The Uncle agents had to huddle against each others in the narrow passage. Amazingly, as soon as the Russian had locked the trapdoor, small hidden wall lamps had gone on, and flashlights were no use. Lowry threaded his way through his fellows, joining Milton next to a wooden partition. Hesitating – who knows who was behind -, he whispered inquiringly.

"He said that we would find a door...

Milton nodded, pointing at a badly nailed down plank. He pushed it, revealing was obviously a small console, half a dozen buttons flickering. Lowry sighed.

"He said that we had to wait for the explosion..."

The Uncle agent bit his lips. He looked about at Milton, at the others, at the console. There was no use in worrying, that, he knew, but the situation was quite unusual. They stood in a narrow, dim lit passage, all of them, Uncle agents, field agents and, concerning Milton, retired agent, dependent upon a newcomer, a blond Russian who looked like to be everything aside from a spy, who had, nevertheless proved to be a damned good one. "He said that..." The small blue eyed guy had said... and Lowry, the senior agent, the man in charge, had acknowledged him as a leader. He rubbed his chin, peeping again at Milton.

"He stayed in the warehouse. I should have..."

Milton shared Lowry's worries about the Russian. He had made the point that Illya Kuryakin knew his job, but definitely, the situation was making him uncomfortable. Lowry expressed his own thoughts.

"He wants to blast the warehouse. We are here... I... I should have stayed with him."
"No..."

The older man's face softened, and he repeated: "No." As Lowry was about to speak, Milton went on. "Jules Cutter asked him to teach Demolition and Explosive at the Survival School..."

"Jules Cutter?"

In spite of the situation, the same idea had occurred to their minds, bringing a smile to their faces. Jules Cutter, the sturdily built Cutter, facing the (too) slender Illya Kuryakin and his (too) long (too) blond hair, looking at him up and down, suspicious, pursing disgusted lips at the sight, determined to get rid of the insulting intruder as soon as possible.

The passage quaked around them.

Napoleon Solo hardly contained his impatience. At the moment, there was nothing he could do on his own, and that was frustrating. So was it, probably, concerning Weber. A consolation. The men in the warehouse, his... partner, had the lead. It was no use to see the villain, Napoleon Solo thought. He didn't hear him anymore. Weber kept silent, watching out, getting worried. The Uncle agent smiled. He was powerless, but the enemy was losing control.

First, it was a deep thunder, hardly audible, getting closer and closer, though, suddenly turning into a deafening howling, thousands desperate voices screaming yelling, whistling. Then, rattles and shocks...

Sounds create powerful images.

Napoleon Solo could see the dazzling light, the flames, the threatening twirls of a deadly black smoke.

The partition he had flattened against vibrated. The floor quaked, causing him to totter.

All of a sudden, it stopped.

There still remained screeching whispers, faint creaks.

And another noise. A coughing fit, someone panting, choking. Weber.

The air, in the cell, was getting heavier with dust, an insidious dust. The Uncle agent made himself a mask with his lapel.

Dust.

Dust? There?

The reality was slowly taking roots in his mind, a very unpleasant reality. The warehouse had been blown up. Weber had told about a crowning piece.

There was dust in the cell.

His fellows, his friends, his partner-to-be had failed.

The man, outside, was still choking with dust, and – yes - with a scornful, detestable laughter. He could go with the devil, Napoleon Solo thought, blinking.

Anger was no use, he knew it.

"There is no place for your own feelings during a mission. Whatever happens, you've got to fulfill the assignment. Regrets and anger are weaknesses. Seeking for a revenge is useless."

It was a spy's motto. Waverly's words were: "You're expendable."

They were. They lived, they were expected to succeed. They could die.

"My fault."

Guilt. Regrets, anger and guilt were weaknesses.

Weber had captured him. The others, his friends, his partner-to-be had been trapped, killed, perhaps – probably? - and he was the one to be blamed for that.

Dust. Dust. There was dust in the cell. So much dust.

The passage quaked around them, the whole passage. Lights flickered and went out, dust showering on the Uncle agents.

"Everybody's fine?" Lowry had got his flashlight, staring at them. They looked like to be... He frowned at Milton's face.

"Mr. Milton? Are you..."

The older man turned his own flashlight to the dilapidated console, which was throwing sparks.

"I am fine. This... This isn't."

The wooden partition had given way to a huge steel door.

Great. The warehouse had collapsed upon them. They couldn't go back to it. They were cornered in the corridor. Icing on the cake, air would probably run short soon. Had he survived, the Russian would have to cope with Weber on his own. Had he survived.

"Sir?"

Lowry couldn't help barking.

"Switch it off! We'll need..."

The younger agent shook his head.

"The communicators! They work, now!"