"And what do you think Waverly will say when he finds out we are heading for England?"
    Ignoring Crawshaw was starting to become a habit for Solo. He just wanted to be alone and try to figure out which way to go. Heading for England might solve a few puzzles.
    "You�re risking your job because of one Russian renegade, not me, mate!"
    "Have you any idea how many times Illya has risked his life to save me!" Solo cut himself short as an uncontrollable urge to hit Crawshaw forced him to place his clenched fists deep inside his pockets.

Once again Crawshaw was right and held a triumphant grin all through Solo�s reprimand. On arrival at London HQ it was hardly a surprise to find Waverly already waiting for them. To Solo�s dismay he had already interviewed the girl and Slate, leaving Solo with no reason to be there.
    The girl was merely a student doing everything she could for the rights of the young. Rebelling against authority was normal and this was all she had done. She could say nothing about Kuryakin apart from the fact that he seemed desperate to be understood. Even speaking Russian she said that he just couldn�t explain what his mission was apart from to remove the Sweeny. He frequently complained of severe headaches, most common when trying to explain what he needed to do.
    Slate�s story was confusing. He was patrolling the area found on a small scrape of paper, the area that Kuryakin had mentioned. He had been on to something important yet told no one what it was apart from the code name �Risen Foam�. Slate and another agent where investigation every shop and building it the relatively small area. The only clue they had was the word Rome, so anything Italian was first on the list. No building nor person was connected with the name Risen Foam and as this area was relatively crime free the only Sweeny connection was a friendly policeman on a rusty bike.
    They had followed this man while he completed his rounds, which consisted mostly of gossiping with the locals, cups of tea and slabs of heavy cake. They too invaded the small caf� to indulge in dark bitter tea and a bun that threatened to send all who attempted to eat it straight to the dentist. Slate and his partner became bored and decided to head for the relative comfort of the hair salon; here at least the tea was of the correct colour, the buns edible and the staff accommodating to most manly needs. Both could remember little else apart from a streak of black and the starry pain that comes moments before a blackout. They awoke to find themselves the centre of attention, cold and nude, tide to the railing of Buckingham Palace. Each had a piece of cardboard covering some of their embarrassment with the words, Remove Sweeny, written in black paint.
    "Surely, Mr Waverly, we can safely say that Illya�s hunt for the Sweeny doesn�t mean the Law."
    "And why do you come to that conclusion?"
    "The man at the Palace was kitchen staff�"
    "If you read the reports instead of gallivanting about the countryside you would have noticed that he was an MI6 agent working undercover. Another Sweeny."
    "Sir, we are in trouble!" Slate burst into the office and proceeded to turn on the television. Although a D-Note was in force, this program had been recorded earlier and the editors considered it newsworthy. Somehow a reporter had found Kuryakin and with the help of an interpreter interviewed him.
    "Are you a Russian spy?"
    "Da, U.N.C.L.E."
    "What is your mission?"
    "Remove the Sweeny."
    Kuryakin proceeded to tell them that American spies had infiltrated certain government buildings with their objective being to assassinate those in charge and sell secrets to rival countries. Most of those spies were from the organisation U.N.C.L.E. who where hunting him, a Russian. Kuryakin was on the verge of turning the Cold war into very warm soup.
    "How many agents have we on this affair?" asked Waverly picking up the ringing phone.
    "Thirty, sir. Napoleon, this is past a joke, we have to catch him," Slate said noticing the small smile ever present on Solo�s face.
    "That maybe too late!" said Waverly replacing the phone less than gently. "He has gone too far this time and the whole situation has been taken out of our hands." Waverly sighed as he turned the television to the BBC and an on-the-spot news broadcast.
    There was no need to listen, nor for any close-ups, Solo knew it was him. He knew of only one man who would dare to fly like that.
    "I don�t know the plane," said Solo ducking as the fighter flew under Tower Bridge.
    "It is ours�" Waverly again reached for the phone and spoke in subdued tones before replacing the receiver. "It�s existence will be announced by the President tomorrow or rather the A-11 will be announced. Kuryakin has stolen the A-12 Oxcart spyplane from a secret base here."
    "Well that�s nothing to do with Sweeny."
    "CIA developed, Mr Solo, yes, I�m afraid another Sweeny and I must inform you that MI6 have called to tell me Kuryakin is under a Burn notice."
    "Burn?" asked Solo.
    "They must, Napoleon, he�s endangering the whole clandestine world, us included, he has to be removed."
    "No! Mr Waverly, you can�t allow it!"
    "Mr Kuryakin has become a threat and we believe he is working for Thrush. It is out of my hands."
    "I can�t let you kill him�"
    "Do you wish to hand in your credentials?"
    "No, well, yes, Sir. All I ask is that you give me a week to find him."
    "Let M16 do it. Take them about an hour�" Crawshaw was interrupted by Waverly, perhaps to prevent the first assassination within U.N.C.L.E. headquarters by two very angry agents but most likely because at that moment he too felt like strangling Crawshaw. "You are right, Mr Solo, we should do everything we can to assist that young man." One hand reached into his beautifully carved humidor while the other reached for the phone. There was no need for him to raise his voice, his undoubted authority worked without that and only a few minutes later he turned back to Solo. "You have twenty-four hours to find him. Do what you can to help him. Bring that young man home."

Tracing him was simple. The sonic boom created by the Oxcart was reported by frightened locals and mapped by the military. Sightings of the plane were finally lost near a small historic town, Kuryakin however, was still being tracked by the local radar. A small group of locals leaned against a black and white flint wall, all held a brimming pint of dark beer and most smoked what looked like home grown cigarettes that stuck permanently to their lips and required constant lighting. Solo wondered what the drug squad would think of the foul smelling substance that oozed green smoke.
    "You City folk looking for the foreigner?"
    "He spoke to you?" asked Slate taking one of the thin cigarettes offered by one of the men.
    "Dint have ta speak ta know he was foreign. He aren�t from here so he foreign. Like what you is."
    "Where is he�" Slate broke into a fit of coughing and Solo thumped his back until he managed to take a deep enough breath to return his colour to normal.
    "What is in that?" he choked throwing the cigarette to the ground.
    "Magic mushrooms, boy. City folk, what do they know!"
    A raised eyebrow from Solo asked for an explanation. "Don�t worry, Napoleon, there are small mild hallucinogenic mushrooms growing on the beaches. I will see a few pixies that�s all."
    "So, the foreigner," said Solo preventing Slate from slapping the imaginary fairy that had alighted on Solo�s head. "Where did he go?"
    "Lowestoft, boy. Want a drag?" he asked offering Solo a cigarette.
    "No, er, no thank you. Which way?"
    The local radar pointed east and Slate shouted, "I�ll catch it!" and ran off amid laughter to catch the rhinoceros he had noticed entering the market place.

The smell of bad fish did nothing to settle Slate�s stomach as they searched the docks for Kuryakin. The Lowestoft locals had spotted him the instant he entered the town and small children had followed the stranger in the hope of a handful of coins.
    "I see him!" shouted Slate.
    "Not the same him as you saw half an hour ago is it?" smiled Solo remembering the race across piles of fish-heads to arrest a small mop.
    "The drugs have worn off, honest, Napoleon." He ducked behind a large wooden crate and pointed towards a large fishing boat emblazoned with Russian lettering. Standing next to the boat was their quarry pointing a gun in their direction.
    "Don�t move, Napoleon!" said Slate grabbing Solo and pulling him back while at the same time Solo slapped the gun from Grawshaw�s hand.
    "He won�t hurt me!" he said moving closer to the Russian. Although he was confident the Kuryakin wouldn�t shoot to kill he was taken aback by the look of pure hate on his face.
    "Illya!" he shouted and stood his ground as the gun was aimed straight to his heart. "We can help you, Illya!" Kuryakin began to back up the gangplank and Solo knew instantly what was happening and took one step backwards.
    "Ok, Illya, it�s ok, go home."
     Slate took one long deep breath as he realized they had lost the battle and stood on Crawshaw�s hand as he grovelled on the ground for his gun.
    "One thing, Illya, please before you go we need to know what is Risen Foam?"
    Kuryakin looked around fear or anger glistening in his eyes and took one more step to freedom.
    "For me, Illya," voiced Solo. "Risen Foam and the Sweeny, we need to know."
    "Moozikant."
    "Which one, Illya?"
    "Moozikant," he said jumping on deck just as the final line was cut loose and the boat began to pull away from the dock.
    "Dasveedanya, Illya," said Solo.

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