Faye Kellerman - Sanctuary

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.

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!