Paulinin removed the cutting device from the box, pulled out the clothespin gently, and slipped off the elastic bands, holding each so it would not suddenly snap across and against the table and box.
Paulinin removed the headphones, turned off the yellow device, and put both back in his briefcase.
“Oh me oh my,” Paulinin sang softly, reaching over and lifting the lid of the box. “Ain dot perfection.”
He stopped singing suddenly and laid the hinged lid open.
“What’s this? What’s this?” he said. “His move. A bold knight, a reckless queen?”
Paulinin stood looking at the contents of the box, not singing or humming anymore.
“You two should leave now,” he said.
“Why?” asked Hamilton.
“Because,” Paulinin said softly, “I don’t know what my next move will be. The trigger spring is attached to nothing. I recognize none of these mechanisms. If the box had been opened, it would not have exploded. The question is, why? If someone is fool enough to open the box, which does not explode, they see this. Do they stare at it, as we are, while a timer silently moves to explosion? Does the person who opens it call in others so that the bomber gets more victims? I suggest you leave.”
Neither Karpo nor Hamilton moved, though the American was sorely tempted and would not be breaking any laws or rules by doing so. In fact, by remaining he may very well have been violating some FBI regulation.
“Your move,” Hamilton said.
Paulinin grinned, removed his glasses, put them back on, and said, “Uncomfortable.”
Then he leaned forward toward the box, inches from its inner workings. First he listened and then he smelled each part, pausing at the claylike material. Finally he delicately placed the tip of his finger on the material and put it to, his tongue. The puzzled look returned and he stood thinking for an instant. An idea came. He smelled the box itself and found a scalpel in his briefcase. He carefully scraped away a small piece of the box and examined it through his thick lenses.
Paulinin looked at the open box again, put the piece of box on the table, put his tools away, closed his briefcase, and placed it on the desk. Then he reached into the open box with his right hand and pulled out the claylike material.
“Clay,” he said in disgust. “Simple clay mixed with potassium. It’s not explosive. The box isn’t made of anything that can explode. This isn’t a bomb. It’s a fake bomb. A last gesture. Like the American movie I saw when I was a child, The Phantom of the Opera. When the angry crowd surrounds him, the phantom holds up his hand as if it contains a bomb. The crowd steps back in fear. Then the phantom opens his hand, revealing that it’s empty. He laughs as the crowd closes in on him to end the movie. I’ve never forgotten that. The bomber has won.”
“I’d call it a stalemate,” said Hamilton.
Paulinin picked up his briefcase and shook his head.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But he is sitting in a cell right now laughing at me.”
“I doubt that,” said Hamilton.
“He is laughing, smiling, gloating,” said Paulinin, snapping his fully reloaded briefcase shut.
“Can we take this?” asked Karpo, looking down at the harmless box on the desk.
“I don’t know,” said Hamilton. “I’ll see and get back to you.”
Karpo nodded. Paulinin was already headed for the door, disgruntled, his moment gone. Monochov was a tormenting demon who had made a fool of him. Paulinin was quickly developing a determination never to put himself in a position like this again.
Paulinin retrieved his coat and put it on, buttoning it quickly.
Hamilton ushered the two men out of the room. As they headed back down the stairs, the FBI agent thanked them. Karpo nodded in response. Paulinin didn’t even do that. He imagined that videotape. The FBI would watch it, laugh at him as he sang the foolish American song, as he played the bomber’s game with surgical precision, as he stood looking down at the near jack-in-the-box of a surprise.
Instead of leading them to the front door of the embassy, Hamilton made a turn and motioned for the two Russians to follow him. Paulinin hesitated but moved to Karpo’s side, gripping his briefcase. Hamilton opened a door to a small concrete-reinforced room filled with video screens. Tapes were running. The room hummed electronically.
“All automatic,” said Hamilton. “Every once in a while there’s a glitch, a failure to record. The videotape just made of us was automatic, not monitored. I’ve turned off my microphone.”
Hamilton reached over to one of the machines. On the second screen on top was the room with the desk and the fake bomb. Hamilton pressed a button. The second screen went blank. A tape popped up. He removed it and replaced it with a fresh tape from a cabinet against the wall. He handed the tape he had removed from the machine to Paulinin.
“The machine malfunctioned,” Hamilton said seriously. “It never turned on. I’ll have it repaired.”
Paulinin took the tape, opened his briefcase enough to drop it in, and closed the case. Hamilton left the room, looking both ways down the hall, and motioned for the two men to follow him.
The FBI agent led them back to the front door and past the marines.
“I turned off the microphone when you opened the box,” said Hamilton softly as the three men stood out in the cold. A sharp wind was blowing. “Electronic malfunction is getting too common around here. A few agents think it’s some kind of jamming from your government. The microphone and recorder were a backup for the video in case this room was destroyed, very similar to the black boxes on airplanes.”
“You knew it was a fake bomb when I opened the box?” asked Paulinin incredulously. “Before I knew?”
“No,” said Hamilton. “I didn’t know. I suspected only when you opened it. I told you I know a little about bombs. Something about it seemed off, wrong, too intricate. Most bombs, even those sent by madmen, are simple. The simpler they are, the more effective they tend to be.”
This, too, was a humiliation for Paulinin, but not as bad as it would have been if the FBI had wound up with the videotape that was now in his briefcase or if Hamilton had not turned off his microphone.
The FBI agent held out his hand. Karpo shook it. Paulinin hesitated, but then he shook it, too. He knew he should thank the American, but he didn’t know how.
“We’d appreciate being kept informed about the bomber and his trial if it comes to one,” said Hamilton, smiling. “Thank you for your assistance.”
With that the agent went back into the building.
Karpo and Paulinin walked slowly away.
“Humiliation,” Paulinin muttered. “I will remain in my laboratory from now on.”
“Embarrassment,” said Karpo. “Not humiliation. Shall we walk back?”
“It’s far,” said Paulinin.
“Yes,” said Karpo. “And it’s cold.”
“Let’s walk,” said Paulinin.
“Good,” said Emil Karpo. “That will give me ample time to tell you of one of the major embarrassments of my career, one that has remained with me for years. A woman outwitted me and almost killed me with a bomb.”
They passed a parked American Buick. Three men were inside. They pretended not to look at the strange pair of Russians who passed them.
“And, if we have time, I will tell you other embarrassments and failures I have experienced,” said Karpo.
“Perhaps we can stop for some tea or coffee and a sweet,” said Paulinin. He held his hat in his hand, and the cold wind blew his wild hair in a winter dance.
“I see no reason not to,” said Karpo, moving far more slowly than his usual pace so the smaller man could keep up with him.
ELEVEN
Sarah Rostnikov sat in a modest dark maroon armchair in the apartment of her cousin Leon, the doctor. He sat across from her in an identical chair. Leon had not asked her but had made and poured coffee. He knew she liked hers with only a touch of sugar. He drank his black.