Senior Lieutenant Petrovski reached across from the co-pilot's seat to touch Dawson's arm, and then point a finger.

"That black smudge ahead, and to the left, Captain!" she called out. "That is Urbakh. There is a good broad field on the west side."

Dawson squinted ahead, and nodded absently. He knew that he was about to hit Urbakh on the nose almost any minute now, because Freddy had been doing the navigating since leaving Moscow. And when Freddy did the navigating you just naturally always hit your objective on the nose. However, he didn't mention that fact to the sharp-eyed Russian girl. He simply nodded, half smiled, and took a glance at the instrument panel.

The fact is, he was still just a little bit in what you might call a surprised trance. There just didn't seem to be anything that the Russians couldn't pull out of the hat with a snap of the fingers. Take this latest bit of Russian magic, for instance. Frankly, he had wondered about the type of plane that they were to use on the last legs of their mission. He realized that it would have to be a medium-sized bomber at least, in order to carry the number of passengers to be brought back. But he had half figured that the plane would be a Russian job. And he had hoped that he'd be able to get the feel of it in time to be able to make the tricky landing behind the Nazi Front. Also, to get it off again for the return trip.

But leave it to the Russians! They knew all the answers before you even asked the questions. And a lot of answers to a lot of questions that didn't even occur to you, too!

Five minutes after Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had returned to that front room in her mother's house, she had led Dawson and Freddy Farmer out into the night, and across a mile of wooded countryside to a billiard table smooth clearing. Presto! Russian aircraft mechanics had practically pushed up out of the ground. Presto! At an order from Senior Lieutenant Petrovski they had darted in under the branches of the bordering trees and hauled out a medium-sized bomber onto the smooth open ground. And presto! It was not a Russian plane. It was a Yank-made North American B-Twenty-Five medium bomber! A Yank lease-lend bomber that had not been converted over to Russian Air Force use.

The surprise had stunned both Dawson and Farmer speechless. In fact, like two youths living out a crazy dream, they had climbed aboard with the Senior Lieutenant to find Yank-made parachute packs, Yank-made oxygen tanks, and everything else strictly Yank from propeller hubs clear back to the twin rudders on the tail. To slide into the pilot's seat of that B-Twenty-Five was like a ten ton weight being lifted from Dawson's shoulders. Heck! With a B-Twenty-Five he could practically land inside that cellar of Ivan Nikolsk's war-blasted farm house, if he had to. Yes, and how! Just leave it to the Russians. They knew the answers before you could even think up the questions!

"I say, want me to land it, old thing?"

Dawson snapped out of his thought trance to glance back over his shoulder at Freddy Farmer's happy grin. He shook his head violently.

"Not this time!" he snapped. "At least I want it to go into the record that we arrived safely at Urbakh."

"Just as you wish," the English youth chuckled. Then his face turned grave as he added, "Speaking of arriving at Urbakh safely, I wonder if we can still go on hoping for Agent Jones?"

"For me, I answer yes!" Senior Lieutenant Petrovski spoke up quickly, and touched a fingertip to a spot over her heart. "In here I think absolutely yes. No, do not laugh. When I think something inside, it is always so. This Agent Jones, he will be with us soon. He will be with us because Russia needs him to be with us. And what Russia needs, she must have. Yes! You will see."

"Okay by me!" Dawson said. "But I wasn't laughing, Senior Lieutenant. I guess that's just the way my face looks. And no cracks, Farmer! But, anyway, Senior Lieutenant, we both sure hope that you're right. This Ivan Nikolsk sure sounds like a queer guy. I've a hunch that without Agent Jones along the three of us are going to have trouble with Ivan Nikolsk, when we find him."

"We will find him!" the Russian girl said grimly. "And if there is trouble—But what is war but bad trouble, eh?"

"Check and double check," Dawson echoed with a nod. Then, "Well, hold your hats, boys and girls. Here—Sorry, Senior Lieutenant. That's just an American expression. Anyway, here we go down for the stop-over at Urbakh."

"And I jolly well hope it will be a short one!" Freddy Farmer added, as Dawson throttled back the twin Wright "cyclones," and sent the B-Twenty-Five sliding down toward the large square-shaped field on the western edge of Urbakh.

The arrival at Urbakh of the B-Twenty-Five from Moscow was, of course, expected. And so, when Dawson landed and taxied over to the protection of some trees on the lee side of the field, a small group of Russian officers, led by an infantry Major, came out to greet them. They all seemed to know Senior Lieutenant Petrovski, and it was instantly evident that the frank admiration in their eyes and the military snappiness of their salutes was not simply because she was a pretty girl. To them she was a soldier's hero, and their every action proved it.

She introduced Dawson and Freddy to them all, but it was Major Saratov who finally accompanied them over to a house on the edge of the village. He was commander of the Russian garrison there in Urbakh, and the small house served as his headquarters. He ushered them in, and barked a request at an orderly who appeared. The orderly nodded, and beamed his pleasure, and promptly disappeared again. But only for five minutes or so. Then he returned with food and something warm to drink for them.

Up to that moment nothing but pleasantries had been spoken by anybody. But as Senior Lieutenant Petrovski picked up her warm drink, she looked across the cup at the Major.

"There is still no word from the south?" she asked quietly.

"No word at all, Senior Lieutenant," the Major said with a frown. "At Baku they are keeping constant watch, and a few planes have been sent out on the hunt, but—but so far, there has been nothing to report. It is most sad, and unfortunate."

The Russian Major bobbed his head, and stared silently at his own cup for a moment. Then he quickly raised his eyes to Nasha Petrovski's face.

"And your orders, may I ask, Senior Lieutenant?" he put the question. "You will remain here—until there is news, perhaps?"

The girl member of Soviet Intelligence gave a vigorous shake of her head.

"No, Major," she said shortly. "We have reached our own decision. Each day that passes may make it more difficult to find the person for whom we search. And too many days have gone by as it is. No. Your mechanics will look over the aircraft, and see that the tanks are full, and that everything is in readiness. And—"

The girl paused to lean over and peer up through a nearby window at the sky. A thin overcast was stealing across the surface of the cold grey-blue. She straightened up and nodded.

"Tonight there will be clouds, and no moon," she said. "It will be as good tonight for what we want as it will be any night. Yes, tonight we will cross over the enemy front to Tobolsk. And—But forgive me, Captain Dawson. You and Captain Farmer agree, yes?"

She addressed the last to Dave, who grinned and nodded.

"Absolutely, Senior Lieutenant," he said. "You're leading this parade, and what you say goes."

As the Russian girl looked just a trifle puzzled, Freddy Farmer spoke up.

"Translated into English, Senior Lieutenant," he said, "my friend means that you are in command, and that we will gladly follow your orders."

"And I'll personally see that he does, Senior Lieutenant!" Dawson added his bit quickly.

The Russian girl caught the byplay, and her smile flashed.

"I am honored," she said, "but this mission has three commanders, has it not? But of course. Very well, then. At midnight tonight we will take off. And now, if the Major Saratov will be so good as to produce the photographic maps that have been prepared, we will spend the rest of the time studying them, and deciding where best to land, and how to hide our aircraft from any Nazi eyes. Major?"

The Russian officer came up on his feet in nothing flat.

"At once, Senior Lieutenant," he said, and turned. "The photographic maps show every blade of grass, almost. Just to look at them is like flying over the area on a clear sunshiny day. Two seconds, Senior Lieutenant."

And it didn't take the Russian much more time than that to duck into another room, and return with a huge detail mosaic aerial map. One look at it and Dave's admiration of Russian magic went up another ten points. Major Saratov had certainly called the turn in his description of the map. It certainly was like flying over the Tobolsk area and looking down.

"So!" Senior Lieutenant Petrovski murmured as the map was placed on a table, and they all gathered around it. "If I may have your attention, Captains?"

She got it instantly, and for the next couple of hours bombs could have exploded just outside the window, and those inside would not have noticed, so engrossed were they in their study of the mosaic aerial map. Dave and Freddy had plenty of questions to ask, and they asked them. And Senior Lieutenant Petrovski had the correct answer for each question, plus a little bit of additional knowledge. In fact, by the time two hours had passed Dawson almost felt as though he'd known every little detail of the Tobolsk area all his life. It was almost as though at midnight he would make a flight back to his old home town. Russian Intelligence, plus the co-operation of Russian Aviation, had not overlooked a single thing, or passed up a single bet.

"Good grief!" Freddy Farmer gulped impulsively when they all finally straightened up from their study of the map. "There's only one blessed thing that it doesn't show. And perhaps we'll even see that if we look hard enough!"

"There is something missing, Captain?" Major Saratov asked in a hurt, disappointed tone.

"Oh, quite!" the English youth told him with a chuckle. "I fail to see Ivan Nikolsk crouching in his hiding place. But certainly everything else is clear enough."

The Russian Major let out a sound of profound relief, and laughed heartily.

"A thousand apologies for not also including that photograph, too, Captain," he said, showing his strong white teeth. "But if you so command, I will send more photograph planes over within the hour, and perhaps they will catch this Nikolsk out in an open field, eh?"

"I wouldn't bet that they wouldn't!" Dave cut in with a chuckle. "Jeepers! And to think I was a little worried about having to make a landing there in the dark. Gosh! After studying that map I could slide in there with both eyes shut."

"But please don't!" Freddy Farmer clipped at him with a broad grin. "Because I've seen some landings you've made in broad daylight with both eyes open!"

Dawson glanced at Major Saratov and gestured with one hand.

"Don't mind him, sir," he said in a serious tone. "He goes back into the monkey cage as soon as we return to London. Well, how about a short recess from the war, eh? And we'll get together later for a final huddle."

"Discussion of plans, he means," Freddy Farmer explained in a patient voice. "Yes, a recess might do us all good, what?"

Everybody nodded, and stood up. And then, as though invisible strings attached to each head had been pulled at the same time, each one of them turned and looked out the window facing south. And the same thought was in every mind. Agent Jones! Was he alive, or was he dead?

Several hours later all that could be seen of the sun behind the ever thickening overcast was balanced like a pale yellow ball on the western edge of the world. And even as Dawson and Farmer paused in a rambling stroll about the field, and stood still to stare at it, the bottom half of the pale yellow ball was sliced off. And then three quarters of it. And finally it wasn't there any more. There was just a faint shimmer of yellow that was quickly blotted out by the mounting overcast.

"And that's that!" Dawson grunted, more to himself than to Freddy. "If and when we see that sun again, I don't think we'll be here, anyway."

"It would be nice to think that we'll be back in Moscow, or even London, then," the English youth murmured. "But of course, that's down-right silly, what? Well, I'm afraid that Senior Lieutenant Petrovski's secret inner feeling is a bit of a lost cause."

"Kind of think so myself," Dawson grunted, and turned to stare south. "Guess Agent Jones won't be with us. A tough break for him. He seemed like a swell guy at that luncheon when we met him. But anybody who went through what he did is automatically a swell guy. Did anything about him strike you, Freddy?"

"Eh? Why, certainly. That he was a very splendid sort of chap. Blast! I hate to think of him dead, and out of this. Seems so unfair, you know."

"And how!" Dawson echoed. "But that wasn't what I meant. It was about his face, his looks."

"A very good-looking face," Freddy replied. "Good grief! His good looks make you jealous, old thing? You, with the face you've got?"

"Skip it, pal!" Dawson growled. "If you missed it, then maybe I was wrong. Come on. Let's go give the crate another look-see. Boy! Am I tickled it's a Yank plane. These Russians are for my money any day in the week!"

"Wonderful people," the English youth agreed as he dropped into step. "But what did you mean by 'skip it?' What's on your mind?"

"We'll still skip it," Dawson replied stubbornly. "If it is a secret, maybe it's better to keep it that way. I don't know."

"Now, see here, my man!" Freddy Farmer snapped, and took hold of Dawson by the arm. "You—!"

But that's as far as Freddy got. At that exact moment both of them heard the roar of aircraft engines in the distance. The sound came from the south. And both, from long experience, knew instantly that British-made engines were making the noise. As one man they both froze stiff, breath locked in their lungs, and eyes frantically searched the overcast sky to the south. As usual, Freddy Farmer's eagle sharp eyes picked out the tiny moving dot sliding downward.

"There!" he cried, and flung up a pointing finger. "Just over that corner of the field. It's an R.A.F. Bristol Blenheim. Dave! Maybe it's—!"

The English youth stopped short as though not daring to speak the rest. Dawson nodded, but he too held his tongue. Together they watched the British bomber come sliding down lower and lower until it was clearly visible in every detail. And still almost not daring to breathe, they watched the twin-engined plane settle down in a beautiful landing on the field, and taxi slowly over to the North American B-Twenty-Five.

The Blenheim's wheels touching the ground seemed automatically to release hidden springs in the two boys. Together they hot-footed it over to the lee side of the field, and arrived there just as the British-marked plane was wheel braked to a stop, and the powerful twin engines cut off dead. With a wild eagerness and expectancy that made them seem like a couple of kids waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney, they stood there with bated breath, and saucer eyes fixed on the fuselage door. It was swung open in a moment, and a thin, good-looking fellow in oil and grease-smeared flying garb leaped lightly down on the ground and came toward them, grinning broadly.

"Greetings, you chaps!" he called out. "Been waiting for me long? I hope not."

Dawson recovered the use of his feet and his tongue first.

"Jones!" he cried, and leaped forward, hand outstretched. "Are we tickled pink to see you! Holy smokes! Look at the grey hairs we've got! We'd just about given you up for keeps. What happened? What took you so long?"

"Quite!" Freddy Farmer chipped in happily. "Dawson and I will never be the same again, I swear. Yes! What on earth happened to you?"

"Weather!" Agent Jones said with a violent nod. "Most beastly stuff that ever hit any part of the world. Right over the middle of Iran it broke. Quick! Just like that. For a spell we all thought we were goners, for sure. Jackson, he's the pilot, knew his Blenheims, though. Put us down in the middle of nowhere. And there we stayed for three days, expecting the blasted wind to turn the aircraft upside down most any minute. After the storm blew past us, it took another day to get sand and stuff out of the engine. We managed to get off early this morning. Being late, we decided not to stop at Baku. But our radio wasn't working, so we couldn't buzz Baku to tell them. We just came on, and—well, here I am."

"And a sight for sore eyes!" Dawson cried as he stared hard at the Intelligence officer's face. "But you're in time, just in time. So come along and meet the commander of this outfit. A pretty Russian girl, believe it or not!"

"Eh, what say?" Agent Jones gasped.

"Absolutely!" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "And quite a person, too. She has killed no less than three hundred and six Nazis!"

"Good Gosh!" Jones choked out. "What a bloodthirsty damsel!"

"Not at all!" Dawson corrected him with a chuckle. "Senior Lieutenant Nasha Petrovski just doesn't like Nazis, that's all!"