Solo was puzzled the instant he saw them leave the plane. Waverly hadn’t briefed him about Slate obviously having undergone a severe Thrush beating. Then there was the question why Kuryakin was in handcuffs and held by two airport security guards.
    "They really worked you over didn’t they, Mark," he said pointing to the deep scratches on his face and the blood spattered shirt.
    "No, Napoleon, they didn’t, our friendly little Russian did fine by himself." Solo could only whistle as he watched Illya land another kick on the shin of the heavily bruised guard. 
     "He looks fine. What exactly caused the battle?"
    "He tried to hijack the plane. I said no, so he bit me. He made it to the cabin and broke the pilots thumb by bending it back…"
     "Enough!" he said jumping back as a kick headed his way. "Is this the effects of the drugs?"
    "Total mind obliteration is what they told me. At the moment all he will do is shout abuse. I really blew it this time. I have finally gained his full hate."
    "Pareekmahyrer, Pareekmahyrer!" shouted Illya as he again tried to reach Slate.
    "Illya, listen to me, we know what they put you through and…"
    "Ya nye paneema yoo!"
    "Yes you do understand, Illya. Mark…"
    " Pareekmahyrer, paree…"
    "Illya, he had to do it. I would have done the same…"
    "Ya nye paneema yoo."
    "How long has been doing this?"
    "From the moment I took him out of that base. All he seems to be able to do is speak Russian and as I don’t, the conversation has been limited."
    "Pareekmahyrer!"
    "He’s not a barber, Illya, he…"
    "Da!"
    "Like the Fleet Street Barber? Oh, boy have I upset him!"
    "Ok, Sweeny Todd, let’s get him home before the aircrew pluck up enough courage to get their revenge," said Solo trying to cover the severity of the situation by making a joke.
    "Da, Sweeny! Zavoot, Zavoot!"
    "Yes, Illya, Slate is Sweeny Todd. Just smile and nod your head, Mark."

For several hours he had paced the cage, his head lowered and his eyes on the prey that hid behind the safety of metal bars. Every so often a low growl vibrated in his throat as the only indication that one of his captors had been recognised. Only this was neither an ordinary cage nor the captive any species of wildcat, this was a roomy, comfortable U.N.C.L.E. holding cell and the captive was Illya.
    "Is there any progress?" asked Napoleon Solo.
    "We have given him a week for any drugs to wear out of his system. I’m sorry Mr. Solo, but as the doctor has told you on more than one occasion, there is no hope." Waverly shook his head sadly, to see one of his agents in this kind of condition was tragic. "At least he appears not to be in any pain. But everything that made him the man he was has been removed. Any good that was there is gone. What we have is a pure Russian gangster."
    For a while they stood in silence as they listened to the Doctor talking to Illya through a loudspeaker. Slate leaned heavily against the bars and sighed heavily.
    "This was not your fault, young man," said Waverly sensing the deep guilt within Slate.
    "So I keep being told, but how could Thrush have substituted that drug. Even if I had been searched whilst unconscious it was hidden in my belt and as far as I could see the hypodermic was our own special make."
    "Forget it, Mark, and let’s try and get him back." They now knew the importance of retrieving Illya’s mind, he had been working on three missions at once. Carrying a list of London’s top missions to New York as well as a list of Thrush’s top missions given him by a dieing U.N.C.L.E. agent. Also he was working on some mission in London, known only to him and code named, ‘Risen foam.’ Slate had been given that assignment with the only clues to what the mission entailed being street names.
    "What is Rome?" the voice in the loudspeaker continued. "Illya, can you hear me? Who is that man outside?"
    "Let me try. Illya, who am I?" began Solo.
    "Ya nye gavaryoo pa Angleeyskeey."
    "Yes you do, Illya, you speak English as good as me."
    "Better, that's the first thing you learn at Cambridge," echoed Slate.
    "Tell me who you are."
    "Vi gavareetye pa Rooskiy?"
    "Da, Illya, I speak Russian."
    "Phah!"
    "Mark! Was that a retaliation?"
    "Keep going, there was a spark of the old Illya there."
    "Kak vas zavoot?"
    "Kuryakin 424046… Number two Section two… Uncle New York… 424046…"
    "Napoleon, stop! I know what’s wrong. He thinks we are the bad guys. For the last week he believes we have been interrogating him."

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