Wolfe turned to me. “He says the capsule inside the tube is a lullaby — a jocose term, I take it, for cyanide. He said for an emergency. I said we didn’t want them. He said that last month some Albanians, Russian agents, had a Montenegrin in a cave on the border for three days and left him there. When his friends found him the joints of all his fingers and toes had been broken, and his eyes had been removed, but he was still breathing. Paolo says he can furnish details of other incidents if we want them. Do you know what to do with a cyanide capsule?”
“Certainly. Everybody does.”
“Where are you going to carry it?”
“My God, give me a chance. I never had one before. Sew it inside my sweater?”
“Your sweater might be gone.”
“Tape it under my armpit.”
“Too obvious. It would be found and taken.”
“Okay, it’s your turn. Where will you carry yours?”
“In my handiest pocket. Threatened with seizure and search, in my hand. Threatened more imminently, the capsule out of the tube and into my mouth. It can be kept in the mouth indefinitely if it is not crushed with the teeth. The case against carrying it is the risk of being stampeded into using it prematurely.”
“I’ll take the chance.” I put the tube in my pocket. “Anyway, if you did that you’d never know it, so why worry?”