Kreisman said, “We’ll stay here. You point the dogs in the right direction.”

Decker could see clearly over the human wall that surrounded him. The advantage of being six-four in a Mediterranean country. With an extended finger, he indicated Menkovitz’s spot. The leader of the bomb squad, suited up in full regalia for the “just in case” scenario, guided the dogs toward the site.

Decker studied the animals-medium-sized spotted dogs with a decent coat. They had pointed snouts and alert eyes. “Those aren’t retrievers or shepherds. What kind of dogs are those?”

“Canaan hounds,” Kreisman said. “‘Bout as close to a dingo as you can get and still be considered domesticated. Smart little suckers.”

Banned from his cigarettes, Kreisman became jumpy. Decker regarded him, bouncing on his feet, hands in and out of his pockets. Decker felt the need for a fix as well. But there was no smoking in the Bursa. Besides, the odor would wreak havoc with the dogs.

Decker kept his eyes on the search. The guide had first taken the dogs to Menkovitz’s spot. Yanking on their leashes, the animals sniffed the table and chairs in the vicinity, but nothing appeared to register. The guide then led them around the entire room. It took around twenty minutes for them to canvass the area. Drawing a blank first time out, the handler took them in for a second pass.

Decker asked Kreisman where he was born.

“Dayton, Ohio. I moved to Israel when I was nine, then went back to the States for college. I moved back here about ten years ago.”

Another twenty minutes rolled by. The dogs went around for a third time. Decker watched the animals work. Sometimes it took multiple passes before the dogs could detect a bomb. Sometimes they missed cues. Sometimes they got distracted. As the animals hunted, members of the bomb squad conducted their own visual search, going methodically through the Bursa from table to table.

Decker was feeling more stupid by the moment. But at least it had been Kreisman’s call. Mr. Exodus was pissed but holding it well. Time announced its passage by the beginnings of daylight. The room-sized picture windows that walled the Bursa had lightened from black to gray. Decker checked his watch. Five after six.

Kreisman spoke on his walkie-talkie. He signed off, then turned to Decker. “We’ve cleared the entry area, the front lockers, and the restaurants. If we don’t find anything soon, we’re going to have to pack it in. People are arriving, waiting to do business with the world.”

“Are you letting them in?” Decker asked.

“Not yet. We’ve cordoned off the area. But I can’t stall them with no good reason. This is their livelihood. This is the country’s livelihood. Diamonds are probably Israel’s biggest industry. The one thing I liked about your theory. If the Arabs wanted to get back at us, it’d be with diamonds. It’s the heart of Israel’s economy.”

The bomb-squad leader shouted something to Kreisman. Kreisman nodded and shouted something back. To Decker, he said, “We’ve cleared this area. I told him to take the dogs to the upstairs lounge.” He pointed to a series of smoked windows above the official weighing booths. “If the dogs don’t find anything, we’re out of here.”

“Can we go up and watch?” Decker said.

“No,” Kreisman said. “The lounge is relatively small and has lots of furniture. I don’t want to distract the dogs.”

Decker nodded, realizing how much credibility he had lost. He wondered how he had got sidetracked from Yalom to Milligan. Everything had happened so damn fast. From a visit with Tziril and Moshe Yalom to Menkovitz and Milligan at the Bursa. From Milligan in Hebron to a bomb in Gil Yalom’s yeshiva.

Gil. He did find Gil and that would certainly help the Yalom case. At least, the trip wasn’t a failure. Today, maybe the boy would talk.

Suddenly, Decker’s ears perked up. The ambient noise in the Bursa dramatically changed. The dogs were barking. Loud, loud barks. He and Kreisman exchanged glances. The buzz of Kreisman’s walkie-talkie. The look on his face as he listened to rapid-fire speech emanating from the box.

“Where’d they find it?” Decker asked.

Kreisman waved him off as he spoke back to the bomb-squad leader. Finally, he signed off and began shouting orders in Hebrew. To Decker, he said, “You got some explaining to do, buddy. But for now you’re out of here. My men will take you and your wife to the station house. You wait for me there.”

“Where did they find it?” Decker asked again.

Kreisman glared at him. “Sure you don’t know the answer?”

“No, I don’t know,” Decker said. “I wasn’t even in the lounge. Ask Mr. Yalom. He’s the one who took me around the Bursa.”

To his men, Kreisman said, “Get him out of here.” He realized he was speaking English, then switched to Hebrew.

In a flash, Decker was surrounded. Slowly, he was guided-even shoved-out of the building. Conversation was flying a mile a minute. If only he could understand. Pushed forward by cops, aware that at this point he had no control over his destiny, he decided to roll with the punches. Eventually, someone would tell him what was going on…maybe.

He strained to hear words that sounded familiar. He finally recognized one and it was a doozy.

Televizion.

It didn’t take a genius to extrapolate. Since it was too early for the invasion of TV news cameras, there had to be only one other logical reason why cops would be talking about the boob tube.

The dogs were searching a lounge. They must have found the bomb in a television set.

Though Decker’s case was far from over-Dov was still missing-he couldn’t help but feel victorious! He slammed his fist into his empty palm and whispered, yes!

36

This time Decker passed up the smoke. He sat next to Rina, across from Kreisman, and kept a flat expression while being questioned. Kreisman asked about his case, about Gil and Dov Yalom, about Arik Yalom’s schemes and how they dovetailed with Milligan’s investments. Then Kreisman zeroed in on Milligan. He asked about Rina’s excursion into Hebron, asked her to repeat the conversation she had overheard word for word. He asked about Donald-the mystery man. The lull came after an hour and a half of interviewing. Decker took advantage to formulate his own questions.

“When was the bomb scheduled to go off?”

Kreisman pretended not to hear. The two men had formed a cold truce, but as yet no trust.

“Look, Sgan Nitzav,” Decker said, “I’m working on a case. You’re working on a case. I’m gathering information just like you. How about a little interdepartmental cooperation?”

Kreisman scratched his head. “Let’s go back to the bomb at the yeshiva.”

Rina was about to interject something. Decker patted her hand and said, “Sure. What do you want to know?”

“Let’s go over it one more time.”

Rina couldn’t help it. “Why?” She launched into Hebrew. Kreisman answered her back. It was interesting to Decker’s ear. When they spoke English, their tone of voice and manner were distinctly American. Talking in Hebrew, they had both become Israelis-the pauses, the inflections, and the gesticulations of the hands.

Abruptly, Rina folded her hands across her chest. “Okay, I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

Kreisman said, “A very good idea.”

Decker was about to speak, but Rina stopped him with a gentle squeeze on the leg.

Kreisman said, “Detective, you said your wife told you to stop this guy whom you didn’t know at all.”

“Yes.”

“So you took off after him and you didn’t know why.”

“Rina told me he didn’t belong. That was reason enough.”

“But you didn’t know why she suspected him.”

“No.”

“In other words, you blindly listened to your wife.”

“She knows the nuances of this country, of the religion. I don’t. I didn’t listen to her because she was my wife. I listened to her as one listens to an expert witness.”