The agent in question nodded. "Yes. Mr. Kuryakin had several valid suggestions regarding placement—"

  "Just a moment," the Russian interrupted and as one, the CIA agents turned toward him, the silence suddenly hostile as they realized Kuryakin might not have accepted Nelson's laying down of the gauntlet. The Russian sighed and looked down at his slender frame, where his suit hung loosely. "I realize starving myself has been part of the preparation for my cover. But it's 8:00 and I haven't eaten since this morning's skimpy breakfast. Do you suppose I could have some dinner brought in?"

  "Dinner?" Nelson's eyes widened and his shoulders relaxed as the rest of the team let out held breaths. "Jesus God, yes. What the hell do you want Kuryakin?" Nelson grinned suddenly, disarming his insinuating tone. "Kielbasa? Chicken Kiev?"

  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to settle for whatever low-calorie mess your doctors have prescribed."

  "Baker, you heard the man. Make yourself useful and get him some food. Order us a few pizzas, too."

  "Bozhe moi," Kuryakin groaned. "I'm starving and he dangles pizzas in front of me. I always knew CIA tortures surpassed those of Thrush."

  "Buck up, Kuryakin," Nelson said, unsympathetically, half-bowling the Russian over by a clap on his arm. "We've got a job to do. You can pig out after we pull off this job."

  "Promises," Kuryakin muttered darkly.

  ***

  Solo hated not being in charge of a field operation. Much as he often grumbled to himself about the weight of his responsibilities as Chief Enforcement Agent, he'd much rather be in charge than in the trenches. He'd been CEA long enough that it felt unnatural to not be giving the orders and organizing the men and materials.

  He didn't necessarily care for the way the CIA handled the tasks he had performed so often. Not that there was anything wrong with their ways, at least, not that he could tell. But they weren't U.N.C.L.E's ways and they weren't his. He'd worked on collaborative missions before, but always with his own team, responsible for one part of a larger mission. This was his first experience of being 'lent' wholly to another organization. He felt the lack of authority and power keenly. Though he was a good enough operative to keep his unease from developing into resentment of Nelson, he was anxious about how he would react if things went wrong.

  In contrast, Illya, over whom everyone had worried about lending to the CIA and upon whom the success of the whole operation depended, was infuriatingly calm. After he and Nelson had settled their little issue of dominance and Illya had proven himself not only able to submit to orders but to keep his cool under insults, the two had worked out a professional relationship similar to his with Solo's: Nelson drew up his plans, listened to suggestions from Kuryakin in relation to the Russian's operation, but called the final shots.

  While there was no question who was in charge, there was also no question that the team leader was seriously committed to making Kuryakin's part go as smoothly as possible. Nelson also had the whole operation to consider, smuggling them into the country, placing his operatives in the power plant, organizing their escape. Solo could see he was a good operative, organized and thorough, and clamped down firmly on his frustration at his own awkward place in this scheme.

  Consider it a learning experience, Solo. Now you know how your own agents feel at times, especially the top ones in the local offices who get transferred to HQ. At least he's intelligent and a good operative. I don't think I could handle it if I had to knuckle under to some asshole.

  He walked over to the tiny cubicle where Kuryakin was being quizzed on his cover by the CIA's resident Sovietologist. Of all the facets concerning this operation, Solo found the impersonation aspect the least controllable and thus the most disturbing. Part of his unease, he knew, stemmed from the fact that he had little experience in impersonation. He played roles at times, all agents had to, but real impersonation was not one of his skills. Nor was it one he was much interested in acquiring. His own talents didn't lend themselves to such assignments. His own personality, dominant almost to a fault, was galled at the thought of being sublimated to that of another's. Solo didn't find that a problem in itself; no agent attained the CEA position by lacking drive. Certainly there were others better suited to assignments that required such skills.

  Whether his partner was one of those others Solo found somewhat difficult to reconcile. As someone who routinely evaluated the 'up and coming' enforcement agents, he'd learned to identify the differing personality types of agents and who was likely to succeed in certain types of assignments.

  It was part of his job, part of his training, to eventually take over Waverly's duties of matching agents to assignments. He'd come to expect top enforcement agents, the agents likely to be after his job, the ones tapped for the Number Two slot, to have the same drive and confidence as himself. They were the type to be attracted to the tactical enforcement assignments.

  There was always a need for other types of agents: those who could fade into the background, those who could sublimate their personalities in disguises, work undercover with impunity, or handle the largely technical assignments. But those agents rarely rose high in Section Two, never seemed to aspire to be section leaders, team leaders, or the Chief Enforcement Agent position. They were useful to Section Two, indispensable, in fact, but not his competition, at least not in his opinion.

  Yet, to a great extent, that description fit his partner. When Waverly had tapped Kuryakin for the Number Two position, no one had been more surprised than Solo, unless of course, it was Kuryakin himself.

  Kuryakin delighted in disguises; the more outlandish the better, whereas Solo found working in disguise uncomfortable. Kuryakin loved gadgets, not just using them, but developing them, something most of Section Two looked at askance. Kuryakin started in the labs, unlikely as that seemed. While an occasional enforcement agent might retire to security, communications, or administration, very few ever retired to the labs. Certainly nothing much was expected of a field agent who came from such a background. The gulf between the field and non-field operatives was wide and virtually uncrossable. The fact that Kuryakin crossed it routinely discomfited many on both sides. Including Solo himself at times.

  Kuryakin's success disconcerted many in U.N.C.L.E.. Some agents had trouble enough with Kuryakin's Soviet background. The fact that this Russian didn't fit their standards of a proper Section Two agent only further alienated them. Illya was the only field agent with his own lab. He was the only agent Solo had ever known who was a natural in enforcement, but enjoyed, almost preferred, what Solo considered the secondary assignments involving disguises, gadgets and tools.

  Solo didn't know how to categorize his partner. He was pleased at Illya's promotion, but Waverly's move made him reevaluate his own standards for what constituted a top enforcement agent. He had no idea how Kuryakin would handle the CEA position when he finally came to it and felt sometimes at a loss deciding how to train a subordinate for his position who was so obviously different than himself.

  Standing at the back of the tiny cubicle, Solo listened to the faultless answers for a while, a frown across his face, before finally interrupting, "What happens if they ask you something you don't know?"

  "Then I tell them I don't remember," Kuryakin answered with placid equanimity, not at all flustered by Solo's hovering.

  Typically, that exasperated Solo even further. "Great. What if it's something you should remember?"

  "Look, Mr. Solo—" The agent cuing Kuryakin had been irritated since the U.N.C.L.E. chief had entered the room and rose, apparently intending to put him out.

  Kuryakin stopped him with a raised hand, the slight gesture as effective as a shout from the quietly controlled agent. "No, it's all right, Sergei. Napoleon, people are mysteries, even to themselves," Kuryakin explained patiently, "and double mysteries to those around them. People can remember the most insignificant things from years past and conversely, forget important tasks they assigned themselves the day before. The human memory is incomprehensible. The critical thing to remember about impersonating someone, after you have learned all you can about them, is never to lie. Ignorance must always be freely admitted, when it cannot be concealed. You can be caught in a lie, you see, but no one can ever really be sure about what you don't remember. The trick is to know most of what they think you should. No one remembers every detail of even their own lives."

  Solo nodded slowly, noting the CIA agent's reluctant admiration of his partner's insight. "I still don't like it."

  "I've done this before."

  "Maybe. Impersonating other people, not this person. You don't know this person. He's dead."

  "We have as a complete a dossier as we can on this man. We have archived copies of every message Antipov sent to his foreign physicist contacts. We know his worries, his paranoias, his technical abilities and his limitations. I have a good idea of the range I can operate in given his character. The rest is playing it by eye."

  "'By ear'."

  Kuryakin frowned.

  "Look, Mr. Solo," Sergei rose, "I'm sure you have better things to do than make your partner nervous—"

  "Am I making you nervous, Illya?" Solo questioned, a little snidely. Still frustrated and unable to take it out any other way, Solo indulged himself with a small diversion, even one at his partner's expense.

  Kuryakin was unimpressed by Solo's bad temper. "You used to, but now that I know I can out-shoot and out-fight you, you just irritate me." Illya's frown changed to a scowl, his eyes unfocused in thought. "Are you sure it isn't 'by eye'? I thought it was a reference to sight-reading music. You're not a musician, perhaps —"

  "The only place you can out-fight me, tovarich, is in your dreams," Solo said, stung. He'd reconciled himself with the fact that Kuryakin was the better marksman. But the comment about out-fighting him nicked his professional pride. Not that it wasn't occasionally true.

  Kuryakin, for all that he was small, could be a formidable opponent. Though Solo outweighed the Russian by twenty-five pounds, even in Kuryakin's best condition, they were more evenly matched than first glance would tell. Still, he didn't appreciate his partner bragging about it in CIA headquarters and he went for the jugular in one of Kuryakin's few vulnerabilities. "As usual, you misread it or misheard it. The phrase has nothing to do with reading music—"

  The CIA agent, wide-eyed at this seeming escalation of hostilities, rose and took Solo by the elbow. "If you're not making him nervous, you're making me nervous. Please just get the hell out of here."

  Solo let himself be kicked out, realizing he wasn't doing himself or Kuryakin any good fretting over a situation he couldn't prevent and one his partner could handle better on his own. And picking a fight with Illya about that was really immature. He checked in with Waverly, updated his superior on their situation, and wandered into the team room.

  Nelson was sitting at the conference table, half the team hanging over his shoulders while he read something. The agent looked up at Solo's entrance, then he went back to the report.

  "What's up?" The U.N.C.L.E. agent had seen that look before on his own face in the past. He knew it didn't auger well. "Bad news?" Maybe they got the plant operational without Antipov. Maybe the KGB has discovered he's dead. Maybe the plant blew up on its own. Whatever it is, let it be something that calls this mission off.

  "Antipov is dead."

  Solo frowned. "We know that. Do you mean to say you had him alive somewhere, injured maybe, and that Illya was just a —"

  "Not the son, damn it. The father. The stupid bastard!"

  "What happened?"

  "The fool tried to make it out on his own. God knows what set him off. We couldn't risk getting in touch with him; we didn't know where his loyalties were, and the kid was too dead to ask. Some of those idiot physicist friends of his tried to spring him. Jesus, God, Solo, these people earn a doctorate and then think they're smarter than everyone else. The stupid bastard was discovered as he was being smuggled out. He panicked and ran. Some peasant plant guard was supposed to shoot to wound, I guess, and missed. Probably the first time he fired a gun at a person."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Our source saw half his head blown off. Two physicists have been charged with treason. And the guard who shot Antipov senior was arrested and executed by the KGB. Suspicion of conspiracy, though I think our Soviet friends just killed the poor bastard out of frustration. Someone is getting damn nervous over there. I understand they are supposed to have the plant on-line by October. The anniversary of their revolution is a big Soviet holiday. They like to have tangible symbols of their 'progress' to report on. That doesn't give them much time to get ready. We've got to move fast; they'll have to replace Antipov as chief physicist."

  Solo closed his eyes at this litany of death. "I don't like this. Nelson, are you sure—are you very sure—we can get Kuryakin out?"

  "Don't go paranoid on me," Nelson snarled. "I've got too much to do. Where the hell is your partner, anyway? Get him in here. He needs to hear this."

  Solo bristled at being ordered around like a flunky and one of the CIA agents quickly slipped out the door to fetch Kuryakin. Solo bit back his retort and moved to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the table. He had been in Nelson's place many a time, revising a plan when the situation had abruptly changed. There wasn't time for worries and second guessing. He would have responded just as abruptly if he had been Nelson and someone had made the comment he had. But it still took him a full minute and some blistering coffee to calm down.

  Keep your temper, as the caterpillar said to Alice. It's as good advice here in CIA-land as in Wonderland. The trouble is, I've never committed to this mission. I could care less if that plant is taken out, or if we get the plans. I don't care because it's not my mission, not even an U.N.C.L.E. mission. But it is Illya's mission and it's Illya's life. And there's a good chance the continuance of one depends on the success of the other. So I've got to care.

  Solo watched carefully as an impassive Kuryakin listened to Nelson's explanation of the new situation. Solo would have thought that hearing the news that the man whom the Soviets needed so desperately had been killed would have given Kuryakin pause, but he couldn't see any sign of additional anxiety in his partner. It sounded like people were getting damned trigger happy at least. When Kuryakin didn't broach any reservations, Solo decided he would.

  "Perhaps it's time to reconsider the dangers here—"

  "No, Napoleon. This is good," Kuryakin interrupted.

  "Good?!"

  "Well, it is better, then. While I regret that Antipov died, it means I do not have to worry about the impersonation quite so much, with no close family around. And I can possibly use the fact of his death to some advantage as well." Kuryakin turned to Nelson, "They are keeping news of it under a blackout?"

  "Every guard on that shift disappeared. We had a hell of a time getting the information smuggled out to us."

  "And the KGB is still negotiating with your contacts for both my and my father's release?"

  Solo blinked, a little shocked at how deeply in character his partner had slipped.

  "They're still playing games, yeah."

  "Good." Kuryakin smiled a little. "They will have a secret then, that they will be afraid I will discover. Their worry about it will possibly blind them in other areas. I will make demands they cannot possibly fulfill, so they will make concessions in other areas. This gets better."

  Nelson frowned a little. "You seem pretty confident about your ability to second guess the KGB."

  "You forget, comrade." Kuryakin smiled again, the predatory, slightly mad smile Solo rarely saw and one that made him distinctly uncomfortable. "I am the KGB."

  "Illya—" Solo glanced around the room, acutely aware the team members were staring at the Russian agent, slack-jawed. From sheep to wolf, before their eyes. Give these people a break, partner, they aren't used to you like this. I'm not too used to you when you get like this.

  "I am the KGB." Kuryakin said complacently. "I am the GRU. I sat at their feet, quite literally as well as figuratively, raised and trained by them, since I was a child. I am one of them. I know how they work. I know how they think." Kuryakin smiled again, conspiratorially. "No one knows your weaknesses like your enemy—or your family. In my case, I am both."

  Elsnic was sputtering. Markowitz was grinning. The rest still looked shocked. Napoleon was pleased if Illya considered himself in possession of an advantage he had not had before, but he wasn't sure the advantage was worth the revelation Kuryakin had just made. Certainly the CIA knew that Illya had worked for the KGB, but it looked as if the contact team hadn't quite realized the extent of his involvement. Or perhaps just how easily Kuryakin could change from sheep to wolf.

  Nelson recovered first, forcing his face back to his usual harassed expression. "I think we should leave as soon as possible."

  "I am ready."

  "Fine. We'll leave tomorrow."

  ***

  The group had moved to the CIA commissary, virtually deserted at this late hour. The clock was ticking; they were scheduled to leave at dawn. Solo was going over Nelson's documentation on some of the contract groups the CIA was going to use to smuggle them out of the Soviet Bloc countries. Next to them, Kuryakin and Markowitz were sitting over cups of Russian tea, continuing a physics discussion.

  Solo bit back his own irritation over that, wanting Kuryakin's evaluations of the information he was reviewing, in his own opinion, one of the less reliable elements of the plan. It wasn't Illya's responsibility this time, on this mission, but he had gotten used to working with him on such matters. At U.N.C.L.E. he could dump whatever he chose into Kuryakin's lap. The constraints Nelson and the CIA's arrangements put on his working relationship with his partner were annoying and he wished Nelson and Markowitz would just leave. Not a likely possibility, he reminded himself and reapplied himself to the task.

  Of course, U.N.C.L.E. used mercenaries as well. Every intelligence group did. But Nelson's groups had no particular side, would work for anyone for a price, which meant there was always a danger they would sell their clients out for a bigger price. Solo preferred working with revolutionary or patriot groups. Groups with certain ideological causes were less likely to form a better deal with one's enemy. The CIA, however, worked both sides of the law so often that it didn't have that luxury.