June 2^nd

Things didn’t turn out how the agents had hoped. April Dancer’s associate was killed and Slate was immediately sent to give her backup. Solo and Crawshaw were sent to Russia to help a scientist defect and the mission proved harder and longer than expected. Completing Kuryakin’s mission took second place.
    Every corner and each crowd held the same expectation for Solo. This was Kuryakin’s land and it was possible that he was here, hidden among people or sitting alone in some back street coffee house. Dark eyes watched for a flash of blond hair at every opportunity. Frequently Solo longed for the comfort of New York, for the fashionable ladies, anything to take his mind off a lost Russian and the constant reminder that all U.N.C.L.E. agents are expendable.
    "…So you agree that we make the perfect team then?"
    "Hu!"
    "I have been telling you about this mission and why…"
    "Just a minute, Crawshaw. Yes, Mr Waverly?" In all his days as an agent Solo had never felt so relieved to hear the sound of a communicator.
    "I am sending two agents to take over from you and Kury… Um, Crawshaw. I have reason to believe that you may be placing the scientist at risk just by being who you are."
    "Sir?"
    "The boat assigned to you for transporting him to England has been attacked with the loss of three lives…"
    "Then we go with plan B and go across land until…"
    "You fail to see the significance. The agents killed were MI6 and MI5. The Sweeny, Mr Solo."
    "Illya, Sir?"
    "I’m afraid he has been photographed in England at the location of the fishing boat and many other government sites. This killing has heightened the Burn notice."

Off Broadway

"Your incompetence allowed Kuryakin the freedom he needed to continue his role as one of the most deadliest agents we have known in a long time."
    "I thought he was going home."
    "And you failed to check that he did not get off at the next port?"
    "Yes, Sir."
    "Ahem! Somehow that young man knew your every move. Luckily one agent managed to raise the alarm and the boat was prevented from sailing. Whether he was after you or the scientist we will probably never know…"
    "He wouldn’t hurt me, Sir."
    "Are you so sure? If he was assigned to kill the scientist—and you were assigned to prevent him being killed—who would kill whom first?"
    All Solo could do was shake his head, he had never been in that situation when both men were on different sides. He knew that, for U.N.C.L.E., he would kill whoever stood in the way of what was right, but could he kill Kuryakin?
    "This situation is out of my hands. I have set up a meeting with the one person still on our side; see what you can do to calm the matter. You are to meet SIS at Broadway. When you are asked what you purpose is in traveling abroad, you will answer, to see the Gamekeeper. That is all, Mr Solo."
    Handing Solo a small brown envelope Waverly coughed, turned and removed a small speck of dust from a map on the wall.

"How did you get to be top agent when all you do is disobey orders?"
    "Eat your sandwich and learn," said Solo as politely as the occasion would allow. Steady rain beat down on the two as they sat in St James’s Park and while tourists ran for cover Solo casually threw another piece of flat white bread to the starving pigeons.
    "Waverly told you to meet Sis at Broadway and low! Here we are in England—again!"
    "I said, learn. One of the first things to learn is, what does Waverly mean? To be number one, top smart guy like me you have to understand his code." He pointed towards a building and a road sign and smiled. "I’m going there."
    "Queen Anne’s Gate?" Crawshaw said re-examining a small street map that had become as limp as his uneaten sandwich.
    "Next door, number 54 Broadway, the passport office." Solo stood, flicked raindrops off Crawshaw’s saturated hair, smiled and walked slowly and purposefully towards SIS.
    "What about me?" shouted Crawshaw.
    "Eat your sandwich and learn."

Cambridge, the sixth man?

Within SIS (MI6)

It was like stepping back in time with the only clue that he was indeed in the Sixties being the brightly dressed youths silently waiting their turn. It was one of those places that called for silence, one whisper seemed to bounce off the walls and magnify which caused everyone to stare at the offender. Solo sniffed the air and coughed, bees wax, woodworm and mould. The building was old, dingy and well passed it’s sell-by-date.
    "May I help you, Sir?" The girl at the deck adjusted her glasses so that they perched on the tip of her nose and stared impatiently over the top of the thick rims. He wondered about this prim young lady with her high cut starched white blouse and tightly pulled back hair. When the bell rang for the end of school did she free her imprisoned hair, loosen her blouse and run barefoot in the park?
    "Sir! May I help you?" No, he decided as all in the room quivered at the sound of her voice.
    "I need to renew my passport—please, Madam!" He handed her a letter and passport which she thumbed through with no change of expression.
    "And what is the purpose of your visit, Mr Solo?"
    "I have to see my gamekeeper."
    "Through that door, Mr Solo…" As she so dispassionately gave directions Solo found himself disappointed. He had somehow expected some kind of reaction once she realised who he was.
    For a brief moment he felt claustrophobic in the warren of wooden partitions and slightly anxious when entering the elevator. He wondered if this was the first elevator ever installed in a building, and winced at the sound of the heavy gears as they strained to make the iron death-trap reach the next floor. With relief he folded back the large ornate safety doors and stepped down to the floor.
    Light from the frosted glass window broke into a hundred multi-coloured dancing images over the paneled walls and heavy desk. A man who bore a striking resemblance to David Niven signaled him to enter.
    "Please, sit down, Mr Solo." Taking a chair Solo suddenly felt at ease watching the Gamekeeper reading a small report. He was impressed by his obvious charm and immaculate dress sense. He was totally unprepared for the next moment.
    "Kuryakin is Russian?"
    "Yes, Sir."
    "And he was at Cambridge?"
    "Just hold on a minute, recruiting was in the thirties."
    "He was also seen at the Joint Services Language School at Cambridge."
    "We recruited Illya." His blood began to boil. He couldn’t think how many times this kind of questioning happened and how many times he had to defend Kuryakin. If something occurred, Kuryakin was Russian, Kuryakin must be involved. The language School had been a known recruiting center for the Soviets.
    "He was there yesterday. Two agents, one of mine and one of yours were beaten and had their heads shaved by what they describe as a man bent on murder."
    Illya is the phantom shaver? thought Solo.
    "He’s been seen with Kim."
    "Kim?" queried Solo playing innocent.
    "Have you ever heard him speak of meeting someone called Stanley?" Solo just sighed deeply already knowing that Kim and Stanley were one and the same. He knew he was the third man of the Cambridge spies.
    "I trust Illya."
    The gamekeeper handed Solo a small battered photograph which clearly showed Kuryakin with Philby.
    "And now do you trust him?"
    "With my life."
    "In that case, Mr Solo, for the sake of Uncle I hand you the burn notice."
    "You want me to kill him?"
    "It is believed that he is trying to destroy this organisation and many more including yours. He has stolen a secret plane, found his way into the Queens private rooms, removed staff from Downing Street and killed many of my men. The agents tracking him tell me he is like a fox with rabies. Those who have got near enough to remove him have instead been removed. I give you the chance to either remove him or bring him back into the fold. Good day, Mr Solo, you have one week."

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