“It should blow up today?”

“Maybe.”

“You tell me Milligan is rich lawyer person with power. And this is what she does with free time? She plans acts of terrorism? Why?”

Decker said, “Greed. If she can destroy the Bursa, she can set up her own diamond center with Palestinian money in the newly formed Palestinian territory.”

“Milligan is terrorist for money?”

“She may have other reasons.” Decker paused. “Did you ever find out who Donald was?”

“Ah, Donald. The man Ibri works for. No, I not find out yet. Is he terrorist, too?”

“I don’t know who he is,” Decker said. “Mefakeah, I called to let you know what I know. Now it’s in your hands.”

There was a pause over the line. Elhiani said, “If, by some neis, you are right and Bursa blows up and people die, it is terrible, terrible tragedy that I did not prevent. If you are right and I investigate, there is no tragedy and I am big, big hero. If I investigate and we find nothing, they think I’m crazy for listening to crazy American sar-kee-ant. You give me big headache.”

Decker said, “I’m giving myself a big headache.”

Elhiani said, “You call me Ezra. I call you Peter.”

Decker knew this was a turning point. “Call me Akiva.”

“B’seder, Akiva.” Elhiani sighed. “I call Northern District Headquarters for you. Ask them what they want to do. I tell them you wait downstairs in lobby. Leave it up to them. It’s their territory.”

“Fine.”

“I tell them to meet you at your hotel. Some advice to you, Akiva. Take your wife with you. She talks better than you. And she looks better, too.”

In a frantic rush, they dressed and went downstairs into the brightly lit hotel lobby. The front desk was deserted, the couches and chairs empty. In the background was the hum of some kind of generator. The outside picture windows framed twinkling lights set into a backdrop of blackness. Everything was quiet but tense, like an animal crouching for its prey.

Two police cars came fifteen minutes later-uniformed officers who checked their papers and identification. Since Elhiani still retained their passports, the officers from Tel Aviv had to make do with the leavings, confiscating their driver’s licenses and Decker’s papers as well as his police badge. Stripped of ID, Rina felt naked and faceless, then wondered why. Perhaps it was the realization that she and Peter were actually viewed as suspects. She glanced at her husband. His eyes said nothing, his expression was all work. Too wrapped up in the case to care about indignities.

The cops escorted them into the backseat of the subcompact police car, Decker contorting his body to get inside. Night blanketed the city and the asphalt roads were very dark. But the faint visibility didn’t stop the police from racing through neighborhoods, the automobile jumping hurdles whenever it encountered a rut or a bump. Tiny vehicles had tiny shocks.

They reached the Bursa just before five. The boulevard was empty, but the curbway was lined with blue flashing lights. The cop parked the car and opened the back door. Decker got out first, then helped Rina to her feet. He stretched his legs, heard yelping dogs in the background.

Within moments, he and Rina were surrounded by the police both uniformed and nonuniformed. A tall, well-built man in his forties broke through the protective circle. He was fair-complexioned and good-looking. Enter Paul Newman in Exodus, Decker thought. Except his clothing was cheap-old suit, an open-necked white shirt, and scuffed oxfords. He puffed away on unfiltered cigarettes. Decker drank in nicotine with craving nostrils.

Mr. Exodus was presented with their papers and looked them over intently. Decker wondered if he actually understood them since they were written in legalese English. Finally, Exodus handed them back to the uniformed cop, crushed out his cigarette on the sidewalk, then stuck his hands in his pockets.

“I’m Sgan Nitzav Levi Kreisman,” he said. “Mefakeah Elhiani wasn’t too clear over the horn. He mentioned something about a possible bomb threat in the Bursa. Is this just a little hunch of yours or are we all in imminent danger of being blown up?”

Joy of joys, the guy spoke English fluently! Decker could communicate! “I don’t know if there is a bomb. And if there is a bomb, I don’t know when it’s been programmed to detonate.”

“So basically you don’t know what the hell is flying,” Kreisman said.

“A correct assessment,” Decker said, flatly. “Maybe I should tell you what I do know.”

“Shouldn’t someone be searching the Bursa?” Rina broke in. “I mean, if there’s a bomb, what are we waiting for?”

Kreisman glared at her. “Who the hell are you?”

“She’s my wife,” Decker said. “I brought her here because I don’t speak Hebrew.”

Kreisman turned to her and broke into Hebrew. Rina answered back. They talked for a few minutes until Kreisman returned to English. To Decker, he said, “I’m explaining to your wife this isn’t the Wild West. We have to coordinate an operation like this with Bursa security. And since there aren’t any people inside, the safety of everyone involved is the primary concern. It would help a great deal, Detective, if you told me what’s going on.”

Decker related the case as concisely and as quickly as he could. But with all the questions and answers, it still took time. When Decker was done, Kreisman patted his breast pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Bringing it to his lips, he saw longing on Decker’s face. He offered him a smoke.

Without hesitation, Decker took it. Just this one time, he promised himself. Kreisman lit the cigarette for him and Decker inhaled deeply, enjoying the infusion of nicotine into his hungry bloodstream. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rina’s face.

“I’m nervous,” he told her.

“I know, Peter. I am, too. I love you.”

Kreisman cleared his throat. Decker smiled. He and Kreisman smoked, they checked watches, they looked at the sky and at the ground. They asked each other questions. They took notes, then compared the notes they took.

Finally, Kreisman spoke into his walkie-talkie at length. He signed off and said, “Okay, we’ll check it out. We’ll go in with Bursa security, but only the public areas-the entry, the lockers, the trading room, the restaurants, et cetera. We’ll pass on the individual offices because we don’t have keys. You have any ideas where this bomb might be planted?”

“I first saw Milligan at Mr. Menkovitz’s spot,” Decker said. “It’s the far side of the trading room. It would be easier if I just showed it to you.”

Kreisman tapped his foot. “I don’t know who the hell you are. Why should I let you in with us?”

“Have it your way,” Decker said. “I’ll remain here in the custody of your men.”

Kreisman gave him a sour look. “You’re giving me a headache, you know that?”

“I’m noted for that,” Decker said. “Nitzav, you’re in charge. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Technically, it’s sgan nitzav. You just promoted me.” Kreisman cursed under his breath. “Put your arms up.”

Decker did. Kreisman frisked him very carefully. Afterward, he said, “I suppose you can’t do much harm under my eye.”

“Maybe I’ll even do some good.”

“I doubt that,” Kreisman answered. “All right. Let’s go collect stories for our future grandchildren.”

At first glance, the trading room had been transformed into the morgue. It was large and deserted, cold and sterile. It held no life. Lit with fluorescent fixtures, the long rows of vacant tables resembled autopsy slabs. The scales, though small, could have been path scales for weighing small organic tissue or evidence such as bullets. Decker went on to notice the goosenecked lamps, the calibrators, rulers, pincers, cleavers, loupes, microscopes-

The loud barks of the tracking dogs shook the image from his brain. Funny what happens on so little sleep. Security closed around him-Kreisman’s men, guards from the Bursa itself-encircling him as if he were an escape risk. Like it or not, Decker knew he was suspect.