“First,” said Paulinin, obviously delighted with himself, “you supposedly have a wire attached to the detonator you held in your right hand. The metal detectors downstairs didn’t perceive it. They are very delicate. The police are very paranoid. But it was possible you had another means of using the detonator, though I wondered why a man with your abilities-and I don’t give out compliments easily; you may ask Inspector Karpo-a man with your abilities should have such a primitive detonation device as a simple plunger and encased wire. It was for dramatic effect, perhaps? It could have been compressed air, but that would require more pressure than that simple wire and plunger could guarantee. It would require that your detonator be so delicate that it could have gone off simply while you walked or took the bus or metro here. Second, you are left-handed. Your watch is on your right wrist. You kept your left hand in your pocket. An odd thing to do under the circumstances, unless you had something in the pocket. Conclusion: the real detonator, a remote, was in your favored hand in your pocket ready to be pressed should someone manage to grab your right hand held high with a dramatic though false detonation device.”
“You could have been wrong,” said Alexi, head down, weeping. “I had it planned.”
“Your false detonator is attached to a screw,” said Paulinin. “A plastic screw to help insure that you could get through metal detectors. The screw is attached to the pouch. I know of no detonation device that would simply be triggered by a current through a plastic screw, though there are instances-”
“Paulinin,” Rostnikov interrupted, retrieving his leg from the table. “You are better than Sherlock Holmes.”
“Who is that?” asked the scientist warily.
“It is of no importance,” said Rostnikov. “I have paid you the highest of compliments. You are free to leave with your plunder.”
Paulinin did something with his face that may have been a smile and then he left the room. When the door closed, there was silence broken only by Alexi’s sobs. Karpo stood behind the seated man, looking at Rostnikov for instruction.
Rostnikov motioned with his hand for Karpo to release Alexi. Karpo did so, though he remained standing behind the bomber.
“Give us the names of the people your father was blackmailing,” said Rostnikov. “Give us the evidence. Tell us who you sent that last bomb to. Regain your dignity. By the time the world’s media receives your letter, they will know Petrovka has not been destroyed. Your letter will go in the garbage with the other eccentric letters of the day. You’ve killed only one person to this point. If you must die, you can now do so without taking any lives and with some pride in what you have done to bring criminals to justice.”
“They are rich,” Alexi said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “These men. They are powerful. They’ll bribe their way out of trouble.”
Rostnikov shrugged. Alexi had a point.
“Perhaps,” Porfiry Petrovich said, “but this is a new Russia. No one knows what a court will do, especially in a high-profile case. Bribery might be difficult and dangerous to a judge or anyone else in the government.”
“You will take care of my mother and sister?” Alexi said, feeling the cuffs digging into his wrists.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “There is nothing I can do. We have no budget for such things. They will have to get along as best they can.”
“I expected you to lie,” said Alexi.
Rostnikov shrugged again.
“I’ll tell you,” Alexi said with a sigh. “But it may be too late to stop the bomb I delivered before I came here, my backup bomb.”
There was silence-a long silence broken only by a pair of footsteps in the hall passing the office.
“And where is this second bomb?” Rostnikov prompted.
“Probably in the hands of whoever is the director of the FBI in the American embassy,” said Alexi. “The detonation device is delicate. Even a strong vibration will set it off. The box is small and looks like it might contain a pen-and-pencil set.”
“They will catch it,” said Rostnikov. “They’ll be suspicious.”
“It was delivered by hand, by a man in uniform, me,” said Alexi. “I informed the guard at the door that it was from you. I came here directly after I delivered it and changed my clothes.”
Rostnikov reached for his phone and pulled an address book from his drawer. Rostnikov was terrible with numbers of any kind, particularly phone numbers. He had, on occasion, been known to forget his own home number. He found the American embassy number, called and asked for Agent Craig Hamilton, said it was urgent, and identified himself as he watched Alexi Monochov looking at the face-down photograph he had been reaching for when Karpo grabbed his hand.
Rostnikov stretched across the desk, holding the phone to his ear, and turned over the photograph so the handcuffed prisoner could see it.
The man in the photograph was massive. He wore a pleasant smile and a sweat suit. There was something written on the photograph.
“Alexiev,” said Rostnikov, waiting for Craig Hamilton to come on the line. “The greatest of all Olympic lifters.”
Monochov looked baffled.
“Alexiev,” said Rostnikov, shaking his head. First Paulinin didn’t know who Sherlock Holmes was and now the bomber didn’t recognize the man whom Rostnikov and almost any Russian over the age of thirty would recognize.
“I sent him no bomb,” Alexi said.
Rostnikov shook his head and then heard Craig Hamilton’s calm voice. The two men spoke in English.
“A package was delivered to your office about half an hour ago,” Rostnikov said. “You’ve obviously not opened it or you wouldn’t be answering the phone. It’s from the bomber, supposedly from me. Small, about the size of a pen-and-pencil box.”
“The nearest bomb expert we have is in Frankfurt,” said Hamilton. “The soonest we could get him here would be in ten hours. I doubt if we have ten hours. I’m evacuating the building when we hang up. If you’ve got someone who can disarm the bomb, send them over. I’ll be nearby to let them in.”
Hamilton hung up without another word and so did Rostnikov.
“Now,” he said, nodding to Karpo, who sat down and took out his black leather-covered notebook. “We will talk about corruption and evidence, and those of us who believe in the possibility of a deity will pray that we can deal with your bomb without any deaths. The Americans have no bomb expert.”
“I could tell them,” said Alexi, his voice breaking.
“I believe you could,” said Rostnikov, “but I’m not prepared to trust you. Alexi Monochov, your record leaves much to be desired.”
Rostnikov knew he could call the military bomb squad, who might or might not succeed. Their practical experience was very limited, and their record, like that of Alexi Monochov, left something to be desired.
“Paulinin and I will go,” said Karpo. “Paulinin will welcome the challenge.”
“You will die,” said Alexi Monochov simply.
“We shall see,” said Karpo.
“With the deputy inspector’s permission,” said Karpo, “I will ask Technician Paulinin.”
Rostnikov looked up at the two men. Paulinin was brilliant but emotional and definitely more than just a bit mad, but he had disarmed Monochov, and if there was such a thing as genius, Paulinin surely qualified. As for Karpo, there was no doubt that he cared little if he lived or died, but there was no chance of his panicking, and he seemed to have a rapport with Paulinin. In addition, Karpo had some experience with bombs. He had almost been killed by a terrorist bomb in Red Square four years ago. The major damage had been to his left arm, which had taken surgery and a year to heal. The incident had prompted Karpo to learn what he could about bombs.
“You have my permission,” said Rostnikov. “Emil.”
“Yes?”
“I want you back alive,” Rostnikov said.
Karpo nodded and looked down at Alexi, who was still weeping.
“You can leave Alexi with me,” said Rostnikov.