"Napoleon, that is fifth section two agent we’ve lost in a week — we have a leak!"
    "Mr., er, Kuryakin, we have been through the dossiers of everyone in this department three times over, nothing unusual has turned up."
    "Probably bad luck," muttered Solo as he watched Waverly casually remove a flag from Madrid. "We all know the risks."
    "Well I think we have got a leak. Think about it, every time we’re on to something we lose an agent and always a good one. I suggest we try to infiltrate Thrush central."
    "Kuryakin," Waverly was becoming aggravated by the Russian’s persistence. The very idea is not thinkable. I have sent agents and they have not been heard of since. Wait until a full plan has been drawn up."
    "Mr. Waverly’s right, Illya, Central is 100 foot down in solid rock. We can’t bomb it from above so we have to take a full task force in to blow it from below. At the moment it’s hopeless."
    "Nothing is hopeless!"
    Solo watched his friend and partner walk away and he frowned, something was troubling the Russian and he knew from experience the man was usually right with his intuition.
    "Emergency Channel D…" The communications panel suddenly sprang to life. "We have been discovered — need backup — backup now — we have found U.N.C.L.E. agents — not as seems — examine bodies — not d…." A long static buzz followed then silence.

Solo shuddered, two more flags removed, two more top agents. He had been trained for this, for death. He knew agents shouldn’t socialize, but they did, they drank together, laughed together and learned about each other’s lives. There was a hurt when an agent was lost, it reminded you that indestructible was not stamped onto human bones, death could happen to you. A shiver went down his spine, no, it couldn’t happen to him, that damned Russian had given him the spooks.

"Ve have a leak!" The words spun through Solo’s mind and he swallowed another shot of rye to dispel the voice echoing around his head.
    "Damn him!"
    "Pardon?" said a voice in well-spoken English.
    "Sorry." Solo looked at the three men who had just joined him at the bar. "Just thinking out loud. How’s London?"
    "Fine and New York?" asked Mark Slate. "Join us?"
    Solo looked blankly at the young faces of Hodder and Dwight, they wanted him to socialize, laugh, and get to like another fellow agent, then say goodbye.
    "Busy, maybe later," said Solo. He had to see Kuryakin.
    He found him in Central Park and Kuryakin gave the briefest of nods to acknowledge the presence of his partner. Before any conversation could start there was a flurry of movement, a small bang and the smell of gas.
    "Run, Napoleon."
    Solo could just hear him shouting but his breath seemed to have been forced from his lungs. Pain was in every joint. His eyes were streaming. He heard someone cough, then blackness.

"Morning, sunshine." A familiar voice spoke near him. "Thought you were going to sleep all day. How’s the head?"
    Solo moaned, Kuryakin always had the knack of getting you when you were down and his head hurt far too much to retaliate but he knew he must try. With his lip curling he eyed the Russian up and down, noted the torn, grubby shirt and the large bruise above his eye.
    "You look well!" chortled Solo.
    "Not bad, you know?" Kuryakin grinned. "By the way I took the tracer pill so help should be on the way. Remind me to tell Waverly to change the colour."
    "What?"
    "Of the pills, I nearly took the cyanide," he said giving another grin.
    "Funny, Illya, very funny." Solo moaned and wondered why Kuryakin always joked about death, was it really that funny? Turning his head slightly he managed to examine the room which seemed very familiar. It was large, yet too long to be functional and devoid of any furnishings or windows. On his right was a large black and white shape, on his left, Kuryakin.
    "Yes, very nice isn’t it? I have one of those next to me, funny being at this end I didn’t recognize it."
    "I still don’t."
    "Shooting ally, my friend. Wonder whose going to be the target?"
    "Well, Kuryakin, who do you think?" spat a voice from a large loudspeaker as two shapes appeared at the end of the ally. Solo winced as his eyes focused through the gloom onto two Thrushmen.
    "Solo," the voice on the loudspeaker continued, " I believe you know the access code for U.N.C.L.E.’s computers. We need to know these."
    "Not a clue, they don’t trust me that much."
    "Uncle’s top agent and they don’t trust you? Come on, Solo, this behavior won’t help you. Give me the numbers."
    "Sorry, I can’t do that," replied Solo glancing at Kuryakin and praying the backup would arrive.
    "Bob, step forward… Practice shot…"
    "Wait!" shouted Solo, "What good will it do if I give them to you, I only have one number, other agents have the rest."
    "Solo," spat the loudspeaker. "You know that we know most things, you have no secrets anymore. Numbers please."
    "Haven’t…."
    "You have three numbers, Solo, Waverly has four and Kuryakin has one. We would like them."
    Solo took a deep breath and swore, Kuryakin was right as usual, there was a leak.
    "We must have them. Solo. We will cause you pain, now you don’t want us to do that, do you?"
    "If you must you must, but I can’t give you anything." He glanced at Kuryakin but received only a sigh and a raised eyebrow as the men at the end of the ally raised their guns and took aim. Solo shivered at the prospect, human target practice. He knew they wouldn’t kill them as they obviously needed them alive but this might hurt.
    "Solo, be sensible, you don’t have to have any pain. Three numbers, that’s all."
    "No."