"Napoleon," Kuryakin said patiently, "it isn't a nuclear bomb reactor but a liquid-metal fast breeder reactor. And it isn't even that until the fuel is loaded. This reactor is not yet at that stage. The coolant systems have to be tested first. And remember what I told you about liquid sodium."

  "They want you to blow it up."

  "Please," Kuryakin remonstrated, with a wicked smile. "The correct AEC term is to 'dissemble the machine.' They would never want to suggest that a reactor could 'blow up'. Of course, the disassembly would be rather violent." He shrugged, turning serious again. "It would be a solution, of sorts."

  "I hate this mission. I always knew there was a reason I hated physics. It was to avoid missions like this. See what physics gets you into? If you had gotten your degree in dead languages, we wouldn't be in this situation."

  "I am sorry," Kuryakin said ruefully.

  "Much good that does you now," Solo scowled.

  "True. If the CIA chooses to go ahead, I'm scheduled to tour the Detroit Fermi facility in a few days, followed by tours of appropriate experimental reactors. So, if there is anything more you want to know, perhaps you should ask now. I expect to be kept rather busy."

  "When does the CIA fountain of youth start flowing?"

  "I am to be scheduled for a surgical evaluation first thing."

  "Hmmm. I'll try to get free for that. Can't wait to see how that works."

  Kuryakin nodded, understanding Solo's offer of support. "You know, Waverly knew me then. It will be interesting to see how closely he believes they come to my appearance."

  "Well, you know what you looked like. What do you think?"

  Kuryakin shrugged. "I can't really judge. It doesn't seem to me that this boy looked anything like me, but perhaps I am too close to the situation."

  Solo looked his partner over. Kuryakin had been told to let his hair grow and he'd been asked to lose weight to match the boy's more slender frame. But like his partner, Solo noticed the differences even while he acknowledged the similarities. "You don't have to look like yourself then, you know. You just have to pass for this boy now."

  "You mean as he was. He's dead now."

  Solo grimaced. "Right."

  ***

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  The group that gathered around the conference table didn't have a name. Officially, they didn't exist. Unofficially each had been tapped by the Director of Central Intelligence for this committee.

  There was no printed agenda. A whiteboard held a scribbled list of items, a bottle of cleaner ready to send the list to oblivion the instant they were done with it. The windowless room had a claustrophobic feel.

  The discussion around the conference table began with the first item on the list.

  "Can Baker be mad, sending a defector into the Soviet Union? And not just any defector. This defector."

  "The DCI approved."

  "Yes, he did."

  There was silence while everyone considered this. "Obviously, we wouldn't have chosen to use this operative if there was a better alternative. But since he was chosen—"

  "Come on. Double agent, triple agent, or sleeper, this Kuryakin has his own agenda."

  "The Russian agreed to the mission."

  "Can he do otherwise? He has to convince Waverly of the purity of his motives. So he plays the good little spy, obedient to his mentor's wishes. This time, maybe."

  "But what can we do? The CIA is committed as well."

  "Yes. But Kuryakin is not the only one with more than one agenda. We want the plans for this plant. And the plant itself, if Kuryakin will actually go so far as to take it out. But wouldn't it be nice to take this Russian thorn out of our side, at the same time?"

  "Not to mention taking Waverly down a peg. And putting U.N.C.L.E. off-balance," another CIA officer commented. "The DCI would appreciate getting something on that group. He'd like them out of the country completely."

  "I won't deny it would be nice, if hard to arrange. Waverly's group has a lot of friends in very high places."

  "They'd be less friendly if Waverly's group was a proven harbor for a Soviet double agent. And I'm still not convinced that isn't the case."

  "And now we have access. And opportunity. Something could be arranged to implicate Waverly's Russian."

  "Let's not be hasty. Kuryakin may compromise himself and save us the trouble."

  "And if he doesn't?"

  "There's always the possibility of helping him a little to that end."

  "There may be a problem there. Waverly is sending an operative along. To supervise."

  "Could it be he doesn't trust us with his little Russian?" someone asked derisively.

  "One operative won't be a problem for us. Who the hell is it, anyway?"

  "Solo."

  There was a silence around the table, broken only by someone swearing softly.

  "Come on. Doesn't Waverly have anything better for his Chief Enforcement Agent to do than babysit that Russian defector?"

  "This puts a whole new light on this operation. Solo's no fool."

  "Not to mention the bastard has phenomenal luck. Taking on the Russian is one thing. Taking him out I'd agree with completely. But with Solo in the picture—"

  "He's just an agent, no better than any of ours."

  "Come on, Abrams. You know his rep. And Solo and Kuryakin, together." The CIA officer shook his head. "I've read the intelligence reports."

  The man at the head of the table, chairman of the committee, raised a hand. "Enough discussion. For now, we watch. The primary task is to get those plans. Since we're pretty sure the Russians stole them from us in the first place, it won't cost Kuryakin anything to steal them back. The test will be to see if he'll really blow that plant. If he doesn't, or he can't for some reason, he'll come back under a cloud and maybe we can re-open his case."

  "Why not just arrange a convenient accident? The hell with Solo."

  "And if Solo gets wind of it?" another questioned. "Have U.N.C.L.E. howling to all the other Network nations that we compromised their agent? We have our own reputation to consider. Let's not give Waverly an advantage he doesn't need."

  "Take Solo out too."

  "No." The chairman of the committee shook his head. "Eliminating a Russian double agent is one thing. But Solo is American. And a war veteran. Other than being a bodyguard for Waverly's defector, he's never done anything to compromise this country's security. No deliberate action will be taken against him. But if he gets in the way," the CIA officer shrugged slightly. "well, accidents have been known to happen even to the best of agents."

  "How should we handle this?"

  "Kuryakin's not the only double operative in the world. We'll put someone sympathetic to this assignment in the contact team, to evaluate the situation. If an opportunity arrives, he'll be ready." The committee chairman rose from the head of the table and with a solvent-soaked paper towel, wiped the first item on the agenda from the list. "We won't discuss this again." He threw the towel in the trash and meticulously wiped his fingers. On the whiteboard, the solvent seeped down into the other items, creating droplets like black tears. He seated himself. "Next item."

  ***

  U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

  The final orders came across his desk that afternoon. Solo hadn't expected anything else, but he sighed a little anyway, before hitting the intercom button to the Section Two agents' offices. "Who's there? Nestor? Send Kuryakin in to me."

  "He's not here, Mr. Solo. It is three o'clock."

  "So?"

  "So, at three o'clock, you're usually in a Section Heads' meeting and Kuryakin goes to the gym. Guess the meeting was cancelled today, huh? You want me to page him for you?"

  "No, thanks. I'll hunt him up myself. Solo got as far as the gym floor before the attendant, flipping towels to agents and recording practice times for the agents' fitness requirement, stopped him.

  "Uh-Uh, Mr. Solo. You know the rule about street shoes on the gym floor."

  "I'm not going to be here long enough to scuff it up," Solo countered, but he was slipping his shoes off even as his eyes searched the gym.

  "Yeah, we haven't seen much of you lately, sir. You're going to have Rather on your case for sure."

  "I get enough fisticuffs in action, Jimmy. You let me handle our head trainer."

  "I don't know," the boy said skeptically. "We see your partner down here, often enough, and he's looking pretty good for such a little guy. Makes me think about trying out for field agent.

  Solo turned and panned the youngster's skinny frame, estimated he was probably ninety pounds, soaking wet, and met his grinning eyes. "You do that, Jimmy. After you take out Kuryakin, I'll let you take me on and then you can be CEA."

  "Sure, sir. I figure sometime next week," Jimmy called after him.

  Solo spotted his partner and wielded his way toward him, picking his way fastidiously among the sweating, sparring agents, carefully straightening his tie. His statement about getting enough fisticuffs in action was true enough; he never quite understood his partner's fascination with the more obscure branches of martial arts.

  Only guilt, as the head of Section Two, made Solo take infrequent stabs at his daily fitness requirement. Fortunately, Waverly largely regarded his agents as responsible professionals, who could monitor themselves. As long as his CEA completed successful missions, filed the flood of reports, and didn't go too far over budget, Waverly let the appropriate Section Heads deal with such trivialities. None of whom cared to call Waverly's chosen successor on such a minor lapse.

  As Solo came up to the mat where his partner was practicing, he watched as the two agents grappled, then Kuryakin went sailing over the other agent's shoulder and landed in a heap on the mat. Solo winced as the slighter agent, presumably stunned, didn't move. What's the matter, Illya? You don't have Thrush beating you up, so you get someone else to do it for them? Crack a rib after Waverly's committed you elsewhere and our boss will not be pleased.

  The instructor shook his head. "You still don't have it right. This isn't quite like the karate move. You need to shift your feet more quickly as the weight crosses your center of gravity. That position change should add more power to the momentum of your throw." The man saw Solo and backed off a few paces.

  Shaking his head in disgust, Solo crossed the mat to where his partner was still lying, eyes closed, apparently winded, and reached a hand down to pull Kuryakin to his feet. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the edge of the mat, his own breath knocked out of him.

  "Was that it?" Kuryakin asked mischievously, bounding up from his own roll. Then he looked in confusion from his sparring partner to the figure lying on the mat. "Napoleon!"

  Solo looked up into the face leaning over his, the bright blue eyes wide with shock. He groaned, rubbing the back of his head, as the other Section Two agents gathered around, clapping and cheering. On the edge of the crowd Jimmy gave him a thumbs up sign. Solo ignored them.

  "What are you doing here?" Kuryakin asked.

  "Being throttled by you, you Cossack," Solo said sourly. "Don't you at least look at the people you attack?"

  Kuryakin shrugged. "That's what you get for jumping on the mat in Brodart's place. Why aren't you in your meeting now. How was I supposed to know you'd sneak up on me?" He gave his partner an uneasy look as Solo moved to a crouch and edged slightly away. "I am sorry."

  "You mean you're going to be," Napoleon warned. Ignoring the press of his best suit, he launched himself at Illya. After all, his image was at stake.

  "Hey!" Kuryakin ducked and twisted, avoiding Solo's first lunge. But he stayed open, not countering with a defensive move, and succumbed to Solo's second. The Chief Enforcement Agent had him pinned in an instant. The fact that Kuryakin hadn't put up much resistance didn't dim Solo's satisfaction. Seeing the fun was over, the other agents shrugged and went back to their sparring.

  "I am not saying uncle," Kuryakin warned, struggling slightly to show that he might be down, but wasn't out, and wearing the scowl that indicated he meant business.

  "Say CIA," Solo advised.

  Kuryakin stilled, suddenly quiet under Solo's pinning weight, the expression wiped from this face. "When?"

  Solo edged back enough to meet his partner's eyes. "They say you can never go home again," he said obliquely. "I think you're going to put the lie to that very soon."

  Kuryakin shivered slightly. Sliding out from under his partner, he reached for his sweatshirt at the edge of the mat, and pulled it over his head. "Come on. Apparently, we have some work to do."

  ***

  "You wanted to see me, sir?" Solo let Waverly's door close behind him before approaching the circular conference table.

  "Yes, Mr. Solo. I thought you would find these educational. Waverly sent a file folder spinning around toward him.

  "What are these?" Solo frowned.

  "Contracts, Mr. Solo, contracts. We have never, in your tenure as CEA, actually sub-contracted one of our operatives to another agency. Naturally, there are conditions, codicils. You may find you need this information in your future career."

  "Yes, sir," Solo said slowly, paging through the document, noting Waverly's signature as well as that of the Director of Central Intelligence. "It's very informative. Thank you." He raised an eyebrow. "I imagine the CIA pays a free-lance operative pretty well for a job of this type. Two hundred, five hundred thousand dollars, maybe a million or two if he blows up the plant as well as brings out the plans. Illya might do well to think of a quick resignation from U.N.C.L.E." He smiled, knowing it was no joke.

  Waverly, typically, was not amused. "This agency will be renumerated in another coin, Mr. Solo. I wanted you to take special notice of the conditions under which operatives are lent in this type of situation."

  "Yes, sir. I will. Can I study this in my office?"

  Waverly gestured him away, clearly irritated with him. Solo took the folder back to his office, read it, and debated the various unflattering uses to which he could subject the paper. Too bad the copy was on special File-40 treated paper stock and he'd never get it out of the building. He could think of some very unflattering uses.

  ***

  Solo walked into U.N.C.L.E.'s infirmary section, raising an eyebrow at the crowd in the room. Sam Lawrence, U.N.C.L.E.'s head physician, finished taking Kuryakin's vital signs, scribbled the results on a chart, and stepped back, letting Solo glimpse his partner. Kuryakin wore only an infirmary gown, surrounded by doctors, his body language tense, his expression shuttered. To Solo, he looked cornered and trapped, though it was hard to say if a stranger could interpret his carefully blank expression.

  Kuryakin was necessarily a frequent patient. U.N.C.L.E. agents, especially those in Section Two, found injuries part and parcel of the job and became well experienced with the trappings of the medical profession. In Kuryakin's case, familiarity clearly bred contempt; he was a poor patient at best. The Russian hated hospitals and barely tolerated most doctors. Although he usually behaved himself with Lawrence, his cooperation with other medical staff could never be guaranteed.

  Solo recognized Jack Mercer, the Washington, D.C., U.N.C.L.E. medical chief, talking with a physician Solo didn't know. Flipping through the chart Lawrence handed him, a CIA insignia on his white physician's jacket, the stranger chatted with Mercer with the air of long familiarity. He must be a Langley-based CIA physician. Solo supposed it was too much to expect Mercer wouldn't be interested in what was supposed to be a revolutionary, highly classified technique, but he knew his partner wouldn't appreciate being the experimental subject on display.

  Peter Baker, as the chief CIA operative in this assignment, stood unobtrusively in the corner of the room. Solo faded to stand beside him.

  The door opened again and another physician strode in, head down, flipping rapidly through a sheaf of photographs. "Uh, huh. Mmmm. Yes, there are possibilities, here."

  The CIA physician stepped forward. "Edgar, you might want to see this chart."

  The plastic surgeon looked up from his photos irritably. "Hardly. As I keep telling you, Simons, I'm not here to take his tonsils out. Those details are all your concern."

  Baker leaned slightly toward Solo and whispered almost soundlessly. "Edgar Tomlinson. Best plastic surgeon around."

  Solo nodded, but frowned as Tomlinson walked up to the bed, the other physicians giving way like commoners before a king. Without greeting or word, the physician took his patient's chin in his hand and turned it up, then looked over to glare at Baker, whom he had not so much as glanced at before. "These photos you've given me aren't recent!"

  Baker folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed. "You knew the surveillance ones were older. As for the rest, I told you he's been asked to lose weight to match the boy's frame."

  Tomlinson flung the photos, which were still in the hand not holding Illya's chin, against the wall, where they crashed and slid down to the floor. "Then get me recent ones. Today! Or are decent photos too much to ask from a bunch of spies!"

  The ghost of a smile touched Baker's mouth, but he nodded calmly. "You'll have them, sir."

  Tomlinson glanced back at the face held in his hand. Kuryakin hadn't moved, but was watching him with narrowed suspicious eyes. "Stop frowning! It exaggerates the facial lines. Keep your face blank." He looked around to the nurse that had followed him in and stood waiting, pen and notepad in hand. "Well, what are you waiting for! Hand me those damn photos! I need the ones of the boy for comparison, you know!"

  "Then why did he smash them into the wall?" Solo murmured to Baker. He thought he had kept his voice at least as soundless as Baker's had been, but Tomlinson's head whipped up like a snake.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "Napoleon Solo. Chief Enforcement Agent with the U.N.C.L.E." Solo inclined his head slightly. "And Mr. Kuryakin's field partner."

  "This isn't the field, Solo. I don't allow observers in my surgery clinics. Since when do U.N.C.L.E. agents need someone to hold their hand when they see a doctor?"

  Baker straightened slightly. "I'm afraid, sir, that U.N.C.L.E.'s agreement to loan Mr. Kuryakin to us specified routine surveillance of this operation by one of their agents."