by Sanctuary
“In fact, that’s just what they’re doing,” Decker said. “They are investing in the same companies that Milligan is investing in. But this time, Milligan knows they’re not going to sit on the land like VerHauten’s doing. They’re going to try to develop it, paying her for her expertise. So she wins two ways. One, she gets paid as an expert. And two, if they strike it rich, so does she.”
Marge said, “She has everything to gain and nothing to lose. All she had to do was make her pitch and apparently it worked. Because the Arabs are buying.”
Decker said, “What do you think, Rina?”
There was a long moment of silence.
Exasperated, Decker finally said, “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know. Something’s off.”
“What is off?”
“If Milligan’s interested only in start-up capital from the PLO, why was she dealing with two local Arabs from Hebron instead of someone high up in the PLO. And who is Donald?”
“Donald?” Marge asked.
“The Hebron Arabs Milligan met with—in secret—claimed they were working for a man named Donald,” Rina explained. “Milligan claimed Donald was working for her.”
“Who’s Donald?” Marge asked.
“No idea,” Decker said.
Rina said, “To my untrained eye, it seemed like Milligan and those men were planning something clandestine. Besides, I just don’t see the PLO giving something away for nothing.”
“They’re not giving away something for nothing,” Decker said. “They’re investing in Milligan’s know-how.”
“But Milligan is still setting herself up as queen without giving them something tangible.”
“She’s giving them something tangible. She’s giving the Palestinians, headed by the PLO, the potential to be big diamond producers.”
“Potential is not a commodity,” Rina said. “Besides, you’re thinking like a Westerner, Peter.”
“How so?” Marge asked.
“Most of the Arabs in the territories are dirt poor. Sure, they’d love to be rich. But they’ve never had capital so they don’t even know what wealth is. Their prime motivator is revenge, not money.”
“Revenge…” Decker thought a moment. “Then suppose Milligan presented the deal not only as an economic boon for the Palestinian government but also as a way to strike out at Israel.”
“The PLO would go for that,” Rina said. “What do you have in mind?”
“She could present the deal like this. If the PLO invested with her, they would control vast amounts of raw diamonds. With that, they could undermine Israel’s economy by going into direct competition with the Israeli diamond industry and the Israeli cutters.”
“So who would cut their stones?” Rina said. “With the Israelis out, there go the best cutters in the world. And VerHauten wouldn’t dare deal with the upstarts.”
“They could develop their own cutters,” Marge said. “A good industry for a fledgling country.”
“A skill like that takes ages to learn,” Rina said. “And even if they did, the stones would be second-rate. The brilliance of a diamond is as much in the cutting as it is in the raw stone. To get any kind of competitive edge, the Arabs would virtually have to annihilate all the Israeli cutters. Even they’d have a hard time doing that.” She paused. “Unless they’re planning to blow up the Bursa.”
Decker heard her words. Then he broke out in a cold sweat.
35
Jet lag was a blessing in disguise. While the country slept, Decker was in high gear, his body fueled by urgency. He cut his conversation with Marge and began raking through his coat.
“Elhiani gave me his card.” Decker pulled something out of his pocket. “Damn! It’s his work number.”
Rina took the card. “We’ve got to start somewhere.” She dialed the digits. It took a long time for someone to answer. Not unusual, considering it was four in the morning. As calmly as she could, Rina related the emergency nature of the call, the necessity to speak to Mefakeah Elhiani directly. A moment later, Rina placed her hand over the receiver.
“I’m on hold.”
Decker covered his face with his hands, then looked up. “He’s going to think I’m crazy, you know. I’d think I was crazy. Because what I’ve got is a house of cards. If there’s a glitch in any of my suppositions, the whole thing’s going to come tumblin’ down.”
“What’s the alternative? Letting the Bursa blow up?”
“Yeah, you’re right. So I’ll look like a fool. Better that than…” Decker began to pace. “I hate being here. Out of my element. My investigation completely stymied because I don’t know the friggin’ rules!” He stopped walking and ran his hands through his hair. “Hell with the self-pity, Deck. First things first. Get hold of Elhiani.”
“I’m trying!” Rina felt her husband’s desperation. “Should I hang up and call back?”
“No.” Decker checked the clock. Four-twelve. “No, don’t hang up. If need be, I’ll call from another phone.”
He laughed softly, imagining himself trying to communicate with a night operator without Rina’s help.
Rina held up a finger, indicating she was back on the line. The woman on the other end told Rina to go ahead. Through the crack of static, Rina could make out a voice heavy with sleep. She identified herself to Mefakeah Elhiani and told him why she was calling.
Elhiani heard the crisis in her voice. “Let me talk to your husband.”
Rina handed the phone to Peter. Decker told her to pick up the extension in the bathroom in case he needed help.
“Explain yourself,” Elhiani stated.
Decker told the story, Rina translating when asked to do so. When he was finally done, there was a moment of silence over the line. Decker could picture incredulity on Elhiani’s face.
The mefakeah said, “You like bombs, Sar-kee-ant?”
Decker took a deep breath. “I know this sounds farfetched—”
“What is farfetched?”
“Meshuga,” Decker said. “Crazy.”
“Cain, it is crazy. I would hang you up, but I have news.”
Decker felt his heartbeat quicken. “What?”
“I take your wife’s purse…look at the license number. One of them belongs to Khouri family. The father lost a brother and two sons in the massacre at Hebron. Ibrahim Khouri has pledged act of revenge. Your wife talks about blowing up school bus. I get very nervous. This sounds like Ibri’s act of revenge. But now you talk about blowing up Bursa…this is act of insanity.”
Decker said, “Look what happened with Or Torah yeshiva. That was an act of insanity.”
“Not like blowing up Bursa.”
Without emotion, Decker said, “It’s your call, Mefakeah. This is your country. You’re in charge.”
The line fell silent. Decker could hear Elhiani breathing hard.
“If this G’veret Milligan put bomb in Bursa,” Elhiani said, “why is it still standing?”
Decker said, “Maybe she set the timer to go off when there are people inside. The idea is to incapacitate Israel as much as possible.”
“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 trage
dy 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.
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. Decke
r 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.”
