"And who...?"

The man bit his lips, frowning. What was he doing? This Russian was eventually an Uncle agent, though... though he didn't look like to be one, neither an Uncle agent, nor a KGB one. He was probably trustworthy. Alexander Waverly trusted him. He had spotted the trapdoor, he had guessed about the booby-trap... he... But this blond man wasn't their superior, he wasn't a senior agent, he wasn't the man in charge. The man cleared his throat, and turned to Bob Milton, ignoring Illya Kuryakin.

"Mr Milton, you'll be safer within the warehouse. I'll go out with Moore. You, and you ... you'll take care of Mr Milton. You... Mr Kuryakin, you..."

Bob Milton gulped. His forehead furrowed, his eyes darkened. The other man bit his lips, unwittingly. What? Milton wasn't a field agent any more. He shouldn't have been there, and, anyway, Waverly wouldn't like them to expose him to ...

"Mr Milton will go out with... with Mr ... Moore."

The Russian's voice was amazingly calm. Unflappable, he wasn't asking, he wasn't giving orders. He was just saying what was to be done.

"But..."

"Mr Milton will be safer outside, as I intend to blast this place."

Milton was foaming.

"Young man, I..."

"Please, Bob?"

Please, obey. Please, believe me. Please, trust me. The tone was serene, the eyes were urging. Leaving the field hadn't been that easy. Bob Milton had just gone through a quite unpleasant time of his life, and this... this was exciting. He wasn't a field agent anymore, but he wasn't, either, an old man, an innocent.

"Please."

The word had been whispered. It wasn't an order. The Russian's expression was inscrutable. Poker face. Bob Milton sighed and gave up, nodding reluctantly.

Illya Kuryakin was trying to avoid any situation where the others might think he was pulling rank on them. All he had to do was to wait.

"Do you know about the Trojan horse, Mr Solo?"

It was no good. Napoleon Solo knew about the Trojan horse, of course. Weber's urbane manner disgusted him, though he had to play for time, and to spot the enemy behind the wall.

"Oh, now, you're Ulysses, Weber?"

The man sneered.

"I trust your friends, Mr Solo, really. Though, just in case, I've my own ace in the hole. An innocent, above suspicion, young man..."

The Russian.

As the others were setting a convenient shelter, the blond man was crouched down, staring at the trap door and at the wires. Lowry was peeping at him when someone slapped on his arm, discreetly.

"Are we going to do that? Seriously? I am not sure..."

Moore was whispering, his face betraying his trouble. Lowry's eyes narrowed in earnest.

"Moore, you'll be outside with Milton, and..."

The young agent frowned impatiently, shaking his head. He peeked at the Russian, and hissed.

"Why? Why Milton? Logically, he'd be safer in there! I think... I could misjudge him, but..." Moore was hesitating, his gaze incessantly coming back to the blond man. "It's a trick, Lowry. I don't trust him. He said he had met Weber. He found the trapdoor, the wires so easily... I don't know why he wants the old man to be outside, but..."

Lowry nodded imperceptibly, motioning the young man to pick up a piece of wood and to go back to the shelter. Then, he headed to the Russian, standing right behind him.

"Kuryakin, Milton will stay here. I'll go out with Moore. I am the senior agent. I am the one in charge."

He stiffened instinctively, but the crouched silhouette didn't move.

"As you please, Mr Lowry."

As he pleased? Nothing more? No comment? Just this almost indifferent acceptance? Lowry was about to call the others when the calm voice added seriously.

"So, Mr Moore is obviously eager to go with you outside."

Lowry gulped, unable to speak for one second. He had heard them. The Russian turned to him, his blue eyes suddenly darkening.

"Be careful, Mr Lowry. Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."

This Russian guy was threatening him! Was he? And what had he said? The senior agent shrugged his shoulders. It didn't sound Russian.

"It's a quote from a Roman poet, Mr Lowry. "I fear the Danaans, even when bringing gifts" The priest Laocoon tried to warn the Trojans not to accept the wooden horse the Greek army had left behind, vainly, and Troy has been destroyed."

Was he kidding? Lowry cleared his throat when Illya Kuryakin got up lithely. Though he was a few inches taller, the older agent couldn't help taking a step back.

"Weber needed some help, Lowry. A very clever, very efficient, above suspicion Trojan horse."

Not the Russian. Of course not. The idea struck him suddenly. An ace in the hole. Illya Kuryakin was a newcomer. There were others.

"Some move, at least!"

Weber's voice gave him a start, as he realized that the man was really close. The villain sounded obviously relieved.