The man said, “I go inside. Check the bait midrash.”

Bait instead of bais. Sephardic pronunciation. Rita told him to go check. The man left.

Another ten minutes crept by. Again, Rina thought about Honey Klein, about Arik and Dalia Yalom. Two boys suddenly orphaned, four other children without a father. Her mind drifted with faraway thoughts, her emotions sinking into a whirlpool of tragedy. Tears had formed in her eyes.

No, this wouldn’t do at all.

She went behind the desk, through the door, kissing the mezuzah as she went into a hallway.

Lots of doors muffling noise. The air here was warmer, but a great deal more stale. Gravel-voiced men speaking of the intricacies of Jewish civil law. Rina put her ear to one door, then opened it. Empty-devoid of people but filled with folding chairs, the space inside not much bigger than a walk-in closet. A window had been opened, allowing a tiny draft of fresh air to percolate.

At the end of the hallway was a staircase with tiny stone steps worn smooth by traffic. Rina held the wrought-iron handrail and walked down a flight.

The basement held a communal kitchen and dining hall. Wafting through the air was the smell of onions and garlic sweating with grease. The lunchroom was empty, the doors locked. But heat came through the walls and warmed the bottom layer of air a couple of degrees. That was good, Rina thought. The boys could eat in comfort during the winter months.

She climbed back up two stories. The bais midrash was the biggest room on the floor. Even at a distance, Rina could hear the shouting and arguing of boys engaged in learning. The bais haknesset-the yeshiva’s sanctuary-no doubt occupied the other big room. Rina didn’t go inside in case there was a prayer minyan going on. She didn’t want to disturb anyone. Checking her watch, she saw that only five minutes had passed. She decided to explore the two floors above.

The upstairs levels were just dorm rooms spilling over with piles of dirty clothes and sweat. Each floor had a small private kitchen and a laundry room-three washers and one dryer each. All of the machines were in use.

Rina climbed back down two flights, debating whether to go inside the bais midrash. Maybe Peter would need her help. She knew rationally that Moti Bernstein could translate anything Peter needed to know. Plus a lot of the boys here were American and English-speaking. Still, what if Bernstein chose to misrepresent something? Or there was a snatch of conversation in Hebrew that might be relevant to Peter’s case? Only Rina would recognize that.

She went inside.

The din was deafening, the sweat and heat given off by the hundred or so boys hitting her face. The walls were taken up by bookshelves, high dormer windows struggling to let in natural light. The room was made bright by the parallel lines of fluorescent tubing on the ceiling. Through a thick fog of black, Rina could spot Peter across the room, a too-small derby perched over his carrot-colored hair. The hat looked like a candlesnuffer trying to extinguish a flame.

On the left side of the room was a big conference table occupied by a group of twenty boys. The rabbi was giving them a lecture, his deep voice managing to project over the noise. The rest of the room was filled with lecterns and desks. Most of the boys had paired off with their chavrusas-their learning partners. The boys shouted at each other, locked in verbal combat. What looked like a hostile interchange was, in fact, just a routine method of learning Talmud.

Rina looked about, sensing that more than a few of the boys were aware of her presence. Some stared hungrily, others gripped their payis, as if holding their side curls would ward off their lust.

Decker spotted her and waved. She squeezed her way through black coats and desks, and found her husband.

“Any luck?”

“A blank so far. At least, I haven’t seen him. How many other yeshivas are there like this one?”

“In Jerusalem there are two others,” Bernstein answered.

Rina felt eyes upon her. The gravel-voiced rabbi who was giving the lecture was glaring at her. “Maybe I should leave.”

Bernstein nodded vigorously.

“I won’t be more than a few minutes, Rina,” Decker said.

Rina took a final glance around the room, espying the little old unkempt man. “I see the meshulach found you, Moti. Boy, are those guys persistent.”

“What meshulach?” Bernstein said.

“That little old man who’s walking out the door-” Rina’s hand suddenly flew to her chest. “Peter, catch up with that guy. He doesn’t belong.”

Reacting as a professional-actions first, questions later-Decker took off immediately, breaking through the wall of black clothing, just in time to see the little old man enter the stairwell.

“Hey!” Decker shouted out loud. “Hey! You!”

The man bolted like a jackrabbit, scaling down the steps in allegro tempo. He hit the door, then fastballed his overcoat into Decker’s face. Cursing, Decker peeled it off his eyes and sprinted after him, both of them running into the glare of a blinding, setting sun. Squinting, Decker took off in what he hoped was the right direction, praying that strong rays had slowed the guy’s pace.

Through bleached vision, he managed to spot the intruder darting through the streets, into the path of oncoming cars. For just a moment, he froze-a deer caught in the headlights. Then he sped forward, causing several vehicles to screech and swerve on sudden stops.

The moment’s hesitation was all Decker needed. He leaped with full stride across the street, narrowing the distance between him and his prey. The man was faster but shorter. Decker used every inch of his long legs to close in. Another few seconds and he knew he’d be in striking distance. Taking a giant step forward, he extended his gorilla arms and shoved the man hard in the back, breaking his rhythm, causing him to trip over his own feet.

Decker leaped to the side as the man fell forward, running past him for several paces. Then he backtracked and jumped on top of the man, his knee pressed into the small of the intruder’s back. The man was young, his flailing arms striking wildly. Decker pulled them behind his back.

“Take it easy, buddy. I just want to talk to you.”

The guy was small and slight, his pasted beard falling off his face. Without it, he appeared no older than twenty-five. He was talking rapidly and in gibberish. It took Decker a few moments to realize that, in fact, the man was speaking in a foreign language. People had gathered around, all of them talking to him at the same time.

Well, this was swell, Decker thought. He had literally tackled a man without knowing why and couldn’t explain himself to anyone around.

Get yourself out of this one, Deck.

When in doubt, don’t talk. Just look official. He flashed his badge and, in a deep, authoritative voice, told everyone to move back.

Not a soul budged. In fact, the crowd began to close the circle around him, people shouting, probably demanding explanations. The man broke into bloodcurdling screams. The crowd moved closer. Sweat began to pour down Decker’s face. All he could remember were Rina’s words-that they were in a Levantine country. Which at the moment conjured up images of mob rule or, just as bad, a Levantine jail.

Then, like the angel Gabriel, Rina appeared, breathless and wet with perspiration. Moti Bernstein was at her side. She stammered out. “This guy said he was a meshulach, which he isn’t. Find out who he is, Peter.”

“I don’t think we speak the same language, Rina. First, get the crowd off my back.”

Rina shouted something in Hebrew. It took several orders and a little pushing by Moti Bernstein before the crowd retreated an inch. Then she focused her attention on the man, demanding answers to her questions. The man remained silent.

Decker held the man tightly, “Moti, search his pockets.”