Paulinin now had a small flashlight in his left hand and the clothespin in his right. He leaned over and hummed as he gently inserted the paper-thin double end of the clothespin under the lip of the box. Cautiously he released the clothespin so that the spring began to open the lid. The two bands he had glued to the box kept it from popping open.
With only a sliver of the box open, Paulinin shined his flashlight into the slit, squinted, and looked back and forth slowly, opening the box only a bit more, sliding the clothespin forward gradually so that the opening became just a bit wider.
“Now I esk you wary confidential … hm, hm, hm,” he sang as he removed the clothespin, returned to his briefcase, and brought out a thick white cardboard box. He opened the box and pulled out a small yellow object that looked a bit like a Sony Walkman with a pair of lightweight headphones attached. A thin green insulated wire dangled from the device, and a small screen lit up faintly when Paulinin pushed a button on the strange apparatus.
“Fiber optics,” Paulinin explained. “Built it myself. If I moved to the West, I could patent it, make millions, live like Einstein, get an appointment to a moss league school.”
“Ivy League,” Hamilton corrected.
Paulinin put on his headset and began gently probing with the green wire into the space that he had reopened with his clothespin. He stopped singing, listened on the headphones, and watched the small screen on the yellow device as he very slowly moved the fiber-optic probe inside the small box containing the bomb. His movements were so subtle that if his audience did not watch carefully, they might not perceive any activity.
“Strange,” said Paulinin, a slightly puzzled look on his face that worried Hamilton, who looked at Karpo. Karpo registered nothing.
“There is a trigger spring,” said Paulinin. “There is a mechanism I don’t recognize and what appears to be a rectangle of soft, claylike material that may be the explosive. I don’t have enough information to determine what kind of material it is. I do not have access to or funding for the most sophisticated tools. I must make do with what I can create myself while idiots stare at Japanese technology, American technology, Dutch, German technology and don’t know how to use it. I am put upon, but I shall triumph. It is my move.”
The headphones still on, the probe still inside, Paulinin put down the flashlight without bothering to turn it off and groped around in his briefcase till he came up with a thin metal device that looked like a delicate pliers with a small circular scissor at the end. Cautiously opening the clothespin just a bit more as he watched the small screen on the yellow box, Paulinin inserted the new instrument.
“Contact could break a circuit, create a small spark,” he said more to himself than to either of the men in the room or whomever else might be listening and watching. “How clever is this man I’m playing against?”
Paulinin paused, left hand holding the tool, right hand holding the clothespin. Then he quickly squeezed the tool, and both Hamilton and Karpo could hear the small sound of metal wire being cut.
They stood waiting to die, but death didn’t come, only the resumption of song from Paulinin: “Ain’ she nize. Luck hair over hm, hm, hm.”
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,
“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
