Tarnished Icons

TEN

Leonid Sharvotz felt the blow to his head and another almost immediately to his kidney. He turned and slumped in confusion and pain against the wall of Georgi Radzo’s small room. Leonid’s face had hit the wall.

Leonid was sure his nose was bleeding. This was confirmed when he looked up from where he was kneeling to see the streak of blood down the dirty white wall.

He curled up, expecting more blows. A powerful hand grabbed Leonid’s shoulder and pulled him up. The hand turned him around, and a very light-headed Leonid Sharvotz looked into the face of Georgi Radzo. Georgi’s was an angry, determined, slightly stupid face with a taped broken nose.

The only positive thing about what was happening was that the smell and taste of blood blocked the almost putrid odor of sweat, unemptied trash, and bedding that hadn’t been changed in months.

“Shto ehdtah znahchyeet? Yah nyee pahnyeemahyoo. What does this mean? I don’t understand,” Leonid moaned, trying to stop the bleeding with the back of his hand.

“Lean your head back. I’ll hold it. Pinch your nose here and breathe through your mouth,” said Georgi. “Your nose isn’t broken. You want to see a really broken nose, I’ll take my tape off and show you one.”

Georgi’s voice was strange, as if he were far away on a bad telephone connection. Part of the reason was the padding in both of Georgi’s nostrils, an attempt, coupled with the tape, to give the big man’s nose some semblance of shape when it healed. Another part of the reason was that Leonid’s ears were now being covered by Georgi, who was massaging Leonid’s neck gently with his thumbs.

“Pinch the nose,” Georgi reminded him.

Leonid pinched his nose and felt blood on his fingers.

“It’s stopping,” said Georgi. “It was nothing.”

Leonid lifted his head. The bleeding had stopped. He tasted the blood that had dripped into his mouth and felt nauseous.

“Why?” Leonid repeated. “Why did you hit me?”

Georgi had turned Leonid so they were facing each other again.

“I am not as smart as you or Yevgeny,” the big man said, “but I am not a fool. If anyone is a fool, it is you.”

“What …?”

“Yevgeny didn’t have to kill Igor,” Georgi said. “There was no reason. Igor wouldn’t have betrayed us. He was weak, but he wouldn’t have done it because he’s afraid of me and Yevgeny. I am right, Leonid Sharvotz.”

“Why would he murder Igor?” asked Leonid, wanting to sit down, needing to sit.

He staggered to a straight-backed wooden chair, feeling the pain in his kidney with each step. Georgi didn’t try to stop him but went on talking.

“He plans to kill me. He plans to kill you. He may even plan to kill Igor’s family. He has the letter. He will destroy it and be the only one who knows where the wolf is hidden. Or maybe he’ll use us to help him get it and then murder us.”

“No,” said Leonid, tilting his head back over the top of the chair to keep the blood from coming again. “I’ve known Yevgeny since we were children.”

“Yevgeny wants it for himself. Yevgeny likes to kill. Yevgeny may be a bit crazy, and he is smarter than you and me.”

“I don’t believe it,” Leonid said, pinching his nose again. “I’ve known Yevgeny since we were children.”

“You said that,” said Georgi, who had not moved. “So think back on the violent things he did in the past.”

Leonid could remember only one thing specifically, but he had the definite feeling that if he spent more time thinking about it, he would find that Georgi was right. Leonid was suddenly both in pain and afraid.

“Once he pushed a girl down the stairs,” Leonid said. “In school. The girl was about nine. Yevgeny had called her a name, made fun of her freckles. She had answered his insult in front of a gathering of about fifteen students in the hall by saying everyone knew he had a Jew nose. She turned. He followed her and pushed her down the stairs. I remember he was smiling when she fell. The girl broke her leg and a finger. Yevgeny said she had fallen and I said she had fallen. I don’t remember her name.”

“You remember Yevgeny’s smile,” said Georgi.

With his head still back, Leonid confirmed this with a nod.

“I propose we kill Yevgeny before he kills us,” said Georgi.

Leonid sat up suddenly, still pinching his nose. He looked at Georgi and knew that the big man meant it.

“I’ll do it,” said Georgi. “You don’t have to see or hear or be there.”

“No,” said Leonid.

“You know I’m right,” said Georgi.

And Leonid did.

“But how do I know you won’t kill me, too?” asked Leonid.

“Because you are alive,” said Georgi with what might have been a smile. “I could have thrown you out the window. No one knows you are visiting me. You could have come out of any window.”

“Yevgeny would know,” said Leonid.

“And be pleased that he had one less partner to deal with,” said Georgi.

“He would know it was you,” said Leonid.

“Probably,” Georgi agreed. “In which case I would have to find him quickly and kill him before he discovered what had happened to you. But I don’t want to kill you. There will be more than enough money to make us both very rich. You have never acted as if you looked down on me. I like you and I need a partner with some brains to get us out of the country, to get the wolf out of Russia, to find someone to buy it.”

“You suddenly seem smart enough,” said Leonid, looking down at the blood on his shirt. He only had four decent shirts and this was one of them.

Georgi shook his head no.

“I’ve thought this through no further than I’ve told you. My mother said I was shrewd when I did poorly in school. She said my shrewdness would see me through life. I’ve exhausted whatever reserve of shrewdness I have for this project. I don’t know how to go beyond killing Yevgeny before he kills us.”

“You had to beat me to tell me this?” asked Leonid.

“I think so,” said Georgi. “I had to get your attention. I am sorry. I could think of no other way. All I know is my own strength. I am often wrong, but I am not wrong about Yevgeny.”

“I think you are not wrong,” Leonid agreed, glancing away.

“I feel you are usually telling the truth when we talk,” said Georgi. “I never have the feeling Yevgeny is telling the truth. You understand?”

Leonid understood. It had been his own feeling for many years, but he had not listened to it. Leonid may have been reasonably smart, but he was a follower, content to be told, first by his father and then by Yevgeny, exactly what to do. He suddenly felt a fear of his boyhood friend, a fear far greater than any in his life, a fear that was miles above his fear of Georgi.

“When will you do it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Soon. I was going to wait, but it should probably be today, before he sees you. He’ll know something is wrong. You do not lie well, Leonid. The blood from your nose we can take care of. I think the bleeding has stopped, and we can clean you up and throw away the shirt. I can give you one of mine. It will be too large. Throw it away when you get back to your apartment. Soon we will be wearing silk shirts and ties in Paris or Prague or maybe even London or New York.”

The thought of wearing one of Georgi’s shirts brought Leonid’s nausea back.

“But,” Georgi went on, “I’m not sure you will be able to walk straight. He will ask you what happened. As I said, you are a poor liar. That’s another reason I think I can trust you. But Yevgeny will know you are lying, and I think you are not strong enough to stand up to him. No, I’ll have to do it today with my hands or a knife. Tell me how to do it, Leonid.”

Leonid sat still, finding himself thinking seriously about the best place to have Georgi murder his closest friend. Leonid found that there was a certain satisfaction in planning. He had never really done it before. He thought for a long time and came up with a plan that he shared with Georgi. Along with this new satisfaction came the realization that he would have to kill Georgi, not necessarily because he feared that Georgi would not follow through with the partnership but because Georgi was not smart. Georgi got drunk. It was one thing to get drunk among his working friends and blame the Jews for Russia’s problems, but he might get too drunk one night when he was rich and say something that would put them both in danger of being prosecuted, losing their wealth, and possibly even facing a firing squad. And what was to stop Georgi from killing Leonid once they were out of Russia? Leonid had never murdered anyone. Yevgeny had murdered the Jews. But somehow, sometime, he would have to kill Georgi.

Lieutenant Valentin Spaskov of Trotsky Station had many options for dealing with his problem. All of them were bad. Some were worse than others.

He had a direct order from the ministry for himself and the major to be present in one hour to have their photographs taken for the case being investigated by the Office of Special Investigation. It seemed they were not satisfied with their last visit in which almost every police officer in the district was assembled in a demeaning lineup. The police had enough to do without such nonsense. Now they wanted to come back and take photographs of everyone who was not present at that assemblage. The major was far from happy about this order from the Yak. The Yak had connections and friends, and he was smart. They would all have to comply.

Spaskov considered getting a friend who was not a police officer to pretend he was Spaskov for the photo. This might work because the major had said the pictures would be taken in Spaskov’s office. However, there was too little time to find someone, and Spaskov did not think he had a friend to whom he could tell a lie sufficient to gain his assistance. Besides, if the pictures were ever returned, the major or even Sergeant Koffeyanovich might look at them and realize that the man in the photograph was not Spaskov.

Spaskov considered a disguise of sorts, a pair of glasses from the drawer in the catch-all office on the first floor. Again, that might be awkward if anyone, including the colonel, ever saw the photograph, for Spaskov’s eyesight was perfect.

Should he slouch? Make a face? Quickly shave his mustache? Shaving his mustache would be too suspicious. There would certainly be a question or two about why he chose to shave on that day.

Should he smile with confidence? Look stern with self-assurance?

Damn. Although he had not been at the lineup, he knew they had been examined by two policemen and a tall, serious, dark, and pretty woman. Several of the officers claimed they had seen her on Moscow Television News. Others said they were just imagining it. But Spaskov knew that the ones who had claimed to see her were particularly reliable witnesses. She was the last one he had attacked. She was the one whose stubbornness had driven him to rage.

The uniform. He could get out of his uniform and put on his civilian clothes, but this was an observant woman, confident that she could identify her attacker if she saw him.

There were two real choices and a hope. The hope was that she simply might not identify him from the photograph. The night had been dark, the attack quick, her glance at him fleeting at best. The choices were to simply claim the woman was wrong if she identified Valentin. She had mistaken him for someone else. He could not possibly have done such a thing. Valentin Spaskov had risen from the ranks not through favoritism, bribes, or party connections but by his own rare honesty and bravery. He was bright. He had a wife and child and was never known to abuse either of them or consort with the women a police officer frequently encounters in his work. Many an officer actually bragged that he let some women have the choice of sex in the backseat or an arrest. Almost all chose the backseat, often with a partner joining in.

Not Lieutenant Valentin Spaskov. There was not a mark on his record. None. And he knew that if he somehow escaped this horror, he would continue to uphold the law and, when necessary, risk his life to do so, with one exception, which he was doomed to repeat over and over again. He would have to kill the woman tonight.

It would not be easy. The attacks he had made he had no control over. They had simply grown inside him till he had to rape or he would burst with a kind of madness. He attacked in a frenzy to satisfy the creature within. After each attack, it would rest for a while only to awaken and growl anew.

Valentin Spaskov remembered the assaults: following each woman, finding the right place, occasionally abandoning one possible prey for another if the situation wasn’t right. When they were over, he had only a vague recollection of the attacks, the sexual part. He had no recollection of any of the beatings.

For a long time, years, he had wondered why he was doing this. He had read files on other rapists, had even read books. He didn’t think he fit the possible profiles. Somewhere buried in his past was an event, a trauma, a series of incidents, a person these women were supposed to represent, even an idea or symbol for which they stood. Maybe in the line of duty he had suffered some damage to the brain that altered his behavior. He even considered that something may have been missing or distorted in his DNA, that he had been born with an animal lust that he had successfully controlled till he was an adult. But lust was only part of it. He knew that. If it was lust that drove him, his wife was accommodating, albeit less than interested. She readily admitted that the infrequent times when he was her lover, Valentin was gentle, thoughtful, and could be very satisfying.

It had been years now since Valentin Spaskov had first tried to understand why he did what he did. He used to hope that someday it would pass just as it had come. But now he feared that it was growing. He was increasingly convinced that he would remain a sadistic rapist.

The knock on the door was firm. Valentin looked up. His was not much of an office-dirty white walls, old chairs, and a scarred desk, a battered gray metal two-drawer filing cabinet, no window, his certificate the only thing on the wall. His wife had been so proud when he had been promoted and given this office. He had immediately put a framed photograph of his family where he could see it each day. At first he had looked at it frequently with satisfaction. But for the past several years he had been looking at it with guilt. He had reached a higher level of success than anyone in either his or his wife’s family.

Valentin picked up a file from the corner of his very neat desk, opened it, and said “Come in” as he turned his eyes to the papers before him. He had no idea what he was looking at.

The door opened. Lieutenant Valentin Spaskov did not look up.

Sasha Tkach entered the office wearing his heavy jacket, hair brushed back, cap in his pocket, and camera in his hand. Sasha remembered the man behind the desk from his first visit. Lieutenant Spaskov was older than Sasha. His uniform was neat and clean and he had a strong, handsome face.

“You do not have to explain,” Spaskov said. “The major said you were coming.”

“I’ll make this fast,” said Tkach. “Everything is preset. All I do is stand five feet away and click. The light flashes, the film advances, and I go on to more surly faces.”

“Wouldn’t you be surly?” asked Spaskov.

“Without doubt,” said Sasha, brushing back his hair and moving forward to aim the camera at Spaskov, who simply looked serious. Sasha clicked. It was over.

“What kind of film are you using?” asked Spaskov.

Sasha looked at the camera as if it might help him answer.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s a good thing to have a camera if you have a family,” said Spaskov.

“I have a family,” said Sasha.

“You have a picture of them?” asked Spaskov.

Sasha took out his wallet and opened it to a picture Porfiry Petrovich had taken when Illya was born. Maya was seated with the baby in her lap on their rapidly fraying couch. Pulcharia sat on her father’s lap, and Lydia sat next to her son, looking at him instead of the camera in spite of what Rostnikov had told her.

Spaskov retaliated with the picture on his desk of his own family: him, his wife, and their child in the park. It was an old picture. His golden-haired daughter had been no more than two at the time.

There really was nothing more to say as Sasha put his wallet away. One father and husband would trudge around wearily for the rest of the day taking pictures, and the other would go about his business upholding the law while planning a murder.

Karpo and Paulinin were met at the American embassy by Craig Hamilton, the black FBI agent whose specialty was organized crime. Karpo had worked with the man before, and they had a distinct respect for each other as professionals. Hamilton had gone far beyond his duty in helping Karpo track down the murderers of 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-boom.”

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.

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, 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.