February 26^th

March 19^th

"I need some help in here! Crawshaw! Where are you?" Solo pinned himself closer to the doorway as bullet after bullet ricochet off walls, woodwork and concrete floor. Risking even one shot would have been suicidal so he remained where he was and shouted into the communicator. "A little help here!"
    The kamikaze shriek was Solo’s only warning that Crawshaw was in the building and he hugged the fragile wall tighter as grenades sent fragments of concrete in his direction. Shards of glass tore at his clothes and burrowed into exposed skin causing Solo to hold his breath in expectation of his uncertain shelter collapsing on top of him. He had to admit that Crawshaw was an adept agent yet he failed to understand how he had survived as long as he had. Life seemed to him unending, dangers imaginary and working in harmony with your partner unimportant. It was at times like this that Solo thought of Kuryakin, without him by his side he could only wonder at his life expectancy. So far they had been lucky, the missions they had undertaken were relatively minor and the opposition weak. Solo had given up asking Waverly to reconsider this new partnership, dislike of your partner was no real excuse. He smiled as another explosion hit the building, life, for him, was going to be short and the time had come to make the decision as to whether to remain an active agent. He knew that Mark Slate was coming to the same conclusion. Every agent has mission failures but Slate still felt responsible fro Kuryakin’s condition. This added to the fact that he had found out nothing valuable about Kuryakin’s unfinished mission and was now only placed on relatively unimportant assignments. April Dancer had told him that he just needed time to recover and he would be back in action before the end of the month. This had done nothing to ease his mind, knowing agents were still being tortured to death or in some cases turned into mindless zombies and he had been given the key to unearthing the people responsible. His latest mission had also resulted in failure, all he had to do was track down the mysterious person who captured U.N.C.L.E. agents and completely shave their heads. Instead of finding the person responsible he had fallen victim and now sported a dark green woolly hat to cover his baldness.

"Six shots to the heart. I reckon I must be the best shot in…"
    Admitting that Crawshaw was indeed an excellent shot was not what Solo had in mind. Solo only half heard the agent as he bragged about his latest score on the shooting range. Something was beginning to nag at him. Something constantly woke him in the early morning. He’s Russian! He thought again giving Crawshaw a warning look.
    "Women trouble, Napoleon? If you need someone to talk to…"
    "You would be the last… Open channel D, Slate please."
    "Slate here. Problems, Napoleon?"
    "He’s Russian! At the moment he can only think in Russian and we were told he has pain every time he tries to say certain words, even in Russian…"
    "Slow down, I don’t quite understand."
    "He was trying to tell us who he was tracking and I believe that person is the same one who tortured him! Moozikant!"
    "Musician?"
    "Exactly! And in the Soviet world of spies?"
    "Oh my God! It’s the code for a radio operator! In that case…"
    "You got it, Mark! In that case he wouldn’t have used the word Sweeny for the police, he would have said…"
    "Doctor! We are slow, Napoleon. So what about Risen Foam?"
    "That code name was made before his memory was mucked with, so look for something—let’s say in Greek. Then we try and find out what he meant by the Sweeny."

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