoleon’s. "Once I’ve perfected the energy damper we have been testing, and delivered you to THRUSH Central, I assure you I will be more than a minion."

"Well I suppose it’s good to have an ambition." Solo pulled his arm away from the man’s offensive grip. "THRUSH has developed energy dampers before you know, they have never worked."

"Ah but this one will, Mr. Solo." Sting, like all THRUSH megalomaniacs, enjoyed bragging. "It is based on all the previous attempts to make such a machine, but this one has more control. It has a target locator and is directional."

"Hmm, I see." Solo didn’t rush with his next observation. "So I presume you meant to bring our plane down. But how come nobody came to see the result?"

Jeremiah’s face turned even more ruddy. "I assure you Mr. Solo that we brought your plane down, it was quite intentional. My men obviously believed you had been killed in the crash."

"Yes but we weren’t." Solo gave an ironic grimace. "Were we?"

*****

Illya Kuryakin was teetering on the verge of consciousness when he heard the THRUSH men returning from dumping his partner in the helicopter. He could hear them talking and walking back towards him.

"Bullet through the head," the first voice said. "Quite humane really."

"Well be quick about it." The second voice. "We haven’t got all day."

Kuryakin felt the muzzle of the gun being placed against his forehead…

…and leave it again.

"Hey!" the first voice said. "Isn’t that the critter this guy was holding when we first saw him. Look it’s got something strung around its neck. D’yer think we oughter get it?"

"Might as well," the second voice confirmed. "Shoot it and we’ll take a look."

Not Spot as well! Both agents always felt a professional responsibility for the innocents who accidentally got caught up in their struggles with THRUSH, even if, as in this case, it was only an animal. Kuryakin tried to move but the pain from his wound had sent him into shock and he was still losing blood.

A shot rang out above his head. "Damn! Missed it."

"It’s taken off. Never mind, leave it. Just shoot this one and we’ll be back in time for chow, I’m starving."

Illya felt the cold steel of the gun against his head again. He held his breath … There was a click, no bullet, just a click.

"What’s the matter?"

"Damn gun’s jammed. You’d better go and get yours."

"Oh leave it. The other guy said this one was blind, so he won’t last long out here. He’ll probably bleed to death from that wound anyway. Either that or the smell of blood will attract lions or something. Let’s go."

Kuryakin could hardly believe it. Okay Napoleon, you’re not the only one to get lucky sometimes. I’m not going to die now. I’m going to survive this. He gritted his teeth and lay still until he heard the helicopter take off. Then he tried to move again. The Russian managed to sit up, his hand still clutched to the bullet wound. He made it to his feet and took a couple of steps towards where he thought the water can might be. But the loss of blood was making him weak and he sank to his knees, gasping for breath. The last thing to run through his head before he passed out was, This is going to be more difficult than I thought.

*****

Solo had been left pretty much to his own devices since his confrontation with Jeremiah B. Sting. The pretty, saronged woman appeared again, this time with water, soap and towel for him to wash, together with a safety razor and mirror.

"So what’s your day job?" he asked conversationally.

"This not a job." She looked puzzled. "Mr. Sting tell me, clean you up."

"I see." Solo pulled a long face as he stretched his chin to shave off the two-day stubble. "Do you have a name?"

"I have name." Napoleon suspected the woman had been told not to talk to him.

"Well my name is Napoleon. Now I’ve told you mine you can tell me yours; isn’t that fair?"

At last he had elicited a small smile. "Nap-o-le-on. It is strange name."

"Well I’m not a strange man." Solo persisted. "So it would be perfectly safe for you to tell me your name." He added in a whisper, "I won’t tell anyone."

"It is Lana Turner."

Solo’s eyebrows rose in enquiry.

Lana Turner smiled a little more at the American’s surprise. "Before my mother gave me birth, she went to the big city, long way from here. There she see film show - um, movie. It had famous star called Lana Turner. She called me for her."

"Well Lana Turner is a beautiful lady and you are just as lovely, so it was a good choice."

"But I think she had hair of yellow, not dark like mine." Lana Turner ran her hand through her tight curls.

"Oh I think dark hair is just as lovely as yellow." Solo’s voice caught just a fraction, as the reference to hair colour reminded him of one blond he would not see again.

"You are sad, why do you feel so?" Lana Turner looked at him, puzzled at the sudden darkening of his face.

"Er well you see Lana, can I call you Lana for short, it’s my legs." Solo knew that his partner would not want him to wallow and there was still a lot to do. "I can’t move them. Maybe if you could help me with a little massage or something I could make them work again."

"Yes, I know much about medicine," Lana assured the agent. "My mother taught me how to make ill people better. I know many herbs also. I will look at your legs when you finish with the washing."

"Well, I’m all finished here." Solo rubbed the last of the moisture off his face with the rough towel and Lana took the bowl away, removed Napoleon’s shoes and undid the American’s trousers, carefully stripping them off. She ran her hands gently over his legs with a touch that felt quite professional.

"Is not your legs." Lana announced confidently. "Everything is good there. I will turn you over and see your back."

Efficiently and with surprising strength, the woman turned Napoleon onto his stomach. Her hands ran down his spine and felt vaguely sensuous. What she did next however, felt extremely sensuous. Napoleon realised that she had leaned over him and was gently probing his backbone with her tongue.

Eventually she stood up and Solo managed to turn over on his own, using his arms, and looked at her enquiringly.

"It is your back that has injured, Nap-o-le-on." Lana smiled down at the prone agent. "But I can maybe fix."

"How?" Solo did not want the injury made worse.

"I use some heat, some herbs - very special herbs and I massage, move wrong piece back to right place."

"Why do you use your tongue to make a diagnosis?" Napoleon put his head on one side. "Not that I minded you understand."

"More feeling. It tells me more." Lana Turner finally broke into a beautiful smile. "And you are very sexy man."

*****

Illya came awake slowly. He woke from a bad dream, only to find himself in another nightmare. He figured by the temperature that it must be night. Had he been the panicking kind this would have been an excellent moment to indulge it.

The pain from his recent wound had reduced to a dull throb and the Russian could not begin to guess how much blood he had lost.

Kuryakin climbed to his feet, moving automatically. Then he stood still. Where am I going? How do I get out of this. I must have been in worse situations. He considered this for a moment, then concluded. No, I don’t think I have.

Locked in a cell, there was always the possibility of escape. Being tortured, there were obvious choices, talk, die or escape. Even when facing imminent death, there was usually a choice, kill or be killed.

But this! Blind, wounded and alone in the middle of the African wilderness. Illya suddenly felt almost overwhelmed with a desolate sense of isolation. He sank down onto his haunches, clutching his injured side, rocking to and fro on his heels, trying to muster his thoughts and figure out what to do next.

Something hit him in the side and knocked him over. He rolled onto his back and pulled himself up into a sitting position, his heart pounding.

The second nudge was against his face and the Russian let out a long held breath, his anxiety vanishing.

"Spot!" Illya climbed to his feet and put his arms around the zebra’s neck. He did not even wince at the pain in his side as he hugged the surprised animal. "Am I glad to see you."

Spot was a little alarmed at the unusual display of affection from the Russian, so Kuryakin undid his grasp and gently stroked her nose. "Spokoino, dushka. Steady baby," he whispered.

Kuryakin felt in the home-made rug bag, which was still attached around Spot’s neck, and produced a peppermint. The zebra crunched it quickly and nudged the Russian for another.

Illya caught hold of Spot’s trailing rope and tied it to his wrist. He did not want to chance losing her again. Then he removed the rug sack from around the animal’s neck and, sitting down on the ground, carefully went through the contents.

He counted out 24 peppermints, 14 pain tablets - 12 after he quickly dry-swallowed two and a bottle of something from the first aid kit. He sniffed the contents and decided to put it on his wound, only later, as it would probably hurt like hell. The U.N.C.L.E. Special with half a clip of ammunition and the broken communicator.

Except it wasn’t broken. Napoleon had adapted it into a homing device.

"Well Spot, I think we’re in business. I’ve got a gun, a homing device and medicine and you’ve got two good eyes and 24 peppermints."

*****

Lana Turner could have made herself a fortune if she lived in New York, Napoleon decided. As she rubbed hot, pungent oil into his back and manipulated and massaged, the pain gradually seemed to lessen and he felt a minuscule sensation of sciatic pain running down his legs. She also gave him a syrupy potion to drink which gave him a warm feeling as it oozed down his throat, easing away the aches and throbbing.

"Your legs can’t work because this bone.." Lana suddenly pressed hard into the lordosis, making Napoleon yelp with pain. "…is moved across to wrong place."

"Ahh! Well thanks for the warning." Solo groaned again.

"I hurt you too much?"

"No that’s just fine." The American was startled to be getting so much feeling back so quickly. "You carry on."

"Is not broken," she diagnosed. "Maybe small fracture, but I can push into right place. Are you ready?"

"No time like the present."

The woman hitched up her sarong and knelt astride the prone agent. She placed her knee against the small of Napoleon’s back and her hands on either side. With a sudden movement that made Solo see stars, she pressed her knee and pulled with her hands and the agent felt, rather than heard, a sharp click in his spine. The sciatic pain in his legs grew and, although it hurt, Napoleon could at least feel some sensation there at last.

Lana climbed off him and helped him to roll onto his back. "You rest for a while and then we see what has happened. How does it feel?"

"My legs are hurting." Solo reached down to feel the back of his thighs. There was definitely feeling there. "That’s good, I suppose."

"Yes, that is good." Lana covered Napoleon’s bare legs with a thin sheet. "I must go now, but I come back in a while and we see if your legs move."

Solo was surprised that Jeremiah B. Sting had not reappeared and that he had received such attention from Lana, but perhaps THRUSH was just using local help and not monitoring what they did too closely. After all, as far as he knows, I’m crippled so what danger could I be. Solo reasoned. He obviously doesn’t know he has a medical genius on his staff.

*****

Illya had eventually gritted his teeth and applied half the contents of the bottle (it smelt like some kind of iodine) to his wound. Then, once he had recovered his senses, he unravelled some bandage from Spot’s rope and bound up the injury as best he could.

He eventually found the water can and, after he and Spot had taken a long drink, decided to rest until he felt the sun come up again. Apart from needing the rest, the sun helped him to navigate. He had lost the cigarette lighter; Napoleon probably had it in his pocket. With some coaxing and a couple of peppermints, he managed to get Spot to lie down. The Russian used her as a pillow and hot water bottle and was able to get several hours of healing sleep.

When he awoke the sun was in his face and Spot had shrugged him off and regained her feet, pulling impatiently at the rope.

"All right, I’m coming, dushka." Illya climbed to his feet, feeling for the peppermints. "Here have some breakfast. No, just one, you’ve got to make them last now."

They took some more water and Kuryakin allowed Spot to graze for a while, as he fiddled with the communicator again to try and get some kind of signal. The agent was sure the instrument was working, but he couldn’t get any response.

"All right Spot, we’ll try away from the sun to begin with for an hour and then, if there’s nothing, we’ll go two hours the other way. Do you think you can manage that Dushka?"

He climbed up on the zebra’s back and urged her forward. Spot was used to being led rather than just ridden, but she got the hang of what was wanted quite quickly and trotted obediently forward.

At least when he was riding Spot, he didn’t keep stumbling over and the zebra soon picked up a good pace. Illya was careful to keep the sun in his face as he rode.

An hour, measured by Kuryakin’s internal clock, revealed nothing on the communicator. So he turned Spot around and they travelled back the way they had come, this time keeping the sun at his back.

After two hours, just when Illya was starting to get despondent again, the sound of a faint but regular bleep emitted from the instrument.

"Spot, you’ve just earned yourself a lifetime’s supply of peppermints - just as soon as I find Napoleon and… well, whatever else I have to do." He climbed off Spot’s back and let her rest and graze for a while. Then they finished off the water between them and had a peppermint each, before resuming their journey.

*****

When Lana returned, Napoleon was actually standing shakily beside the cot, supporting himself against the wall with just one hand.

"Oh Nap-o-le-on! You are moving so soon." Lana looked quite surprised at her own medicine. "You must be very strong man."

"And you are some magician, Lana." The agent gave her his very best seductive smile. "That was a brilliant piece of doctoring." Napoleon sank down to sit on the cot, his hand on his back to ease the strain. "Tell me, does Mr. Sting know that you’ve been healing me?"

"Hmp!" Lana turned her nose up. "I don’t tell him anything unless he asks."

"So why are you working for him?" Napoleon could guess the answer but he needed to hear it from the woman herself.

"These men came here and promised the village great riches." Lana sat down on the cot next to the agent. "They built this long house, but we are not allowed to use it. They say we can have it when they have gone. But there are no riches, only threats… violence."

"What kind of violence?" Solo asked gently.

"The head man complained because all the women had to work cooking and looking after Mr. Sting’s men and they are not looking after their own men. So Mr. Sting shot him dead with his gun. Then he says he will shoot anyone else who complains. What else can we do?"

"You could help me some more. Perhaps together we can get rid of Mr. Sting and his men."

"But, Nap-o-le-on, you are just one man who can hardly walk." Lana looked at him with a glimmer of hope. "What can you do?"

"Well, let’s see. Is there a room with a radio transmitter? Or a room with a lot of electronic equipment?"

"Yes, there is radio room at far end of house, but we are not allowed to go near it." Lana gave a small frown. "Next to it is bigger room with equipment. But that one always has men in it."

"Uhuh. Is it possible to go to the radio room without being seen from the other room?"

"Yes I think so. They only go in radio place to send message. No one guards it."

"Okay." Solo was beginning to see a way through. "If you could steal one of those uniforms for me and then let me know when most of the men are out of the way… I’ll see what I can do."

"I think I manage that well, Nap-o-le-on." Lana kissed him on his cheek. "I fix your legs, you fix my village. It is good bargain."

"A very good bargain, Lana."

*****

The signal was growing very strong now. Illya pulled Spot up and rummaged in the little bag until he retrieved the U.N.C.L.E. Special. "Now dushka, this is the tricky bit."

He slid off the zebra’s back and led her along, paying very careful attention to the signal strength.

Spot butted him every so often and he swatted her away. "Not now Spot, you can have a peppermint when we’ve finished." He absentmindedly fondled her neck and head, scratching her just behind the ears, something she seemed to like.

Suddenly Spot arched her head and pulled up. Kuryakin felt her ears prick backwards, alert and nervous. "What is it Spot? What can you see?"

Illya listened very carefully. He could hear voices and movement, ahead of him and slightly to his left, about 500 yards he reckoned. A dog barked and someone called out.

Can they see me? Illya thought. He had no idea how out in the open he might be.

He put Spot on the side the noise was coming from and crouched down beside her, keeping his head below the level of her back. "Perhaps a zebra wandering up, won’t cause any suspicion, Spot. You’ll have to be my camouflage. Come on, dushka, slowly now."

Gradually the two edged their way forwards, Kuryakin keeping a tight hold on Spot’s halter to keep her between him and the noise.

*****

Solo noticed the occasional THRUSH guard wandering past his room, but generally the security and activity in this particular satrapy was lower than any he had ever encountered. He reasoned the location was probably so remote there was very little threat of discovery or interference from outside and they seemed to have the local people pretty much under the thumb.

Napoleon did not want to practice walking in case he was seen by the guards. He did not want anyone alerted to his recovery until he was ready to make his move on the equipment room. However, he had been flexing and rubbing his legs, exercising them discretely, so that when the time came he would be ready.

As he lay back relaxing after a strenuous bout of moving his knees up and down, Jeremiah B. Sting appeared once more.

"I hope you are enjoying our hospitality Mr. Solo." The man’s words were out of kilter with his tone. "Make the most of your rest while you can. I have notified Central of your capture and they will be picking you up tomorrow. I’m sure they have many questions to tax you, before your final disposal."

"Find out what happened to our plane yet - hmm - did you?" Solo had found a weak spot and was determined to exploit it. "It was a mistake, wasn’t it. I’ll have to mention that to the boys at Central."

"It is just possible that someone messed up in bringing down your plane Mr. Solo." Jeremiah puffed a large cloud of smoke from his cigar and flicked the ash on the floor. "But I don’t think Central will be too worried about us accidentally bringing down an U.N.C.L.E. plane."

"So it was a mistake! Huh?" Solo smiled triumphantly. "In my experience THRUSH Central doesn’t like mistakes of any kind. They can be most unforgiving."

"They’re not going to be interested in you blabbing about that, Solo." Sting turned on his heel to leave. "You’ll be too busy singing about all U.N.C.L.E.’s little secrets, and I’ll be busy collecting my promotion."

"We’ll see," Solo said more to himself, since Sting was already out of the door.

*****

"Who you hiding from, Mister?"

Illya jumped at the voice. It was whispered and childlike. Then he realised that was because it belonged to a child. He reached out towards the voice and encountered a curly head about three feet off the ground. The head jumped back at his touch, obviously shy or alarmed or both.

"It’s all right, I won’t hurt you. Do you like candy?" He thought perhaps what worked with Spot might well work with this newcomer.

"Uhuh," said the small voice. "You got some?"

Kuryakin felt in his pocket for the dwindling supply of peppermints. There were about half a dozen left. "Here you are." He held out two mints towards the child, batting Spot’s greedy nose away. "What’s your name little boy?"

"Not little boy, little girl and my name is Matty."

"Sorry Matty. I can’t see you. My eyes don’t work." The Russian felt Matty’s hand gingerly help herself to the candy. "Can you tell me what’s here?"

"It is my village, where I live." Matty unwrapped the peppermint and began sucking noisily.

"And who lives here? Are there many people about?"

"We all live here." Matty explained with the wonderful simplicity of children. "And some new men, I don’t like them. They don’t give me candy."

"Are these new men, soldiers?" Kuryakin asked. "Do they have uniforms and guns?"

"Yes. Do you have more candy?"

"A little. Matty, tell me what the village looks like and I’ll give you this." He reached in his pocket for one more peppermint.

"There is lot of small houses where we live and one big house where new men live. Can I have candy now?"

"First tell me where the big house is. How far away?" Kuryakin kept the bribe clutched in his hand.

"Long way. Behind trees. I came here to get firewood."

Kuryakin released the treat and reached in his pocket for one more, silently apologising to Spot for using up her supply. "Do you want another, Matty"

"Uhuh." The child was too busy slurping on the candy to answer properly.

"I want to go to the big house, but it’s a secret. Do you understand secrets?"

"Uhuh."

"Okay. I don’t want anyone to see me. Can you take me there without anyone seeing me?" It was a long shot, but the best one he had at the moment.

"We can go round trees and up steps at end. Sometimes man is there, sometimes not. I can make him chase me if you want."

"Are you sure he won’t hurt you?" Illya was not about to put a child at risk from THRUSH.

"He chased me before, but he never catch me. I runned too fast." Matty giggled.

"You sure?"

"I’m sure. You take your zebra too?"

"No. I think we’ll let her go." Kuryakin reluctantly took the halter, rope and bag off Spot. He was quite sad to let her go, but she might be in the way and if anything happened to him, it was better to release her now. The U.N.C.L.E. Special was stowed in his belt and the communicator in his pocket with the three remaining peppermints.

"All right, Matty. Are you ready?"

"I ready. We keep very quiet though."

"We will." Kuryakin agreed.

The child took the agent’s hand and began to lead him along.

"Mister." Matty stopped. "Your zebra is coming too."

"Hmm." Kuryakin sighed a little. "She’s like you Matty. She can’t resist the pulling power of peppermints."

*****

Lana returned, as promised, with the uniform. She had not been able to steal a THRUSH gun, but all Solo needed was to get to a radio and put in a call to U.N.C.L.E. They should then be able to get a fix on the radio signal to locate the satrapy.

"All men are eating now," Lana said, helping Napoleon into the overalls and slanting the beret at the correct angle. "There is only one man before room with radio. I can go to talk to him. I think he likes me."

"That, Lana, would be wonderful." Solo tentatively tried his footing and was relieved to discover that he could manoeuvre reasonably well. Slow, but adequate.

He peered surreptitiously around the door to watch Lana saunter sexily up to the guard and lean on the wall next to him. Hmm, she’s a real pro, he thought. Proper U.N.C.L.E. material if ever I saw it.

Lana reached into the man’s pocket to find his cigarettes and he let her take one and lit it for her. She laughed at some joke or ribald comment he had made, then turned to face him as she stood against the wall.

Solo took the opportunity. He moved quietly along the corridor of the long house towards the room at the far end.

As he drew level with Lana and the guard, the THRUSH man seemed about to turn around, so Lana quickly put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him forward into a lingering kiss. Napoleon speeded up as much as he could without making noise and made it to the radio room and closed the wood framed raffia door behind him.

As Lana had thought, once he was inside he could not be seen, although he could hear men talking in the larger room next door.

Wasting no time, the agent moved to the sophisticated set-up and switched it on. The battery level was high and it seemed to be quite a powerful transmitter. Solo grooved the dial to the right frequency. "Open Channel D - emergency transmission from Napoleon Solo." He kept his voice low, so that he would not be overheard.

The speed of the response startled the agent. "Channel D open Mr. Solo, what is the problem?"

"I want you to locate this frequency and send in an U.N.C.L.E. task force immediately. This is top priority. I have stumbled upon a THRUSH satrapy and they are developing a new weapon. Mr. Kuryakin is dead and I am to be handed over to THRUSH Central."

"Understood Mr. Solo. We are homing in on your location now. Please try to keep this channel open until we pinpoint your position. In the meantime I’m patching you through to Mr. Waverly."

"Mr. Solo?" His boss’s voice came on the line almost immediately. "What is your situation and what has happened to Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I’m afraid Illya was killed by THRUSH, sir." The words were hard to say. "Our plane was brought down three days ago and we were attempting to get to safety. It’s a long story, sir. The immediate problem is to secure this satrapy and the energy damper THRUSH is developing here. The man in charge is Jeremiah B. Sting."

There was a brief silence, then his boss came back on the line. "I am very sorry to learn about Mr. Kuryakin, he was an excellent agent." The chief’s voice moved away from the microphone. "Ah yes, thank you." Waverly spoke directly to his agent again. "I have the details on Mr. Sting now. He is not a very high-ranking THRUSH operative, but extremely dangerous and ambitious. Please take every care Mr. Solo; I can’t afford to lose both of my top agents."

The first voice broke into their conversation. "We have the co-ordinates for Mr. Solo now, sir and can despatch a small task force from our central African headquarters. May I have your authorisation Mr. Waverly?"

"Yes, yes, go ahead, Miss Err. We’d best send them in straight away."

"Thank you sir." Solo exhaled heavily. Probably a moment too soon.

The raffia door burst open and two guards levelled their guns at the agent’s midsection. Behind them Jeremiah B. Sting was holding Lana by the wrist. The THRUSH chief marched into the room, dragging the woman after him. He switched off the radio transmitter and turned on Solo. "So U.N.C.L.E. is sending in a task force. Well I’m sorry to disappoint you Solo, but it will make a good test target for our newest weapon, don’t you think?"

"Let the woman go Sting." Solo ignored the very real threat the man had made. "She has done no harm."

"On the contrary, Mr. Solo. She distracted the guard so that you could get in here." Sting jerked Lana’s wrist, pulling her round to face him. "She also seems to have made you able to walk somehow."

"She was just being kind. A strange concept to you no doubt." Solo squared his shoulders displaying a power he knew he didn’t have right now. "Leave her alone."

Sting ignored the non-existent threat and pushed Lana towards the two guards. "Lock her up and don’t let her sweet-talk you." The THRUSH chief pulled a revolver from his inside pocket and pointed it at Solo. "Go together, so as you can keep an eye on each other. I don’t trust that woman now."

He waved the small gun at Solo as the guards took Lana away. "You, Mr. Solo, can come into the weapon room and watch us bring down your task force. You may find it educational."

Solo lifted his arms resignedly into the air and walked ahead of Sting into the adjoining room.

There was a large array of equipment along one side of the room. Two technicians were bent over the dials, monitoring the information.

"We are expecting a special target, gentlemen." Sting smirked at Solo as he addressed his minions. "I would like you to scan for incoming aircraft and bring them down."

Solo stood quietly and counted up the odds. Two technicians, who appeared to be unarmed, Sting, armed with just a revolver, an armed guard in the hall, two more guards - whereabouts unknown.

Okay, he decided. There’s a chance, I just need to wait for the right moment. God, Illya! I could really use your help right now.

*****

Illya and Matty came quietly around to the end of the long house. Once, as they made their way, Matty tugged urgently on Illya’s arm and the agent immediately dropped to the ground.

They lay still for a moment. "Okay now, man has passed by," Matty whispered.

"Matty," Illya whispered back, "you’re a natural at this."

"Can I have candy now?" the child breathed in response to the compliment.

Illya doled out another peppermint. "Where are we now?"

"Stairs are in front of you. About twenty steps away." Matty pulled his hand to indicate he could stand now. "Big man is at bottom of stairs, but he can’t see us. Shall I make him chase me now?"

"Are you sure it’s safe?" Illya was still concerned that the child could get hurt.

"I’ve done it before - lots of times."

Without another chance for the agent to protest, the child pulled her hand away and he heard her run forward, stop for a moment, then run forwards again. There was a sound of a rock hitting wood and Matty’s voice shouting out. "Yah, yah! Fat nose. Yah, yah! Fat nose." Illya realised another stone had been shied at the building, and the THRUSH took the bait.

"You little devil, stop throwing rocks at me or I’ll tan your hide."

Another rock, followed by a scream and running feet.

Illya concentrated hard, working out who was where. A butt in the back knocked him forward, breaking his concentration. "Go away Spot." He batted at the zebra. "I don’t have time right now. Oh what the hell!"

Kuryakin decided to take his chance and make a dash for the stairs. He ran towards the building, visualising from Matty’s description where he was going.

He hit the side of the building and found the entrance quite quickly. He ran to the top of the rickety stairs and felt his way through the opening at the top. Crouching down, he listened intently. Voices were coming from a room immediately to his left. What now? He thought, I can’t even see! God Napoleon! I could really use your help right now.

*****

Solo watched the radar readout on the screen in front of him. He saw the blip that indicated the incoming U.N.C.L.E. task force.

"There she is, men!" Sting announced triumphantly. "Set the equipment."

The technicians twiddled their dials and flicked switches. An opposing beam appeared on the radar, shadowing the blip.

"That’s it, Mr. Solo," Sting crowed. "It’s set now, the U.N.C.L.E. plane will lose power in about five minutes. There’s nothing you can….Aargh!"

Solo had leapt forward, grabbing Sting’s revolver and twisting his wrist upwards until the agent gained possession of the weapon. The technicians turned to them in alarm. Solo held the small gun against their boss’s temple. "Tell them to switch it off, or you are a dead man," he threatened. "Stay there!" Solo shouted at the technicians. "You make one move and he gets it."

The technicians sank back into their chairs once more and looked at each other in confusion. They were not warriors, they were scientists, leaving the strong arm stuff to men like Sting and his guards.

"It’s too late, Solo." Sting laughed in spite of the cold steel pressed against his head. "The equipment is set."

"Then I’ll just shoot it out." Solo turned his prisoner round so that they were both facing the equipment. Sting jabbed his elbow into Napoleon’s stomach and, as his gun hand moved down slightly, caught hold of the barrel and wrestled the agent for possession. Neither of them won. The gun was grappled from Solo’s grasp but, before Sting could get a firm hold of it, the revolver dropped and slithered down the slanting floor.

Jeremiah B. Sting was short, but had plenty of weight, and was surprisingly agile. He leapt on Solo as he tried to dive after the gun. The small man was too breathless to shout for help, but determined the U.N.C.L.E. agent would not prevail. He punched Napoleon in the back, bringing a gasp of agony from the still tender area. He then heaved his bulk on top of the downed agent, sitting firmly on him.

Solo watched in horror as the blip on the screen started to waver. The U.N.C.L.E. plane was coming down and there was nothing he could do about it. After all we’ve been through, after Illya dying, it’s going to end in failure.

"Napoleon! Where are you?"

He must be hallucinating! Solo saw his partner push through the door, an U.N.C.L.E. Special grasped in his hand.

"Illya! I thought you were…" No, Solo thought. No time for that. "Illya, point the gun straight ahead of you."

"No! You men - stop him." Sting shouted in alarm. "Guards! Guards!"

The technicians left their places but backed to the side of the room. They were not going to get caught in any crossfire.

"Okay Illya." Solo ignored Sting’s pummelling. "Now, left, left, stop! Up, up, stop. Left, stop. Fire!"

Kuryakin fired.

"Again"

He fired again.

"Down! Illya, down!

The Russian dropped to the floor as the console exploded, scattering shrapnel across the room.

Sting unintentionally shielded Solo from the worst of the explosion, but a piece of flying metal embedded itself in the THRUSH chief’s neck, killing him instantly.

Solo took a deep breath and rolled out from under the dead weight. He ignored the cowering technicians and walked over to his partner, who was now sitting up, the U.N.C.L.E. Special still firmly gripped in his hand.

Solo looked down at the Russian, shaking his head in amazement and delight, grinning from ear to ear. He reached a hand down and caught Kuryakin under the arm, helping him to his feet. He spoke with a casualness he did not really feel. "What the hell kept you?"

*****

"Good grief! Are you still eating? You are such a pig, Illya. If there was any justice, you would be the fattest person on the planet?"

"Good morning to you too, Napoleon." Kuryakin did not bother to look up, his eyes were still bandaged, so he could not see his partner in any case. "Yes I’m feeling fine. Thank you for asking."

"Can I help you with anything." Solo walked over to where his partner was sitting at a small table in the hospital room, busily working his way through a large steak dinner. "Cut your meat, so you can eat faster?"

"No. I’m fine thank you."

"I see you’re ready to go as soon as the bandages come off." Napoleon pulled the visitors’ chair over from beside the bed and sat down opposite his partner. "What’s the prognosis."

"Not sure." Kuryakin stopped eating and turned his face towards Solo. "But whether I can see or not, I’m not staying in here any longer."

"Hmm... well..." Solo trailed off. The doctors would have to fight that battle if it came to it, he thought. Change the subject. "Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?"

"I am pretty bored," Kuryakin said between mouthfuls of steak, trying to suppress a smile. "You could read to me."

"What! Your scientific journals?" Solo picked up two unread, incomprehensible-looking, magazines from the table and frowned. "That’s pushing partnership too far, Illya!"

"Well you asked." Kuryakin realised his food was all gone and pushed the plate away. "Is there anything else to eat?"

"There’s ice-cream, but it’s mostly melted now." Solo stirred the dessert round in the bowl, making it into a gooey mess.

"I’ll pass, thanks." Illya leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "What I could really do with is a nice long vacation. But I imagine Mr. Waverly, otherwise known as the slave-driver, will want us back on duty as soon as I get out of here."

"Hrump, hmm." The throat clearing sound was unmistakable. "Mr. Kuryakin, I trust you are making a speedy recovery."

"Oh, aha, yes sir. Err sorry sir." Illya sat up straight in the chair again.

Waverly smiled at the embarrassment he had caused the Russian. "Mr. Solo may remember that the slave-driver had just told him you should both take a week’s vacation, before you got yourselves into this latest escapade."

"Yes I do remember, sir." Solo stood up to offer his boss the chair. "But I can’t say it was the best time I ever spent."

The conversation was abruptly halted by the arrival of the doctor. Solo found himself holding his breath as the bandages were unwound, and coughed, clearing his throat, to relieve the tension.

As the blue eyes were revealed, Illya blinked rapidly at the sudden and unaccustomed light.

"Can you see?" Solo was impatient to know the result.

"Just a moment, Mr. Solo." The doctor shone a pencil torch into each pupil to check the dilation, hmming and harring in the irritating way of medics and car mechanics. He held four fingers up in front of Illya’s face about two feet away. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Illya squinted then blinked rapidly again. "Err three - no, four."

"Don’t worry doctor." Solo smiled. "He can see, he just can’t count."

*****

"Well gentlemen." Waverly sat in the chair vacated by Solo. The doctor had cleared Kuryakin for release, warning that his vision might be a little blurry for a few days and that he should try to avoid too much reading or paperwork. "Since Mr. Kuryakin won’t be able to write his report for several days and I did promise you a vacation - I can’t officially put you on leave, but perhaps you would like to go back to the village where we picked you up. There are still some loose ends to tidy up, which should take a couple of days but shouldn’t be too taxing. Also, you can say your thank-yous to those that helped win this latest battle with THRUSH. I do like my agents to be well mannered."

"That would be most appreciated, sir." Solo was clad in a white safari suit, almost as if he had guessed what their next assignment would be. "There is a young lady who needs a very special thank you from me."

"Hmm well." Waverly looked at his suave top agent suspiciously. "Just remember you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Mr. Solo."

"And I have a certain young lady to thank as well," Kuryakin put in, then corrected himself. "No, two young ladies actually."

"Really!" The chief looked at the younger, generally more reserved, agent in surprise. "Are you and Mr. Solo having some kind of competition?"

Illya smiled broadly at the suggestion and shook his head. "No sir. I assure you I have no romantic involvement with either of the young ladies concerned."

"Very well gentlemen, that’s settled. Is there anything you need before you leave?"

"Yes, sir." Kuryakin looked straight at his boss with a deadpan expression, as if he were about to ask for a miniaturised atom bomb. "A very large bag of peppermints."

*****

"Illya how are you going to recognise Spot? All zebras look the same." Solo stood with his partner just outside the village where they had overcome the latest THRUSH menace. Lana Turner affectionately had her arm entwined in his. Matty, her little sister, held the American’s other hand and sucked noisily on a peppermint. In front of them was a large herd of zebra.

Kuryakin did not turn his head but continued to scan the herd. "Napoleon, there is a story by Tolstoy, about a very wise judge. One of the cases brought before him was two men in dispute over the ownership of a horse. They both appeared to have equal claim on paper, so it was very difficult to decide who was the rightful owner."

"So what did he do?" Solo searched his memory, but Russian literature was not his forté. "Threaten to cut the horse in half?"

"That was Solomon - and it was a baby." Kuryakin continued with his story. "He let the horse decide. Both men had to call to the beast and the one it went to was declared the owner."

"The point being?"

"I may not be able to recognise Spot, but I’m sure she’ll recognise me."

"She’s probably long gone by now, Illya. Come on, leave it. I expect she’s met some handsome zebra stallion and is deeply in love."

"I suppose you’re right." Kuryakin turned and walked back with the others to the village.

The people had now taken over the long house and were arranging a grand feast in the agents’ honour.

Kuryakin stood under a tree, sheltering from the fierce sun, watching the happy activity. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back against the tree trunk, suddenly feeling extremely weary.

Something banged into his ribcage. It was a very familiar sensation. He opened his eyes in surprise. There was a handsome young female zebra, her nose nuzzling into his hand.

"Spot!" Kuryakin fondled her ears and ran his fingers through her stumpy mane. "Dushka, you remembered."

He called out to his partner. "Napoleon, have you got the peppermints? There’s someone here to see us."

Napoleon, Lana and Matty all came to see, together with half the village. Spot was a little anxious with all the attention, but soon calmed down when the peppermints arrived.

Illya continued to make a fuss of the animal, looking at her with growing puzzlement on his face. "Napoleon, I know this is Spot, but where is the blemish on her."

"What do you mean?" Solo was even more puzzled.

"I imagined that she had some sort of mark, perhaps on her forehead or her hindquarters."

"No - she’s just a regular zebra."

"Well, why did you call her Spot?"

"Illya, it was a… Never mind. I just thought it sounded better than Dinner."

"Napoleon." The Russian looked at his partner with his most serious expression. "Nothing sounds better than dinner."

The End

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