Kuryakin came to, choking for air, and then, staring at him in horror, struggled to his feet.

  "Hurry! This plant is—" he coughed again, "deathtrap."

  "Come on!"

  A huge roar behind them sounded as if the world had just exploded and more debris poured down all around them. Kuryakin's steps were faltering. Napoleon half dragged him, feverishly trying to remember the turns and retrace his steps in the smoke filled gloom of the flickering emergency lights, praying their power wouldn't fail until he got them closer to the exit. Then they were in the final corridor and he saw the CIA team, out of their hiding place, staring up at the plant. Nelson grabbed Kuryakin out of his arms and slipped a filter mask on the Russian. Solo accepted one for himself, ripping off his impromptu mask and choking, turned to look at what held the CIA team enthralled.

  A fireball of gigantic proportions devoured much of the huge building as thirty thousand gallons of liquid sodium exploded and flashed into fire. People scurried here and there. A firetruck trying to soak the flames with water set off another explosion and the truck flipped over on its side, the crew fleeing.

  "Solo," Nelson grabbed his arm. "It's gone. We've got to move. Can you make it?"

  He nodded, coughing. People lucky enough to escape were deserting the plant in droves, the checkpoints they had entered through unmanned. They ran through with all the others, Kuryakin flung in a fireman's carry across Nelson's shoulders. The exit team was waiting at the rendezvous and Nelson dumped Kuryakin in the car the medic was waiting in, waving the others to move out. Jackson removed the mask and cracked a capsule under the Russian's nose.

  Illya gasped painfully, one arm clutching his ribs, his breathing raspy and began to cough.

  The medic ran practiced fingers over a bloodstained lump on Kuryakin's head. "Probable concussion. Did he lose consciousness?"

  Solo nodded. "For a moment."

  "Make that a definite concussion." Jackson was young, but his evaluation was practiced and thorough. "Respiratory distress—he's inhaled too much smoke and fumes. Looks like cracked ribs— he was lucky though, looks like nothing too heavy fell on him. No soft points on his skull. His pupils are reactive. I'd say the respiratory distress is the worst problem. I've got oxygen in the plane and a surgical kit to trach him if necessary." He looked up. "Anyone else hurt? Solo?"

  The U.N.C.L.E. agent shook his head. Solo felt a touch of relief at this evidence of Jackson's skill, knowing his own medical skills didn't go beyond the most basic first aid. "Just trouble breathing." He coughed painfully. "Lungs are raw."

  Chapter Five: Flight

  Emergency vehicles roared past them on the road, but nobody challenged their car as they sped toward their first rendezvous. They changed vehicles three times before heading to the airstrip. The mail truck was waiting for them and they crammed themselves inside the paneled vehicle and felt it lurch off immediately toward the small waiting mail plane. It seemed impossible they would take off unchallenged, but the plane was a regular, going to another Communist Bloc country and apparently the news of the plant explosion was censored.

  Solo sat by his partner in the dark, his fingers encircling the square-boned wrist, checking the pulse, one hand on his diaphragm monitoring his breathing. He had nothing else to do and it gave him the illusion of activity. His own heart was racing, the adrenaline rushing through him demanding he take some action. Nothing he could do; he had to rely on the CIA's exit plans. God knows he had read them enough, nit-picked with Nelson over them enough, double and triple-checking every facet of the operation. Now they just had to put them in motion.

  The vehicle finally pulled up against the belly of the mail plane and the agents stumbled inside, Kuryakin tossed in as if he were another sack of mail. They felt the plane taxi and lift off. Solo watched as the medic put an oxygen mask over Kuryakin's face. The oxygen seemed to revive the Russian agent and he pushed Jackson's hand away, together with the mask, and started coughing painfully.

  "Illya, the oxygen will help. Let him put the mask on you."

  The Russian's eyes opened and he looked around the plane, at the faces focused on him and coughed again. "Napoleon. Pocket." Solo's eyes met the crystalline one's and he searched the Russian until he found what he was supposed to, one of the timers Kuryakin had used to set the charges. There was a muted expletive in the group behind him, but Solo's eyes were on the tiny device, moving in to hear his partner whisper. "Timers...sabotage. Elsnic."

  "That's a lie," Elsnic roared and launched himself at Kuryakin. Solo caught him and held him, while Nelson picked up the device Solo had dropped. "Let me see that."

  "The hell you will," Solo swore at Nelson, but he had to tighten his hold on the CIA agent and he couldn't snatch the device back. He watched while Nelson examined the device, his thoughts whirling furiously. So that was why the explosion had been delayed. Why Kuryakin had to go back into that plant and set the charges manually. Had someone hoped he would be caught going back in? Or never make it back out? And how many of the people in this plane, how much of the CIA, was in on this little plot? "How the hell do I know I can trust you?" he asked Nelson.

  "You don't." Nelson frowned at the timer. "Why do you say it's Elsnic, Kuryakin?"

  "Caught him...with timers. Said checking."

  There was a silence and then Markowitz said slowly, "That's right, Chief. I was with Kuryakin back at Langley when we came upon him. Elsnic said he was checking the equipment. I thought it a bit odd at the time, since Hawkins is the electronics expert, but," he shrugged eloquently, "he was Hawkin's backup."

  Nelson tossed the device to his expert and the man's eyes widened. "Well, looky here." He showed Nelson something and Solo's eyes narrowed, trying to take in the details in the gloomy, half-lit plane. "A nice little bypass unit. Hit the test mode and everything checks out okay, cause the timers can still be manually set. Try to use the delayed settings though and —" he shrugged his head. "Well, you'd wait a long time. Kuryakin's right. Someone sure did a job on these."

  There was silence in the plane as the group took in the situation, looking from Elsnic, held tight in Solo's arms, to the Russian struggling to breathe.

  Elsnic twisted fruitlessly in Solo's arms. "Are you going to believe that?" He jerked his chin, the only part he could move, at the man lying at their feet. "A damn commie? You heard him. He's KGB. The enemy."

  Kuryakin coughed again and doubled over, his arms clutching his bruised ribs. The medic tried to hold the mask over his face, but Kuryakin fought it, his lungs straining and as they watched, his lips tinged blue. "That's it," Jackson said. "It's a tube or a trach. His airway's just too compromised from the smoke and the chemicals. A trach is faster and safer."

  Solo glanced from the medic to Nelson, his eyes haunted. Elsnic suddenly came alive in his arms as the CEA hesitated. Furious, Solo shifted to a one handed grip, poised to chop him, when Nelson grabbed his wrist.

  "No." Nelson pulled Elsnic away and shoved him toward Markowitz. "Tie him up and guard him," Nelson told his agent, "I want him conscious. I have a few questions when we get Kuryakin taken care of."

  "Yeah," Solo said bitterly. "Permanently. That's what you all wanted, right? What the hell is in that tank anyway?" He reached for the mask now laying across his half conscious partner.

  The medic looked up from his preparations, startled. "It's oxygen. Just oxygen. Look." He took the mask from Kuryakin and placed it over his own face, breathing deeply for a moment. "Don't go all paranoid on me. I've got to put a scalpel to Kuryakin's throat and I sure don't want you jumping me. Now, help me. You can hold him."

  "Hold him! While you cut his throat?"

  "No, damn it while I save his life. Just hold him still; this will only take a second."

  Solo closed his eyes at the gleam of the scalpel. God, how I hate knives. Why do you put me in these situations, Illya? Then he reluctantly forced them open. "What about anesthesia?"

  "Let him suffocate while we wait for it to work?" Jackson sounded incredulous. "Kuryakin's barely conscious; he'll probably not even notice. This won't hurt much. But hold him tight just in case."

  Napoleon swore he would watch, but as the knife went to the pale throat his eyes closed involuntarily. He opened them abruptly as Illya's chest convulsed under his hands. He looked from the blood-stained throat to the medic, as the man said in satisfaction, "That's got it." Solo's alarm faded as he realized the Russian wasn't in pain, but gasping for breath through the suddenly unobstructed airway. Jackson's fingers deftly taped and secured the tube in place. Kuryakin's eyes fluttered open, the blue color fading from his lips. Illya mouthed his name, but no sound came.

  "He can't talk now," the medic said. "We've bypassed his vocal cords. Don't worry. A trach is a minor procedure, basic first aid." Kuryakin's breathing evened out and his eyes closed. "We'll take him to the military hospital in Germany. By then, the edema—the swelling—that compromised his airway will probably have passed. He'll be fine."

  Solo looked up to meet Nelson's searching eyes studying the pale Russian. "Who the hell is your enemy, Nelson?" He said bitterly. "My partner—or your team member?"

  "Looks like we have to find out."

  ***

  The rest of the trip was a blur to Solo. He watched Illya's breathing, not trusting him alone in the medic's hands, Waverly's words haunting him. It's your job to see he is retrieved after the operation is over. See to that, Mr. Solo. See to that. Behind him Nelson grilled Elsnic and the rest of the CIA team were muttering among themselves.

  "Elsnic was awful nervous when Solo and Kuryakin went back. Remember how he fidgeted around and said we shouldn't wait? That we should get the plans out? What do you think, Saul?"

  "If Kuryakin sabotaged the timers, then why would he go back and blow the plant manually, huh?"

  "And if Solo did it, then why follow his partner back in, knowing the Russian had only one chance to blow the place, with a thirty second margin?" Hawkins shook his head. "That's suicide. Anyway, it's too close odds for me."

  "But why should Elsnic sabotage the timers? Would framing Kuryakin be worth letting the plant stand?"

  "You ought to be grateful I did it," Elsnic shouted at Nelson. "We had the plans and we had the Russian, too. Somebody had to take that mole out. We've pussyfooted around about him long enough. I was the only one with guts enough to do it. And you heard what Kuryakin said, that plant would have blown anyway."

  "Yeah, fueled!" He heard Nelson say.

  "So what if the Russians blow themselves up? Damn it, we're building bombs to take them out, just like they are to us—let them take themselves out and a good chunk of their country too. Save us the trouble!"

  Kuryakin shivered on the cold steel deck of the plane and Solo moved to take off his jacket, suddenly realizing the medic had half stripped his partner to examine his bruised ribs and the plane was unheated. The medic stopped him with a touch on his arm and Solo turned to see him holding out a couple of blankets. He slipped one under the slight figure and the medic tossed the other over him, one hand reaching out to take the Russian's pulse. Kuryakin flinched and Solo put a soothing hand on his arm.

  "He's doing all right," Jackson whispered in his ear. "But I can't risk a sedative—or anything that might compromise his respiratory system. We'll have to wait for a physician to check him out. Try to keep him quiet."

  "I'd like to keep someone quiet," Solo muttered.

  "I'll have a word with Nelson," the medic answered. "And see if they can keep some of this noise," he said the word delicately, "down."

  Solo tucked the blanket closer around Illya, shivering himself, even in his leather jacket, suddenly noticing just how cold the plane was. Transport planes weren't built with comfort in mind. Kuryakin's blue eyes opened at the touch and met Solo's for a brief moment.

  Napoleon fumbled for something to say. What do I tell you? The bastard will get what he deserves? Not every American wants to shoot Russians on sight? You know damn well too many of them do. Duck, roll and cover, Illya. You've got the paranoia of a whole country to deal with. "You're going to be okay, partner. We'll stop over in Germany, get you fixed up there, and be home before you know it." Behind them Nelson's voice suddenly shut off in mid word and then continued at a softer tone, but Elsnic's voice raised in fury.

  "Do you think I care whether that damn commie sleeps or croaks? The only peaceful sleep I want him to have is six feet under, Jackson! If you were smart you would have used your knife more to the purpose! "

  Kuryakin closed his eyes again. Solo swallowed his fury and patted him awkwardly. "Ignore him. You did good. You did great." He slipped the Russian's discarded jacket under his head, trying to make him more comfortable, careful of the trach tube. "Got a new scar for your collection, though," he added awkwardly, trying to find things to say, and froze as Kuryakin tensed underneath his hand, his eyes suddenly squeezing tightly shut.

  Great, Solo. Why don't you join Elsnic in the stupid things to say department? He watched in muted horror as a single tear inched its way out of the tightly bunched lashes and slid down the pale cheek. Illya shuddered and turned away from him. Solo patted his shoulder again helplessly, afraid to say anything more. I'm sorry, partner. You know I'm not good at this. Bad enough Tomlinson wiped out your reminders of the past and Elsnic is a reminder of all the rejection in your future—you have to put up with me, too.

  When the plane landed they tumbled out into a waiting car and back into another plane—just a short hop this time, smuggled in with cargo by hard-faced, anxious men whose organization Solo didn't know other than by a cover name, and didn't care to know. Solo noticed Elsnic's hands were tied behind his back and Nelson kept a gun on him during the transfer. But his own desire for revenge had faded.

  Illya wasn't asleep, but the younger agent hadn't looked at him and had barely moved since his last stupid comment. Then they were touching down in West Germany. The brisk wind whipping his coat sleeves felt refreshing after the confines of the transport plane. There was relief in seeing the U.S. flags snapping at the tops of the flagpoles, knowing he had pulled off his part of the job. But seeing Kuryakin's limp, crumpled figure and Elsnic in cuffs robbed him of any sense of satisfaction. Their group broke up spontaneously. A military ambulance rushed Kuryakin to the Armed Forces hospital. Elsnic was taken away under guard and the rest of the team members drifted away, temporarily released to their own devices.

  Solo stood watching numbly as Kuryakin disappeared into the emergency room, his own entrance blocked by two very impassive M.P.s. He debated challenging them, but settled for reporting into Waverly by transceiver, his first safe chance now that they were out of the Soviet Bloc. He answered Waverly's questions, barely registering his superior's impatience that he hadn't followed up on where Elsnic had been taken. Nelson had tossed him into the hands of several M.P.s as Solo had climbed into the back of the ambulance with Illya, and he hadn't bothered to follow up on the matter.

  Solo acknowledged the reprimand with a sigh and set off to find the CIA team member, just as someone came up to him and flashed him an U.N.C.L.E. identification card. I forgot. We have agents here. There's no reason for me to do everything myself. And my first responsibility is to Kuryakin. Someone else can look after Elsnic. He sent the agent off to track down Nelson and settled outside the emergency room doors to wait.

  "Mr. Solo?"

  He jerked his head up, swallowing painfully against the rawness of his throat.

  "You're Mr. Solo, of the U.N.C.L.E?"

  "Yes."

  "Your partner—I been told by a Mr. Nelson he's due for a debriefing at Langley? I ran a quick check on him and cleared him for travel. There's no serious injuries—no internal bleeding or broken bones. I'm sure your doctors will run their own checks. The concussion doesn't seem serious, but you should keep a close eye on him until you hand him over to the Langley physicians."

  "We're returning to U.N.C.L.E. HQ in New York.

  "Whatever. Mr. Kuryakin is being transferred to an military ambulance. They'll see him to your plane, where I understand you have a medic to take over."

  "Thank you, doctor." Solo shook the physician's hand and turned to see Nelson standing in the doorway.

  "Time to fly."

  "Langley?" Solo growled. "I thought we were heading for U.N.C.L.E. HQ."

  "This is still a CIA operation. We report to my director. And he's waiting for these plans."

  "Well, your director better get the full story."

  Nelson shrugged. "I knew Elsnic was temperamental, but I had no idea he was a fanatic about the KGB. I didn't know him too well; we don't have much call for his specialty in my usual jobs. Sorry, Solo. It happens."

  "It could have cost Illya his life, my life, and this operation."

  "Don't worry about it," Nelson said shortly, his voice gruff. "He'll get what he deserves. We take care of our own."

  "He almost took care of my own."

  The CIA agent skewered him with a glance. "Back off. Partner or not, settling this is neither your business or mine. It's between your director and my director. But I'll tell you, you won't have to worry about him again."

  Solo glanced at Nelson's implacable face and turned away. "Right."

  ***

  C.I.A Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Baker stood before the DCI. "Nelson just called in. Operation Red Retriever was a success."

  "Yes." The Director didn't look up. "I saw the satellite surveillance film. Quite a nice blaze."

  "They had a personnel problem."

  The DCI slowly raised his head.