Dance to the music

Even the bustle and excitement of the City at night had failed to lift Solo’s mood and despite everything Crawshaw tried to do Solo remained down. He regarded the whole mission as a failure and failing was not something he was used to having to face. His meeting with Slate was less than satisfactory for if what he said was true then nobody within U.N.C.L.E. was above suspicion including Waverley. Now, it appeared that all the people in London were at risk, turning against friends and employees. What if a pilot decided it was best to land his plane on top of the city? The Musician seemed to have the power to make people do exactly what she wished. And Kuryakin? Years of trust had gone with one foolish bullet. Solo replayed the whole scenario time after time and still he could not see how he could have been so far off with his aim unless it had been subconsciously and he too was under the influence of the Musician.
    "We’re going in."
    "Alone? If Mark is right then we are dead before we get in the door."
    "We go alone."
    "Call for backup, Napoleon or call Mark."
    "Who do we call? Who can we trust not to shoot us in the back? Is Mark as cured as he says? Am I the danger to watch?"

"It’s all here isn’t it? Every clue in the book," said Solo kicking at a wall as anger sent adrenaline soaring.
    "How did every agent miss this?" Crawshaw leaned heavily on a blood red post box and watched the happiest street in London. People laughed and sang as dancers filled the road. Music, sweet and haunting drifted from the hidden speakers in a clear sign above the brightly painted barbers shop, ‘Aphrodite’s… Roma Sween’. Solo frowned, the essence of every street party was absent, the gentle laughter of children.
    "I’m going in," he said. Crawshaw kept silent, whatever was happening in that small shop must be stopped, but there was only two of them and no hope of any backup.

He swore softly under his breath fearing that even the air would hear him. Watching Solo and Crawshaw enter the shop made him long to charge in to assist them, but Mark Slate knew how pointless that would be, the temptation would be to great and he would once again be under her influence. The beautiful, enticing Aphrodite would once again spin her web and devour her mate.

Flowers emitted their sweet aroma and dancing lights raised Solo’s adrenalin as he walked into the room. Just a normal fashionable barbers with normal looking customers having normal haircuts. The only thing that seemed slightly out of place was the atmosphere, pure happiness. Not one sour face could be seen.
    "Napoleon, darling!"
    "Roma," he replied mentally visualising her unflawed body and remembering how everything about her had been so perfect. He ignored the whispered remarks from Crawshaw, "You know her? How well?"
    "Let me style your hair. And your gorgeous friend. On the house, naturally."
    There was no harm in a haircut. With one hand resting on his gun Solo sat down smiling at the goddess.

Pacing, up and down, down and up. The path was hot, the air stifling. Small thunder- flies gathered in the thousands in Slate’s hair, nipped at his skin. His nerves were on edge. Go in or stay outside?

Another warm perfumed towel was gently place over Solo’s face. A feeling of ecstasy began to overcome him. All the worries, the chase across the muddy country began to ease slowly from his mind.
    "I needed this," he whispered as soft hand caressed his forehead. "Wait! No, stop!" he yelled. "Crawshaw, get up! We are leaving!" Too late now he recognized the colored light at the corner of his eyes. The feeling of freedom, the wonderful lightness…
    "You drugged me you…"

Backwards, forwards, up and down then finally courage and Slate stepped of the path and began to cross the street.
    "Need help?"
    "Oh, yes, I need help. We all need help," murmured Slate.
    "We can’t do anything here. It has to be… What is word that I am thinking? Their home base?"
    "Thrush?"
    "Yes, are you coming or to stand and dream all day?"
    "They have my friend…"
    "My friend too. They will take him to Thrush Satrap U4. Then they will apply nice friendly beat up tactics. We need to go now."
   "Illya!"
   "Yes, Mark?"
   "You’re speaking English!"
   "Why thank you. That’s the first time you ever said that."
   Slate smiled for the first time in a long while, but abruptly the smile left as he eyed Kuryakin. His arm folded across his chest and held there by a large safety pin. The bloodstained shirt and his paler spoke volumes.
   "How bad is it?"
   "Good, really good."
   "Illya?"
   "Bullet is still in, but it’s good, really.