"Illya, you adorable boy, you really should let me style your hair." The sickly sweet voice reached into the deep recesses of his brain and recognition brought him back to consciousness.
    "Roma, we seem to have had this conversation before, and my answer was?"
    "You never did like me, did you?" she said sadly.
    "No."
    "Now be good and tell Aunty Roma all about the top ten London missions."
    "Naughty, you�ve been moonlighting. Does Mark know about your other job?" Despite his usual calm appearance a flicker of worry flashed across his mind as he tried in vain to move. The metal board held him upright giving him a good view of the whole room. Heavy metal clips held his hands and feet firmly by a strong electro-magnetic force. The board ended at his neck making it difficult to relax, letting his head drop back caused the edge of the board to cut painfully into the back of his head. It wasn�t the girl that caused his apprehension, nor the presence of the masochistic Thrush thugs but the laps of memory, the red needle marks in his arm and the dull ache in the back of his head. From the moment he had entered the building until Roma�s sugary voice had grazed his hearing, he could remember nothing. Now, even though she was silent he could still hear her, faint, far away and talking so fast not one word could be isolated from another. She walked around the room, her red hair falling in artificial curls upon her slender shoulders and as she did, seemingly as a reward for some deed yet to come, each Thrush thug received a gentle caress as she passed. Aphrodite, thought Illya, the perfect Goddess to entice Solo or Slate.
    "Illya," she said stroking his face with the back of her hand. "Tell me and then I won�t let the beastly men hurt you."
    "You�re out of luck, lady," he replied turning his head to avoid her weak backhanded slap. He began to focus his mind on everything in the room, picking out words written on doors and numbers on buttons. He used everything he saw to form puzzles to occupy his brain and prepare for whatever had been planed for him. Momentarily he was distracted by one large red button on the wall facing him, this one was a puzzle in itself. �In case of sluicing, push here.�
    "Burn him!" Her voice dropped an octave to become harsh, deep and menacing. Then she smiled and touched his face as he sort out the capped tooth with his tongue.
    "We are not that cruel, Illya. Do you honestly think we would let you take you own life?"
    His tongue found only the empty hole where the Lethal Pill had once sat.

Waverly was right, thought Slate as he walked purposefully into the room. They hadn�t had Illya in their possession long and already he was showing signs of giving in. One glance around the room told Slate that attempting to remove the Thrushmen would result only in his death and leave Illya without help. He carefully adjusted the earpiece that held him in contact with Waverly and moved closer to Illya.
    Recognition was acknowledged by brief eye-contact and Slate had to concentrate hard not to betray his feelings of anger as a heavily built Thrush yob worked on Illya.
    "The names," he asked grinning. Slate could only think by looking at his delighted expression that he would resent Illya spoiling his fun by talking.
    "I don�t know." Blood seeped from his clenched fists as his nails bit into his flesh and Slate noticed his whole body tightened in agony yet all the Thrushman had done was run a small metal stick over his chest.
    "Name."
    "Kuryakin 424�No!"
    "Name."
    "Kuryakin 42404�" A thin cry escaped his lips and he looked straight at Slate. "Please!" he whispered.
    "Once again, name."
    "Ok, ok� Kuryakin 424046� Number two Section two� Uncle New York� 424046�"

"That young man cannot stand much more," Waverly said into the microphone to Slate but his eyes addressed Solo and the others in the office. The goings on at the Thrush base where being relayed through Slate�s tiepin and news had travelled fast. Several Section Two agents had congregated and whispered comments occasionally reached Solo�s ears. Kuryakin had been in Thrush hands for a very short time and already was cracking, if nothing else he was loosing the respect he had so rightfully earned over the years. The other Section Two agents regarded him as the man most likely not to talk while under pressure. He could endure pain while others would scream.
    "Mr Slate, do not allow him to talk and believe me he is on the verge of doing just that."
    "Not Illya, Sir," Solo said loudly. "He has endured much more for far longer without uttering a word."
    "Has he Mr Solo? Have you, have any of you? I somehow think not."
    "Why are you so certain, you seem to know exactly what is happening at that base."
    "I think I do, Mr Solo, but I pray I am wrong."

"Let�s take it up more," said the Yob his face flushed red with sheer pleasure and he walked towards the main group of Thrushmen who where operating various machines. Slate took the opportunity the instant he did to get closer to Illya.
    "Hang in there, just think of some nice science project."

    "Ro� Ro� Rom�" stuttered Illya and Slate frowned.
       "Do you mean Rome, Illya?" A weak shake of the head was the only answer.
    "Don�t tell them, Illya and don�t tell me either."
    "I can�t take any more, help me." Slate coughed slightly, in all the years he�d known the Russian he had never heard him ask for help.
    "Illya, you have to concentrate. Everything they are doing is in your mind�"
    "Fire, acid� boiling oil� Mark, you don�t have to pretend, I know what I look like� I can smell it�"
    "Look at your arm� Illya, please just look� Don�t make me do this," he said briefly showing the Russian a tiny needle. 
    One look was enough for him to know he would never hold a gun again and if his arm looked like that then so must his legs, he would never run again or walk for that matter. He moaned and the Yob laughed as he walked back towards him. Slate moved behind Illya hoping for another chance to talk to him, it never came. As the Yob touched the metal stick on Illya�s face a sob of agony could be heard.
     "Ok, no more... No more� First London mission is at�" His body jerked slightly then stiffened until every muscle in his body contracted, a smile widened into a grin as the contractions contorted his face and as Slate removed the tiny hypodermic he whispered, "I�m sorry, Illya."

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