“Turn on your radio, Jim!” Rifkin yelled, then he started hustling everybody out of the room. He, Stone, and Mike got into the cart and headed back up the hill, where they parked behind the reception building. Rifkin picked up his radio. “Jim? Do you read?”
“Yeah, I read,” Jim replied. “I’m going to need a few minutes to go over this thing and try and figure out how to deal with it.”
“Is there a timer?”
“Yeah, but it’s not running,” he replied. “If it starts running, I’m running, too. I’ll get back to you.”
The three men sat in the cart silently for a couple of minutes. Finally, Mike spoke. “This one isn’t nuclear,” he said. “Too small.”
“I agree,” Rifkin replied.
“I hope you both know what you’re talking about,” Stone said.
Rifkin spoke up. “I did a week’s intensive course on bomb making and disposal,” he said. “I’ll bet I can tell you exactly how this one is put together.”
“Okay, shoot,” Stone said.
“It’s pretty simple: there’s a timer attached to a detonator, like a blasting cap, which is shoved into the plastique. Somebody starts the timer, and when it hits zero, the detonator goes off, exploding the plastique. If there’s a couple of pounds of the stuff, like Jim says, it will take down that entire building and damage others nearby, and it will kill nearly everybody in the building.”
“Nearly everybody?” Stone asked.
“Somebody always gets lucky.”
The radio crackled. “Steve?”
“I’m here, Jim.”
“Okay, I’ve isolated the plastique, and the device doesn’t seem to be booby-trapped. There’s a T-shaped key with a hexagonal tip, like a drill bit, and there are three positions: up, right, and left. I can’t tell which position fires it, so I’m going to try them all.”
“Jim . . .”
“Don’t worry, it’s just a blasting cap—the plastique is across the room. Stand by.”
A moment later there was a noise like a large firecracker.
Jim came back on the radio. “I found the firing position,” he said. “You can come back in now.”
They took the cart down the hill again, got out, and went inside. Jim had taken his helmet off, and there was a large black spot covering the chest of his suit. “It’s simple,” he said, “but very professionally made.” He held up the key, then inserted it into a slot. “Neutral position, off,” he said, then he turned the key. “Right position, timer.” He tapped a keypad, and the timer started to run. Jim turned the key all the way to the left. “Left position, immediate detonation. Suicide.”
Rifkin took the key from him and examined it. “I could make this in my home shop,” he said.
“You could make the whole device in your home shop,” Jim replied. He closed the small case, picked it up, then walked to the cube of plastique and picked it up. “I want to get this back to my shop and take it apart,” he said. Then one toe of the heavy suit caught the corner of a box, and he stumbled. The plastique flew from his hand and landed on the tile floor. “Oops,” he said. “Don’t worry, guys; it needs a detonator to blow.”
“That wasn’t funny, Jim,” Rifkin said.
An agent came over. “Boss,” he said, “we’ve finished our search. The bomb was in a wooden wine crate, and we’ve opened every other crate or box in the room.”
“What about the rest of the hotel?” Rifkin asked.
“We’re done—every conceivable hiding place.”
“Okay, stand down and tell the crew to go home but to remain on call. Nobody turns off his cell phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rifkin led Stone and Mike back to the cart, and they started up the hill, then stopped at Stone’s cottage.