He knew the system Baranov had to fight to get the plant built, the endless committees, party politics, worker's collectives, supply problems, all compounded by the personnel problems manifested in his own character of Antipov. He felt a kinship and a sympathy to Baranov and consequently treated him even more harshly. Seeing the antipathy in Baranov's weary eyes when the plant manager looked at him, he knew he was succeeding. But the accomplishment didn't give him the satisfaction that the same deception with Zhukhov did.

  For the first time he felt a sense of unease about destroying the plant. Whether the Soviets had stolen the plans from the Americans, or vice versa, mattered little to him. Nothing had a shorter lifespan than supposed scientific secrets. Certainly Americans tried just as hard to steal Soviet secrets. If that were the only reason for his presence, he did not see why the Soviet Union should not have a plant the same as the Americans. Baranov and his countrymen, his former countrymen perhaps he should say, had built it, at great cost and probably considerable sweat and blood. It was a beautiful thing, however fatally flawed he believed it to be.

  But its flaws could probably be fixed. Though not in the short time span left before the fuel was due to arrive, still, testing and revision might yield a working plant. His careful study had uncovered many conditions to put right and he listed them all meticulously, even as Baranov's face blanched and the lines upon it became more deeply carved. Possibly the CIA would be upset with him for giving these corrections away, but there was a good chance they would not survive the conflagration he planned. It upset him that he was about to undo ten years or more of the work, not of a demented Thrush agent, or a diabolical megalomaniac, but of a dedicated man who had defeated an impossible system. As a product of that same system, his respect and understanding for the plant manager made the prospect of destroying Baranov's life's work distinctly uncomfortable.

  Though not quite the same as the warning of being seduced by the schedule of the character he was impersonating, the problem was similar. He understood the danger of these feelings, knew he could not afford to indulge them and turned them off. Assignments were often unpleasant. He had learned, long ago, to trust in his superiors and not think about what he had been asked to do. Agents simply couldn't afford a conscience. The last time he had indulged himself with his, he had ended up as a defector and a traitor to his country. He had made his choice once. Now that he was being forced to betray his country again, he could hardly entertain second thoughts. The alternative was to betray U.N.C.L.E. and he would not confirm the myth that defectors were inveterate traitors who could never be trusted. His integrity was already a fragile and scarce commodity. He couldn't afford to squander it.

  Fortunately, he had long practice in denying his emotions, in acting without undue reflection, in following orders. It wasn't hard to disavow most of his reservations. What distress was left he converted into harshness and scorn for Baranov. That was apparently entirely in Antipov's character.

  Nor did he betray by a flicker his distaste for Zhukhov, whose enjoyment of Baranov's discomfort and distress clearly indicated a past history of conflict. At least taking out the plant would discommode the KGB chief. For take it out he must. Baranov's situation could not be helped and he was helpless to alter it. His choices, of four years ago, had led him to this place, to this situation. There was no retrenching now. Recriminations would have to be put on hold until the job was done.

  He could only hope the fire alarm and evacuation system would work properly and there would be few civilian casualties.

  Kuryakin stopped his tour and stared accusingly at the plant manager, "Corrosion! Did I not warn you? And the fuel has yet to be loaded! Will you wait until then for these welds to let loose? And the argon gas vents—did I not ask to have the number doubled? You had forgotten that, no doubt. And what of that sprinkler piping—that was to be removed weeks ago! Do you plan to douse a sodium fire with water?"

  "They are scheduled to be removed."

  "Then why is that not on these plans?" Kuryakin slapped the air in front of the plant manager with the plans he had been carrying around since yesterday evening. While his list of changes had been extensive enough to cause obvious distress in the plant manager, Zhukhov, upon seeing the list grow, had relaxed in the belief that young Antipov knew what he was doing. After spending the morning following Kuryakin around, the KGB chief had finally excused himself to handle his own duties.

  "The plans are still being revised."

  "By whom? Monks from the middle ages would work faster! How can I work without complete plans? Get them."

  The plant manager stared at him with weary helplessness, clearly uncertain how to comply with yet another impossible order.

  Kuryakin stomped his foot in fury. With Zhukhov gone, this was his best chance to carry out his mission. He had Baranov at the point where he suspected the plant manager would be only too willing to snatch a few minutes away from him. All he needed was a little push. "Get them now!"

  The plant manager hurried away, one of the KGB guards escorting him. Kuryakin went over the heat exchanger, very aware of the guards at his back. After hours of this tour, they were footsore and weary, tired of standing bored while their subjects looked at piping. They had been keenly at attention in the control room and wary and alert on the reactor floor. But for the last hour they had only been following endless piping, heading for the less secure part of the plant and their vigilance had relaxed. Kuryakin examined the mechanical drawings, comparing them with the piping, and then, leaning against the wall as if preparing for a long sojourn, began to scribble notes. He hid his sign of relief as one agent murmured to the remaining guard and disappeared while the former stifled a yawn and shifted from foot to foot, staring enviously at the disappearing guard, obviously wishing he had the ability to escape this boring duty.

  Kuryakin smiled inwardly. Everyone senior, everyone able to escape this tour had disappeared. The guard left would be the most junior, the most inexperienced. Or the most incompetent. Resentful that he had been left. Predisposed to violate regulations, since it was a violation of such to have left him alone on this tour. He'd be easy to manipulate, or bully.

  Kuryakin's heart started to race. Time to make his move.

  "You there," Kuryakin abruptly turned from his study of the piping. "Fetch me a short ladder."

  "I cannot leave my post," the guard answered. Leaning back himself against the wall, obviously unwilling to move. So much the better.

  "Then delegate the task, you stupid fool." Kuryakin looked down the catwalk to the plant floor below. "Comrade maintenance worker! Bring up a stepladder."

  "He cannot come up on this level. He doesn't have clearance," the guard answered, a flicker of worry crossing his brow. Though he made no move to do the work himself.

  "Do you propose that I get the ladder? I have nothing else to do but fetch and carry because a maintenance worker cannot be used? Or perhaps you would shoot me if I went for it?" He ignored the guard's sudden blanch, well aware he had touched a nerve. "Perhaps you should call Zhukhov and ask him to fetch the ladder himself? Yes, do that. Or fetch it yourself. Or allow this man to do his job as he seems able to follow a simple order. Of course, he is not with the KGB."

  The agent scowled and glared at the hulking worker waiting hesitantly at the foot of the catwalk, holding a short ladder. The worker looked stupid enough. "Oh, very well. Bring it up."

  "So very kind of you," Kuryakin said, snatching the ladder as it was brought up, his hand neatly palming the plastic explosives as the ladder was passed over, noting the miniaturized timers masquerading near the rivets and concealed under the horizontal risers. Everything was in order. As he straightened, a pen clattered to the floor and he reached down to pick it up. "You dropped your pen, comrade."

  "Clumsy fool," the guard said. "Get back to your own level. And keep quiet about this, or it will go hard for you."

  The man took it with an embarrassed nod and turned to leave. Kuryakin took advantage of the time the KGB agent spent meticulously supervising the undercover CIA agent's descent to the lower floor to rapidly conceal the explosives and timers on the locations he had identified on the piping.

  Back on the power plant floor, the CIA agent, Greer, nodded to Kuryakin's guard and turned away as if to go back to work. But instead of returning to the duties assigned to his cover occupation, he walked through the plant to the exit, nodding absently to certain workers he passed. Those workers silently gave the prearranged acknowledgement—a blink, a scratch of the head, which let the operative know his message was received and confirmed. In his pocket, he carried the camera pen holding the negatives of the reactor plans.

  Kuryakin finished his placement of the devices under the uncomprehending eyes of his lone guard. It seemed too soon, too easy, but the plans had been delivered. The longer he waited, the more likely he would be discovered. His back to the bored sentry, he pulled the tiny weapon from his sleeve. The sleep dart hit the guard in the chest, dropping him before the surprised man could even pull his weapon. Kuryakin spared himself two minutes to pull him into a maintenance closet and remove the guard's coverall. He'd have a much better chance of making it out of the plant without being challenged wearing a KGB uniform. Sweating, irrevocably committed now, he set the timers and half climbed, half slid, down the catwalk and moved at a brisk walk to the rear of the plant, toward the turbines, the exit and the storage room where the rendezvous would take place. His heart was pounding hard as he finally slipped into the darkness already populated by the team members he had not seen for twenty-four hours. Napoleon was there, smiling a brief grimace.

  "How long?" Nelson whispered.

  "Five minutes."

  "You cut it close, Kuryakin," Elsnic murmured.

  "I did not know how much time I had before Baranov returned. Is everyone out?" Kuryakin looked anxiously around the dim room.

  "We're here. Everything's fine. Now quiet," Nelson ordered. They settled down to wait.

  Five minutes passed and then six. By seven, Kuryakin could stand it no longer. "It should have gone off." Kuryakin poked his blond head out from their hiding place, staring at the plant as if he expected it to give him the answer he needed. What could have happened? The plastic explosives, the timers—surely they had not been discovered. Not all of them. What could have happened?

  "You're right," Elsnic sneered. "Wonder what's wrong?"

  Kuryakin ignored the comment that Solo bristled at, his face abstracted as he mentally traced his steps. "I timed them perfectly. They are well concealed. There's no way they could have been detected."

  "Give it another minute or two," Solo suggested, but his partner shook his head.

  "We have to take this reactor out now, before that fuel arrives. It should have gone off. I'm going back."

  Solo made an aborted grab for his partner's arm in the darkened, cramped space and missed as Illya ducked him easily. "Illya," he hissed. "Damn it, get back here. Illya!" But the Russian was gone, ignoring him and he could hardly shout out after him. He swore and thrust past Nelson, not stopping to wonder if the CIA would take the information and leave them stranded here in the Soviet Union, and squeezed out of their hiding place.

  "Solo!" Nelson grabbed his arm, the huge agent pulling him back by main force. "You can't go in there. You haven't got the right clearance, you'd be identified and detained straight off. If something has gone wrong, your partner still has a chance to retrieve the situation. He may not have been missed yet. Let him go!"

  "We've got the damn plans—that was our primary goal. Taking the reactor out was never more than a side issue. Shit, we know they'll build another one anyway. Why should Illya risk himself further to take out this one?" Solo wrenched himself free. "We'll be back."

  "Solo!"

  The Chief Enforcement Agent ignored him, moving cautiously back into the plant. Illya was long gone. Although the plant was not fully staffed at this development stage, there were still enough personnel around that he could not run off half cocked looking for him.

  The plant was well marked with signs, but they were all in Russian, of course, and he didn't spend much time puzzling them all out. He recognized the ones that warned of radioactive dangers and followed them. He knew Illya would be heading in that direction, toward the heat exchanger.

  There seemed to be more activity in this area, too and he swore, fading against a wall as two workers appeared in a corridor ahead. They opened a door and Solo edged forward and then shrank back again. It wasn't a room they were entering, but a closet of some kind, and the two workers stood in the doorway, rummaging through the contents and taking out various maintenance items. They worked casually, in the typical slow motion of maintenance workers at the end of their shift and Solo sweated, counting off the minutes and wondering how he was ever going to find his partner now.

  ***

  Kuryakin made it back to the heat exchanger, the guards coveralls giving him the protection he needed. This uniform wouldn't often be seen on this less restricted floor and his presence hinted at potential trouble for someone. Workers turned from him, their faces averted, obviously unwilling to risk seeing anything they should not. He had forgotten that about his country and wondered, with a flicker of unease, what else he had forgotten. But now was not the time to deal with those issues and for the moment he just blessed the uniform and the system that let him pass unchallenged.

  He shimmied up the catwalk and pulled out one of the explosive/timer combinations, the press of time making him heedless of the danger. He dissembled the timer with shaking fingers, looking for the malfunction. What he found dismayed him, but he had no time to dwell on problems, he only had time to solve them.

  He looked over his setup, calculating how many devices he could set manually, without the automatic timing delays.

  "What are you doing there? Why are you wearing a guard's uniform?"

  Kuryakin looked up to see Baranov before him, alone, a sheaf of plans like a fan in his hand. They stared at each other a moment before Kuryakin realized he had three timers already set and no leisure for discussions.

  "Get away from here," he ordered flatly. "Now."

  Baranov took a step closer, the possibility clicking into certainty in his mind. "You're not Antipov."

  Kuryakin stepped backwards, tossed the timer and its attached explosive charge in the general direction of the heat exchanger and snatched another. The action distracted the plant manager and Kuryakin pulled the gun from his sleeve while the man's eyes were elsewhere. Baranov was bigger than him and Kuryakin was painfully aware of time limits. When Baranov looked back to him, he had the gun focused on the Soviet. "Go on. Get out."

  The man stared at him, his eyes wide. "You can't do this—you can't be serious— You cannot be a spy; you are Russian."

  "Run, damn you," Kuryakin snarled. "There's no time to waste."

  Baranov looked around wildly for Kuryakin's guard and then focusing on the U.N.C.L.E. agent's coverall, realized what the man's fate must have been. "Guards!"

  Kuryakin's finger tightened on the trigger, but he couldn't bring himself to fire. This was no enemy agent, no evil scientist. Swearing violently in Russian, he brought his fist up instead. One punch brought the scientist to his knees and Kuryakin pushed him off the catwalk and went back to his feverish work.

  Finally the men moved off and Solo inched forward again. The plant was huge, the corridors endless and his footsteps seemed to echo alarmingly. He came to the branching of several corridors and hesitating, puzzled out the signs, but the effort was wasted. Radiation warnings abounded in every direction and none of the signs gave him a clue where to go. He pictured the layout of the power plant in his mind and laboriously tracing his route from memory, chose a direction.

  Damn you, Illya, and your perfectionist attitude. You didn't have to take this assignment. If you didn't know that, you should have. Solo flattened himself against the wall at the sound of voices, but they moved perpendicular to him, fading away, and he moved forward again cautiously.

  You sure didn't have to come back in here, risking your life and mine for the CIA's glory. What is Waverly going to say if I don't bring you back? What will happen between U.N.C.L.E and the CIA if we both don't get back? You're thinking like an expendable operative, Illya, not like a CEA. And I'll just bet Waverly knew you would and I'm supposed to pick up the pieces. This was a bad idea, partner. Somehow I'm going to have to teach you better.

  There was a noise ahead and Solo flattened himself into a doorway again, his senses alert. Suddenly, his partner came flying around the corner at the far end of the long corridor. The Russian's eyes widened when he saw him. "Run!" he shouted. The American agent froze, shocked that Illya was moving with so little caution, so unconcerned about detection. He couldn't have set them manually. They only have a 30 second manual delay.

  "Run, Napoleon!"

  Suddenly, there was a rumble and an explosion, followed by an enormous roar. A sheet of flame seemingly ignited the air in the corridor Kuryakin was fleeing and the Russian was momentarily knocked off his feet by the blast, then was back up and running.

  Sirens and explosions fought for precedence; the air was filled with white smoke, black smoke, toxic smelling and painful to breathe. A sprinkler system feebly soaked the corridor briefly, making it just slick enough to be treacherous and then faded to a trickle of water and failed. Kuryakin slipped and went down with a muffled curse. A rumble precipitated a rain of debris cascading down.

  Solo was a corridor ahead before he realized he wasn't being followed. He turned and ran back, trying to find his partner in the thick smoke. Solo cursed and swore, coughing painfully, until he took his handkerchief and tied it in a rough filter around his mouth and nose. Searching blindly in the dark, on his hands and knees to avoid the worst of the smoke, Solo finally stumbled against the crumpled Russian, his body half buried in rubble.

  Solo knocked debris off him. Running a hand down his spine, he did a rough check for broken bones, but he found nothing more incriminating than the bump on the head that had dazed his partner. He yanked the Russian to a sitting position and the blond head fell against his chest. Crouched in the burning corridor, flinching from the sparks and falling debris, the Chief Enforcement Agent shook Kuryakin and called his name to no response. Frustrated, Solo held him up, slapping him sharply enough to leave a visible handprint on the soot-covered cheek.