The Escape . . .

Katiya crouched down in the back of the jeep, as her grandfather instructed her. Beside her, stretched across the back seat was Uncle Illya. Sweat was pouring from his face, and he was beginning to toss his head from side to side.

"Keep very quiet." Kossov told her in a low voice. "You can talk to your uncle if you whisper very quietly. Can you do that?"

Katiya nodded.

"What if he starts to cough again? He makes a lot of noise then."

"Let's hope he doesn't until we are on our way. Do you remember what to do if he does?"

"Make sure he doesn't choke, and get out of the way if he starts to be sick."

Kossov smiled and tousled her hair.

"You're a brave girl. Come on then, we have to wait here very quietly until Uncle Illya's friend leaves with the helicopter. The people who want to find us will follow the helicopter. When they are gone, we can leave."

"Where are we going, deda?"

"To some good people who will take care of us and help your uncle to get well. Sssh now."

Katiya sat huddled on the floor at the back of the jeep, gently stroking the sick man's hair and forehead. She didn't want to tell deda, because he had other things to worry about, but she was frightened. She remembered when mama had got sick, and she had looked just like this…after a couple of days the neighbours had dug a hole and put her in the ground. Mama had always been healthy, and she had looked stronger than this new uncle. That was what had stopped her in her tracks yesterday when she thought papa had come for her. Papa had looked slightly thinner than before, and had less colour in his cheeks. It had made her look more closely, and that was when she had realized that this wasn't papa at all. She liked Uncle Illya more than papa. He cared about her more than papa ever had, and he had come a long way to find her. She was scared of losing him as she had lost mama. She began to whisper softly.

"Please get well Uncle Illya, please. I don't want you to die."

Napoleon felt the machine beneath him bucking violently. He was fighting hard to keep control as he was buffeted by very strong gales. The problem was he had to make a song and dance about the lift-off, because he had to make sure he was noticed by any THRUSH- birds that might be in the area. He had to draw their attention…if they were out. This was a very risky move, both taking out the helicopter in this weather, and trusting his partner to that fellow Kossov. Napoleon still had serious reservations about the man but; and here was the rub; Illya trusted him. Napoleon knew without a doubt that Illya would have trusted Kossov completely, and Napoleon trusted Illya's judgment. How many times had his partner been proven right when they had disagreed over someone's trustworthiness? He just hoped that on this one Illya had been thinking with his head as well as with his heart. His life may well now depend upon it.

He made a point of flying around in a circle by way of getting his bearings, determined that he was noticed. The zing! of a bullet whizzing past the cabin gave him his answer. He could see very little down there through all the rain and confusion, but someone had surely seen him. He set his course and flew a straight line, feeling the bucking ease a little under him. The gunfire from below continued.

Kossov watched from his hiding place as the chopper made a circuit of the area, and then headed out across country. He heard the sounds of gunshots, and revving engines and his THRUSH visitors took off after the chopper. He shook his head. He hoped he was doing right in trusting that fellow Solo. He had burned his bridges now, that was certain. Illya Kuryakin was family. Distant family, but still family. Trusting him was a given. All he had to go on was that Illya and this fellow Napoleon were friends as well as work partners. If Illya trusted Solo, that would have to be good enough. Solo was doing a good enough job luring those boys away anyway. He was leading them along a road that would take them miles away from Moscow. The idea of course was to keep up this charade until Kossov had had time to get to Moscow and UNCLE, and then about face and fly back to Moscow himself before he ran out of fuel. He wondered if THRUSH had left anyone behind here? Even as he thought those words, a voice behind him made him freeze.

"Stay right where you are, General."

Kossov turned around and drew himself up to his full height. He looked down his nose at the pimply youth brandishing a gun at him.

"And you are?"

"THRUSH. You are wanted at THRUSH Central, General, for treason against the organization."

"Treason? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Central wanted your son-in-law Mikhail Kuryakin under control where he can be nursed back to health and then his abilities utilized to our best advantage. Now you have let him escape in your helicopter."

"What is your name? You are not Russian are you? You're not even Soviet. Your accent is atrocious."

"I..er…I am Jacques Lemaire from Lyons."

"French. I thought so. And you clearly have never held a gun before today. Look at you, can't even remember to remove the safety catch!"

The young man, taken off guard, glanced down at his weapon and at that moment Kossov lashed out with his right fist and caught Lemaire on the left temple. He crumpled to the floor. In a moment, Kossov had tied him up, gagged him and heaved him into the front of the jeep, tying him to the passenger seat to prevent him trying to cause trouble.

"Okay baby, time for us to be off. Keep down now."

The storm was still raging overhead, rain falling in torrents and in places the roads were becoming awash with runoff rainwater. The wind howled around them, trying to push them off the road and Kossov had to concentrate to keep the jeep driving straight. Lightning flashed around them, making a dazzling display that almost cost them their lives when a tree was struck by lightning just as they passed it. It fell with a crash across the road, missing the back of the jeep by less than a couple of feet. Kossov noticed his prisoner visibly shaking. He repressed a smile, and drove on, towards Moscow.

Napoleon Solo glanced nervously at his fuel gauge. It had been full when he took off, but now it was nearly empty. Those darned THRUSHes must have hit the fuel line or punctured the tank or something. He was losing fuel like water over a waterfall. No way would he make it back to Moscow now. He hoped that he had succeeded in drawing THRUSH away from the house so that Kossov could escape and save Illya and Katiya. That was all that really mattered now. He would have to find somewhere to ditch the helicopter where it would not be found by THRUSH again. Something the size of a chopper was hard to hide properly, and if they found it, they'd find him. Solo did not want to be caught by THRUSH right now…not with Illya so sick, maybe dying. How to bring the bird down and make it disappear completely? As he started his descent, Napoleon saw the answer to his dilemma…

Wilhelm Tarasov stared at his CEA in surprise.

"He says what?"

Agent Molovitski nodded seriously.

"He says he is Kir Yuriyev Kossov, formerly a General in THRUSH. He offers himself and his assistance to UNCLE, and says he has agent Kuryakin with him, dying of pneumonia, and that agent Solo is somewhere out there in a chopper being chased by THRUSH."

"You and Polokofiev go and fetch them here. I'll get on to tracking, see if they have any record of a helicopter anywhere within range."

Molovitski ran through the corridors of headquarters, gathered up his partner and no sooner had Polokofiev slammed his car door shut than Molovitski was roaring off at a wheel spinning speed.

They finally found an empty jeep beside the road near a dilapidated old row of tenements. Some careful searching finally came up with two wary faces from behind the broken front door of the furthest tenement building, half falling down; the door hanging forlornly from a single hinge.

"General?" Molovitski enquired, standing still and watching his quarry carefully. The man emerged fully from cover; usually a man with presence and authority, wearing a flamboyant uniform with gold frogging and medals on his chest, he now seemed to be nothing more than a nervous old man. Kossov frowned slightly.

"Who are you looking for? We have nothing worth stealing."

"I was told you have lost your uncle Solo. We're here to help you."

The old man looked relieved.

"I am Kossov, and this is my granddaughter Katarina. My son-in-law Illya is inside. You have to help him. He's burning up really bad."

The two UNCLE man exchanged glances.

"Take the general and the child to the car. I'll fetch Illya. Let's hope it's not too late to help him."

Polokofiev nodded, and Molovotski ran to the tumbledown building.

Inside it was damp and musty. It was composed of just a single room. Illya lay on a pile of old rags and torn up newspaper.

"Oh, my!" Molovitski breathed as he knelt beside the sick man. "Illya. Illya! Can you wake up?"

Illya mumbled, moving his head, and slowly he opened his eyes. He squinted painfully, and managed a half smile.

"So my partner came through. Is he all right?"

Molovitski had to lean close to hear his words. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"It was a man called Kossov who brought you here. Come along, we have to get you into medical."

"Kossov? But where is 'Poleon?"

Molovitski looked into the pained blue eyes.

"So far Illya…we don't know. We're looking for him."

The news that his partner was missing was enough to jerk Illya into full wakefulness. His companion had to help him up, and then prop him up to prevent him collapsing again, but he was determined to walk to the car under….almost…his own power. He was still burning up with the fever, and his head was spinning. He was grateful to finally tumble into the back of the car, falling over the knees of Kossov and Katiya, where he sprawled, struggling to stay conscious.

"Did you find our prisoner?" Kossov asked suddenly.

"What prisoner?"

"A THRUSH goon who tried to arrest me. A Frenchman. I tied him up and put him in the car. When we left the car, I locked him into it. Told him someone would come back for him."

"The car was empty. We checked."

Katiya spoke up.

"No one came and got him out. We would have heard. He couldn't have run away because dedushka tied him all up."

Polokofiev glanced at his partner.

"I'll go and have another look."

He ran across the rough ground and peered once more into the car. Definitely empty. If he was still around, where could he be? He knelt down and peered beneath the car. The dirt and dust was disturbed. Looks like he had managed to get out of the car and wriggle under it but he wasn't there now. Polokofiev glanced round the terrain. If he was here, tied hand and foot and gagged as well, where would he go to hide and try to get free? The man would have had to move by making those silly little bunny hops across the open ground. Tiring on the knees. He looked back to the old rows of tenements again. He ran lightly over to the row once again and peered round the back. Here was a long row of dustbin bags, some broken open and spilling their putrid contents across the ground. At the far end, sat leaning against someone's wall was the prisoner, his hands running with blood as he tried to cut his bonds free on the jagged edge of an old tin.

Polokofiev crept up to him as silently as he could, and bellowed in his ear;

"Que faites vous?"

The Frenchman jumped and cursed as he cut his palm again on the jagged tin. Polokofiev raised an eyebrow.

"That will take you forever, and those cuts will quickly turn septic. Come on, let's get you settled in a nice, clean, comfortable cell at UNCLE headquarters shall we?"

He lifted the young man up easily and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, keeping the prisoner's hands clamped together behind him and strode back to the car where his partner was waiting. The prisoner glared as he was once again strapped into the front seat to prevent him from wriggling free a second time. Polokofiev closed the door on him and looked in through the window.

"See you back at HQ. I'll drive the General's jeep." He aimed a fish-eye stare at the prisoner.

"If you try anything I will be right behind you."

The prisoner muttered something in French and turned away. As Molovitski pulled away, Polokofiev heard the child Katarina declare in a loud voice;

"Deda, he said something rude!"

Polokofiev did not hear the reply as the car roared away. He grinned and began to follow, driving the jeep.

In headquarters, the prisoner was led down to the cells, whilst Illya, once again only half conscious was whisked quickly down to medical. Molovitski stood in the corridor outside, waiting for the doctor's verdict, when Tarasov joined him, looking somber. Molovitski had learned to dread that look on the chief's face.

"What is it, sir?"

"Only one report of a helicopter in the air last night, seen venting a lot of smoke about thirty miles from here…"

He broke off as the door opened and both men turned to the doctor. The doctor beckoned them inside. They found Illya laid out on a bed of ice, an oxygen mask over his face helping him to breathe, and drips in his arms. He looked terribly small and frail laid out like that. The two men gulped visibly. The doctor noted their reactions and motioned for them to sit.

"This is definitely pneumonia, which I suspect started out as a mere head cold. Illya is a strong and healthy individual, his proclivity for catching colds notwithstanding. This has been caused by exposure to a virus which under normal circumstances he would have fought off successfully. On this occasion though, he already had the beginnings of a cold, and add to that a certain amount of emotional trauma made him susceptible."

"Okay, so will he be all right?"

"It's too early to say with any certainty, but I think if he was going to die, he would have done so already. Don't misunderstand me, he is still a very sick young man, but, provided there are no unexpected complications, I think you will find forty-eight hours will bring about a marked improvement in him. I understand there is a young lady somewhere, dying to come in and sit with him?"

"Yes. We left her with one of your nurses down the hall."

"Tell her she can come and sit with him if she promises to be gentle and quiet."

"Thank you doctor."

The two men left the room, and paused outside the door.

"Sir, what were you about to tell me about tracking finding a helicopter out last night?"

Tarasov nodded, his smile vanishing rapidly.

"Only one helicopter was out last night during that storm, and reports have been received of it trailing thick black smoke. The word is, it crashed."

The blood drained from Molovitski's face.

"Crashed? Was there a survivor? Has the wreckage been found and searched?"

Tarasov shook his head.

"I've just sent some teams out there…the reports are it crashed into a large lake. No sign of any surivors…they'll drag the lake of course, and teams are going down to search the countryside, but…"

He looked through the glass door at the patient lying still and white in the bed.

"How the hell do I tell him that his partner is dead?"