"I understand."

  "One thing we know about Antipov is that he was a compulsive type. He wrote himself lists. Tossed the lists every day."

  "That is useful to know."

  "Useful for us too. Remember our contact in the housekeeping staff. You can use those lists to communicate with us. If they're watching you, and we have to assume they will be, it will look normal for you to write a list each night. We'll get it in the trash the next day."

  "Very well."

  "Remember you've got three jobs. Plans, explosives, exit. If you're going to review the plant plans, write that on your list. We'll assume you'll be taking pictures then and try to pick them up. If you should get caught, you don't want to be caught with anything incriminating in your possession. If you're going to place the explosives, write down that you're taking a tour of the plant. Remember the sooner you complete the assignment the better. You have to judge the situation, but if it takes you more than a day or two, it's going to jeopardize the operation. None of us can get near the reactor or the control room, but we'll try to have at least one operative by the heat exchanger at all time to pass the explosives and timers. You'll have to find some way to get free of your guards. Do you have any questions?"

  "No." Kuryakin shook his head slowly. "No questions."

  Solo didn't know what to say as the time for the exchange approached. He didn't feel comfortable saying anything personal before a room full of CIA and Kuryakin was too deep in his role to respond anyway. He nodded briefly as the Russian agent stared at him behind a phalanx of agents. Then they hustled him out and he was gone. Solo stared at the group through the torn window screen until they disappeared from sight.

  ***

  Illya Kuryakin concentrated on being scared. He was scared, a little, the normal anxiety of a dangerous assignment. It was easy to amplify those emotions, to cause his breathing to accelerate, his heart rate to increase, a nervous sweat to appear on his forehead. When the transfer was completed, he fell into the ranking KGB agent's arms as though he were escaping from a terrible evil. Zhukhov's arms closed around him in surprise and he heard muted exclamations of concern that their 5 million rubles had been traded, not for the physicist they needed, but for one rendered useless by injuries or torture. He heard his name called in concern and looked up at a circle of faces bent down around him.

  "Help me," he whispered. He looked over his shoulder in terror, eyes wide at the group who was departing with the suitcase of money. "Don't let them take me."

  Strong arms closed around him again. "What did they do to you, Antipov?" A hand went under his chin and he allowed it, letting his head loll wearily. "No matter. You are safe now. You are with friends." He was lifted and carried, and with his face concealed against the speaker's chest, he permitted himself a slight, congratulatory smile.

  ***

  Solo hated waiting. The CIA agents on the midnight shift of the power plant came back, saying they had seen nothing of Kuryakin. That was not considered unusual or a problem. Kuryakin would need to wangle a tour of the plant to place his explosives, but that was secondary to a review of the plant plans, which would occur in the more restricted areas of the plant, out of their sight. Their contact in the housekeeping staff would not be able to go into the physicists' living quarters until mid-morning.

  The CIA team had split themselves up into three groups, to cover each of the plant's eight-hour shifts. Once a worker went into the plant, he couldn't easily leave until his shift was over, certainly not without claiming illness or attracting undue attention. And it was virtually impossible to go through the exit procedures for one shift and be on time for the incoming shift.

  The team would plan their escape for the shift that Kuryakin indicated he would be taking his tour. But they would have a few agents on each shift, just in case something happened to their communication system or in case Kuryakin took advantage of an unexpected opportunity.

  The C.I.A team talked quietly among themselves, speculating on what Kuryakin was doing and when he would make his move. Solo paced. He'd stifled his first impulse to go into the plant with the midnight shift, as much as it frustrated him. Everyone agreed the earliest Kuryakin could be ready was late afternoon. Solo planned to go in with the morning shift, so he would be on site in the afternoon when Kuryakin would have the first opportunity to take a tour.

  The sensible thing to do was rest, but Solo found that difficult. Somewhere, Kuryakin was being examined, interrogated, or questioned and Illya's life and their operation depended on how well he pulled off the impersonation. The part of the operation Solo disliked the most was at its crux.

  His partner was in the hands of the KGB.

  And Solo had to rely on the CIA to get him out.

  ***

  Naturally, he was given a physical exam. In a way, his collapse made the excuse easier for the KGB chief. And to a certain extent, he wanted to make things easier for Zhukhov. Certainly, his best course was to keep the man placated and comfortable with his actions and to avoid suspicion at all costs.

  Kuryakin knew enough not to make a fuss about the exam. His clothes were taken away, to be checked for listening devices and other incriminating items. His person was equally checked and his blood was tested for drugs. Sitting naked on the exam table, under the watchful eye of Zhukhov, he gave the physician a few minutes to look him over before shivering artistically and bitterly complaining about being chilled. While he felt confidence in Tomlinson's handiwork, he didn't want to push the test too far. He considered faking a sneeze, but such subterfuges weren't necessary. If he was the genuine article, he could not be allowed to become ill. He was handed a robe shortly afterward.

  He had one bad moment, worrying about having his fingerprints checked, but either Antipov had never had that done, or his records could not be found. Kuryakin heard bits of an angry exchange between the KGB chief and a subordinate, but could not be sure if that was the item discussed. But soon Zhukhov came back in looking irritated.

  He had thought long about the best way to handle the physical exam. The invasive techniques to check for concealed devices were unpleasant and probably nothing Antipov had ever encountered. To stay in character, he should probably protest, but Kuryakin also knew a protest would only trigger the KGB chief's suspicions. And while he had nothing to conceal, he also didn't want to rouse any concerns.

  He decided to be cowed instead, figuring that a pampered physics brat wouldn't have much experience with ill-treatment. He shivered and flinched at the probing fingers, whimpering mutedly, looking over his shoulder with wide blue eyes at the physician. Zhukhov not only bought the act, but appeared clearly uncomfortable inflicting too much mistreatment on his needed asset. The examination wasn't half as bad as Kuryakin knew it could have been. Still, as he sat up at the doctor's curt gesture, he scuffed away a tear or two he had managed to come up with for pure effect. He was almost starting to enjoy himself on this assignment.

  ***

  He dressed again in a pair of plant coveralls he had been given. His clothes, he was told, would be available later. Kuryakin sat at a conference table, with Baranov, the plant manager, whom he recognized from surveillance photos, and Zhukhov. A cup of tea was placed before him. He sipped it cautiously, it tasted undrugged, and he decided it was probably safe. They would hardly allow him to influence their work on the reactor in a drugged state.

  "What did they do to you, Antipov?"

  "They are idiots. Fools. They are not physicists, they know nothing." Kuryakin moved his arm in a short gesture of dismissal, careful to watch the reaction. Body language was sometimes more revealing than speech patterns. It was best to stay close to the norms to avoid suspicion. He had not been able to get any information about where this Antipov was on the scale from demonstrative to repressed. But his words were right on cue. He could tell by the looks passed between the others when they thought his attention was elsewhere. For the moment, he was believed.

  "We have told you that our science is superior. It is fortunate your mistake in going to them was so easily rectified."

  "I did not go to them. I was kidnapped."

  "Of course, of course." It was a lie and they both knew it, as clearly as they understood the pretense of believing it.

  "Where is my father?" Kuryakin said suspiciously, hoping the demand would distract them. "Why is he not here to greet me?"

  "You're father was...upset by your apparent defection. Very upset. It was an...ill-judged action."

  "I did not defect. I was abducted. And we are not discussing my actions," Kuryakin said it coldly, with the arrogance of the very young. "Where is my father? I would like to speak with him."

  "You're father never told you this; he wished to spare you. But he was not a well man. His...distress over the apparent loss of his son, the uncertainty of your situation, the worry over your safety. It was a great strain on his heart."

  "My father is ill?"

  "Your new friends did not tell you?"

  Kuryakin said nothing.

  "We asked them to notify you. We knew you would wish to know. Well, perhaps they thought we were trying to trick you. Do not be concerned, he is recovering now. We flew him, at great expense, to a special clinic where he is receiving the best of care. You will see him as soon as he is released from intensive care. But at present, you could do what every son should—carry forward his work. His dreams, if you will. It was his wish that you would carry on his work for him while he is incapacitated."

  "I do not need you to tell me my father's wishes." It was a reach to be that insolent, but Kuryakin suspected it would be more easily accepted than any too-easy capitulation.

  "Of course, we could bring in someone to...replace him. But after he has given so much, it seems a shame to rob him of his moment of glory. We understand his condition. But there will be those who will say he was removed for...incompetence."

  Kuryakin frowned, allowing himself to appear to take the bait. "My father was not incompetent."

  "We know that. But who else will believe it, with your father unable to complete the work, and the son unwilling to carry it forward? Or perhaps unable?"

  Kuryakin stared at them boldly. "If I am to do my father's work, then I should have his title. Chief physicist."

  The plant manager choked on his tea, but his protest was cut off by an abrupt gesture from the ranking KGB. "You would take your father's place? What of him?"

  "Acting chief physicist, then. I will hold his place for him."

  "He will be proud, to see his son acting thusly."

  "He will have cause to be proud, when he sees the results." Kuryakin glared at the plant manager. "Get me the plans with the latest coolant system changes. I trust my recommendations have been implemented?"

  Baranov looked flustered. "Some—"

  "Some? We will see about that! And arrange for an immediate inspection. We will see what a week of sloppiness has wrought. Well?" Kuryakin demanded of the hesitating manager. "What are you waiting for? Must I grow as old as my father before you choose to act?"

  The manager glanced at the KGB chief, muttered a curse under his breath and went. Kuryakin turned to Zhukhov. "I must study the plans to determine what changes have been made. I will do that this evening. Then tomorrow, in a tour of the plant, I must review those changes in the plant to ensure they have been correctly installed. After that I will draw up plans and a timetable for the changes still necessary."

  "We do not have much time," Zhukhov cautioned. "We must have the plant ready to receive the fuel in two weeks."

  Kuryakin was careful to look shocked. "So soon? Did my father agree to that?"

  "It is an order from the Minister of Energy. If we do not comply, we will all be replaced. And in disgrace. Including your father."

  Kuryakin glowered. "Bureaucrats. Very well, I will do my best. I will review the plans this evening. But I will require your cooperation, Zhukhov, to see that my suggestions are incorporated in time. Baranov may be an excellent plant manager," Kuryakin's expression belied his belief of that, "but he lacks vision in an undertaking of this magnitude."

  "Of course," the KGB chief smiled silkily. "When have I ever failed you, Chief Physicist Antipov?"

  Kuryakin smiled at him as if in perfect accord.

  That evening, Kuryakin went to the desk in the quarters to which he was escorted. He heard the click of the door as it was locked behind him, but that too was expected. He turned his attention to his surroundings.

  The two room suite was a sterile, dreary little place, but Kuryakin could see the touches the dead Antipov had added to make it home: a West German phonograph, a meager collection of records. Reams of scientific books and journals in several languages filled the shelves on one wall. No family pictures. The room told him more about Antipov then all the briefings he had received and it saddened him a little. It could almost have been his, had he been born in Antipov's place.

  There was a poster on the wall of a European rock group Kuryakin didn't recognize. Eying it speculatively, he could see that it seemed to have been there some time, the edges of the paint around it were a slightly different color, being protected from dirt or fading by the paper. He went to the records and saw several from that group, the jackets noticeably worn. If it was a deception, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make it convincing and he had not seen evidence so far of any great effort to test or trap him. Apparently Zhukhov was either not particularly imaginative, or he wanted to believe Kuryakin was Antipov. Knowing the KGB officer's dilemma, he was aware the latter was certainly true. Kuryakin put the record on the phonograph, figuring he had better become familiar with it, gritting his teeth a little at the garish noise. Whatever else they had once shared in common, obviously their taste in music did not coincide.

  On the desk was a pad of paper and several pens. The camera pens. He would not worry about the weapon now. He could see the connections where the computer terminal had been taken away and he ran his fingers across the severed connections, thinking of Antipov's mistake. How naive to put a request to defect over a computer network. How arrogant to think one would not be monitored, that such a blatant attempt would succeed. But then Antipov had not been raised, as he had been, to be familiar with the ways of the KGB. Kuryakin had never considered it a particular advantage in his life. But Antipov was dead. And he was alive. So far.

  As much as Solo disliked impersonations, Kuryakin regarded them no differently than he did other assignments. They had their dangers, different dangers, perhaps, than some other tasks, but all assignments had dangers. To him it hardly mattered whether his job was to impersonate someone, infiltrate an organization, blow up a safe, or coordinate an attack. Assignments were assignments. One did them.

  Even Antipov's uncanny resemblance to himself did not bother him. He had never been particularly pleased with his own looks, he did not care if someone happened to share them. When he was a small child, it had been a constant disappointment to him that he did not resemble his own father. When he had realized he would never 'grow into' Nikolai Kuryakin's deep black hair and impressive stature, his disappointment had faded to indifference. Appearances did not matter anyway. He had found other ways in which to resemble his father.

  The fact that Antipov had resembled him physically was immaterial. Even that they shared an interest in physics was an interesting coincidence, nothing more. When he was being briefed on the subject he was to impersonate, he had felt no particular connection to him. But standing in Antipov's little suite, locked in as he had been, he was poignantly aware that a boy had lived here who had once had hopes and dreams and had been fettered and eventually killed by a system Kuryakin had himself only barely escaped from. Unpleasant as Antipov was reputed to have been, they had a kinship that went beyond physical appearance or shared interests. He would do this job for U.N.C.L.E. and the CIA. But he would also do it for Antipov.

  He took up one of the pens and wrote neatly. Tonight: Review Plans. Tomorrow: 1. Tour plant. 2. Catalog necessary improvements to coolant system. 3. Make preparations to receive fuel. He spread out the plans, readied his pad of paper and began his review.

  ***

  Nelson came up to Solo where the Chief Enforcement Agent was operating a floor polisher. It wasn't the most prepossessing of occupations, but it kept the U.N.C.L.E. agent in the target area. He did not have the skills to monitor a power board and he could not undertake any task that might involve a conversation and reveal his poor Russian.

  "We just got the word from the housekeeping staff. Your Kuryakin is a fast worker."

  "Meaning?"

  "He reviewed the plans last night. He's touring the plant today. It will probably take him a few hours to make it to this level, but I've notified the team to expect closure this afternoon. Be ready to move."

  "I've been ready since before we left."

  "Oh and Solo?"

  "Yeah?"

  Nelson gestured at the floor. "You missed a spot."

  The U.N.C.L.E. agent grimaced.

  ***

  After a morning spent with the Baranov and Zhukhov, Kuryakin felt he had them both pegged. Zhukhov he had no use for. But Baranov was another matter. Walking through the plant, Kuryakin couldn't help but be impressed. Even though in his own mind, he believed its premise to be a misconception of a dangerous technology, the plant's existence was a testimonial to the hard work of many Soviets and particularly to Baranov.