Mathilde Verson.
They were a strange contrast. The tall, pale white man was dressed entirely in black, and the well- groomed, handsome black man wore a light gray suit and stylish blue tie, not quite FBI uniform but nevertheless impressive.
The Russians entered the embassy identifying themselves to the American marines on duty. Karpo and Hamilton shook hands. The American had been waiting for them at the front door.
Hamilton smiled and ushered them up a stairway without speaking. He had seen Paulinin once, had a complete profile on the man, and was convinced he was both a genius and a vain, lonely borderline psychotic. Paulinin however-hatless, impatient, holding an old briefcase in his hand-troubled Hamilton far less at the moment than the gaunt figure at his side. Karpo had lost his religion, Communism, as well as the woman who had seen beneath the surface coldness to something human underneath. Now Karpo fit the profile of a suicidal personality. He had nothing to lose. Hamilton recognized Karpo’s skills and knew that the Russian would never panic, but he wondered why Rostnikov, who surely held the same opinion of the man, had chosen him to join in this, the bomber’s most dangerous game. As they walked upstairs, their footsteps echoed in the evacuated building.
They stopped in front of a solid oak door.
“The package is on the desk,” Hamilton said in perfect Russian. “About the size of a pen-and-pencil set, as you said. A bomb that size with the right explosive could do considerable damage.”
“We are well aware of that,” Paulinin said, holding his battered briefcase tightly.
“You are also aware that we have no one on our staff with sufficient expertise to deal with this bomb, if it is a bomb,” said Hamilton.
“It is a bomb,” said Karpo. “I heard the man who sent it. Inspector Rostnikov believes he is telling the truth.”
“And you?” asked Hamilton.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Karpo. “We will treat it like a bomb.”
“All right,” said Hamilton. “We have also informed the bomb squad of the Russian National Police. Your new director, Citizen Yakovlev, insisted that since it was your case, your office would deal with it.”
“The bomb squad is a waste of time,” said Paulinin in disgust. “Can we begin?”
Hamilton opened the door very slowly, and the two Russians stepped in.
“I’ve been advised to leave the building at this point,” said Hamilton.
“Then leave,” said Paulinin, looking across the small room at the desk and the package, which was the only thing on it.
“I think I’ll stay,” said Hamilton.
Hamilton was wired. The microphone, the size of a collar button, was clipped to his tie. Whatever was said in this room was being recorded more than half a block away in a 1996 Buick Regal. The Americans simply could have planted a microphone in the room, but without someone asking questions, it was possible the two Russians might not speak.
Paulinin shrugged and moved ahead saying, “Leave the door open. If it explodes, an enclosed room could become a secondary bomb and cause more damage. The windows should be opened, but slowly, very slowly. If they offer any resistance, do not open them any further. I would like Emil Karpo to open the windows. From this point on, we move like well-fed snakes. If a time comes to move quickly, I will tell you.”
Hamilton nodded as Karpo approached the windows and Paulinin placed his briefcase on the floor and opened it. Paulinin adjusted his glasses and examined the contents. From where he stood over the kneeling man, Hamilton could see a rather strange assortment of objects. The tools ranged from household pliers and wires wrapped in various colors to a roll of transparent tape, a package of brand-name oatmeal, some small zip-top plastic food bags, sharp-pointed pencils tied together with a rubber band, paper clips of all sizes, a white odd- shaped object that looked like the bone of an ape or human, a pad of paper about the size of a magazine, and other things Hamilton was at a loss to identify.
Paulinin went through the contents of his briefcase slowly, making sure that everything was in place. Then the small man rose, once again adjusting his glasses. He turned and looked up at the air vent in the wall. A near rictus crossed his thin lips. He could see the faint glint of light on glass behind the bars of the vent. He had no objection to being videotaped, no more than he objected to Hamilton’s wire, which he had spotted instantly.
Paulinin had a certain level of vanity about his skills, skills he felt only a handful of people-particularly Karpo and Rostnikov-fully appreciated. He would have much preferred to be doing a complex autopsy for his audience of Americans, but from what he had seen of the work of the bomber, outwitting him would earn the admiration of the top experts in the world-if the bomb didn’t go off.
He hoped there was not a timer, set to go off … now.
Paulinin paused for his audience and took off his coat, placing it on the floor near the door. Then he returned to the table, rolled up the unbuttoned sleeves of his faded gray shirt, and leaned over the package, holding his glasses on with one hand. He shook his head knowingly and went to his briefcase.
Karpo had opened the window and turned, arms at his sides, to watch. He knew Paulinin was doing much of this for show, which might cause him to give less than his full attention to the package on the table. That was the second real danger of this venture. The first was an explosion beyond the control of any man.
From his briefcase Paulinin pulled a long, thick rubber band that had been cut in half and looped at either end. He removed his glasses, joined the earpieces with the rubber band, and put the glasses back on. They would not slip off now.
He began to make careful, frequent trips to the briefcase to return or retrieve some object. The first was a steel dental pick. Hands steady, he probed gently at the wrapping of the package. He pried up a very small corner with the dental pick and leaned over to smell the paper.
“Standard glue. High quality to require a bit of effort to open it. That effort would probably be enough to trigger the bomb mechanism, but we must be sure.”
Using the dental tool, Paulinin slowly pried open the flap of the envelope, first dabbing the flap with a cotton ball gently dipped into a clear solution in a small wide-necked purple bottle. Within a minute he had the flap open.
Then he stood up and looked down at the string that still tied the compact wooden box.
“Why the string?” Paulinin said, rubbing his chin the way he had seen someone do in a play when he was a child. He had always liked that gesture. It suggested deep thought. “It, too, could trigger the bomb. Releasing the string could cause a spring to flip up and-
Hamilton thought of his family. Karpo thought of nothing. They watched and listened while Paulinin suddenly began very quietly to half sing, half hum the American song “Ain’t She Sweet.” His English would have been unintelligible had Hamilton not known the words. The FBI agent could imagine the station chief and others smiling at this moment when they reviewed the video. He hoped he would be alive to enjoy it with them.
Paulinin carefully peeled away part of the envelope, cutting it in other places with surgical scissors, placing each piece on the table till the fragments looked like a light brown jigsaw puzzle. The string was still in place when he finished.
Then he took two broad blue elastic bands from his bag. He slowly, gently lifted one end of the box and carefully slid the band over the side that had been revealed when the paper had been removed. He repeated the procedure on the other side of the box. He then took a small white tube of a gluelike material, which he had developed himself, and squeezed some into the thin lid along the line where the box would normally be opened.
“Tzee hair walken don da street,” he sang softly, waiting for the glue to harden.
It took no more than twenty seconds. Then Paulinin simply cut the string and removed it from the top of the box, making no attempt to pull it out from underneath.
“Like chess, eh, Emil?” Paulinin said, greatly enjoying his moment before microphone and camera.
“I am not skilled at analogy,” Karpo said soberly.
“The bomber makes a move. I make a move,” Paulinin explained, taking another bottle of liquid from his briefcase, wetting a cotton ball with it, and dabbing the liquid over the dried glue.
The next item Paulinin came up with and held high for the hidden camera was nothing more than a hinged wooden clothespin, the handles of which had been finely shaved so that they tapered up to little more than the thickness of a fine sheet of newspaper.
