"Right, Jackson, let’s try Illya’s way in." Giving a deep sigh he headed across the 300 meters of tarmac. The feeling of doom followed him—the images of the agents in Norway flitted in and out of his mind disturbing his train of thought. One base eliminated in minutes even with their extensive security, something big was about to happen and perhaps it couldn’t be stopped.

"Do we go after them, Mr Kuryakin?"
   "No, I think we take the more frontal approach, or rather I do." With neither smile nor explanation Kuryakin disappeared into the darkness. His frontal approach was simply that, walk up to the front door and go in. He gave a satisfied smile at their inadequate security as he cut the telephone wire and proceeded up the dilapidated but beautifully decorated stairs. For a moment he stood and admired the banisters, perfect for children or escaping agents to slide down. In an alcove below the upper railing Kuryakin sat on a dusty couch and waited counting slowly as a small grin began to creep across his face. Any minute now, he thought.
   One lone gun sounded closely followed by the Fourth of July display as many guns answered. Solo, sighed Kuryakin as he leapt into action. Taking two steps at a time and firing at the three THRUSH men coming down he made his way to the hallway. Solo and Jackson were at the other end firing at a never-ending stream of THRUSH who seemed to be coming from every doorway. Splinters of soft rotten wood caused as many problems as the bullets and a spray of worm-eaten wood-dust found a home in Kuryakin’s eyes momentarily blurring his vision. A large guard seized the opportunity and despite Solo’s warning shout, sprung at him shooting what appeared to be a water pistol. Kuryakin reeled backwards as the foul smell hit him, he hit the railings hard and failed to grab Solo’s outstretched hand as the railings gave up the century old fight for life.
   Fearing the worst Solo took the quick way down and used the banister ripping the pocket from his trousers. He gave a shape intake of breath as anger began to course through his veins, not only was his expense account growing but also his list of mission failures, Waverly was not going to be happy. However, on seeing his friend spread-eagled on the dusty couch he was forced to smile.
   "Taking flying lessons, Illya?" he said before curling his lip and stepping back. "You need a bath, badly!"
   "What’s he doing here? I thought he was suspended?" said Jackson while Solo gently pushed Kuryakin back into the couch. He couldn’t fail to notice the flash of light that had lit his friend’s eyes, the only warning that one punch might flatten the young agent.
   "Backing us up, again," Solo said pointing to many dead THRUSH agents.
   "I thought suspended agents had to hand their gun back?"
   Gentle pressure wasn’t enough this time and Solo was forced to sit next to Kuryakin and lean against him while giving a warning look.
   "I stole it," replied Kuryakin shoving back at Solo. "Napoleon, shift your weight a bit."
   "Stay off the leg, Illya," Solo warned as he noticed the growing patch of dark on Kuryakin’s leg.
   "Did you get what you came for?"
   "Nope, they moved it."
   "Nice—your mission, not mine, you tell Waverly!"

Throwing his jacket to the floor Kuryakin immediately headed for the shower while Landa sat head in hands at the small cluttered table. A deep depression was sweeping over him, the initial adrenaline rush had long since departed. Only once had Kuryakin involved him in any of the rescue missions. He was forced to sit on the edge of the fighting and watch, no gun and no trust. Kuryakin rarely spoke apart from the inevitable, ‘stay here’, maybe it would have been better being de-briefed, then at least he could get on with the rest of his life.
   "Troubles?" asked Kuryakin as he tiredly slumped into a chair.
   "What was it all for?" he blurted, suppressed anger reddening his face. "All that training—all my hopes, gone in an instant."
   "Not gone," smiled Kuryakin. "I’ll get you back."
   "Get me back? You don’t even trust me enough to be your backup!"
   "You still have 6 months to go on your training. Fighting cardboard cut-outs is a lot different to having real bullets whizzing past your ear. I’ve seen long-standing agents freeze at times like that. I can’t risk your life."
   "You seem to forget that I am out of Uncle."
   "You seem to forget that I’m not. We knew that the school had been infiltrated the instant the answer papers were touched. Waverly simply did two changes on the questions, those agents who wrote down the answers to the new questions were cleared. There were four who were de-briefed the others were secretly sent to London to finish their training under close watch. That’s where you should be. We don’t throw good agents away, if we can help it."
   "Why did they want us discredited?"
   "Bring down Uncle. Discredit me, kill Solo, then they had a change of heart, he is more valuable alive so make him seem incompetent. Many of our top agents were in Norway when the base was hit. Your group all showed potential of becoming top agents, so you were removed."
   "Before we could report that some of our agents are really Thrush."
   "Exactly, they knew Waverly would listen to you and investigate. Now, I must sleep and you must practice gun care," said Kuryakin already closing his eyes yet the faint smile stayed on his lips.
   "Sir?" queried Landa.
   "Clean my gun," he replied the smile growing.
   Finally realising that he had been duped he laughed and obeyed the order. In minutes he had the gun in pieces and began to reload the clip when the neat pile of bullets set of across the table, dropped off the end and rolled towards Kuryakin’s jacket. Slightly puzzled Landa retrieved them only to watch the same procedure the instant he placed them on the table.
   "Mr Kuryakin! This is weird!"
   Although at first still dopey, within seconds of seeing the bullets home in on his jacket Kuryakin was wide-awake and leaping across the room for his communicator. However, there was no need for the emergency call he made, New York U.N.C.L.E. was already on alert.

He leaned towards her, his eyes twinkling as they met hers, his hand brushed against hers as she pinned the badge to his lapel. Then as if a switch had been turn his character changed from the gentleness of a man enticing a beautiful woman to the violence of the Black Widow as it devourers its mate. The soft touch against her wrist tightened and still looking the picture of calm he pressed the alarm and threw her back into her chair. The smile hadn’t left his face but now was set in anger as he threw his badge the full length of the reception.

"How many?" he asked twisting the slender wrist just enough to cause discomfort.
   "Napoleon…"
   "How many badges, how many people?"
   "Everybody who is in the building, but Na…"
   "Waverly?"
   "Everyone," tears began to trickle down her pale face yet Solo gave no sympathy, his grip on her wrist tightened forcing her sideways in the chair.
   "And when do we expect visitors?"

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