Sanctuary (29 page)

“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.”

A quick trip through his garment revealed nothing. In Hebrew, Rina asked him his name.

“
Kus amak
!” he replied.

And then he spat at Rina’s face.

Decker felt his head explode. He pushed upward on the man’s restrained arm and gripped it hard. “You got ten seconds before I snap the sucker in two—”

“Noooooo!” The man began to struggle violently. “No break!”

“Well, look who talks English.” Decker thought quickly. It was only a matter of minutes before the police arrived and the guy would be lost to him. Calmly, he said, “Rina, ask him what he was doing at the yeshiva? And tell him if I don’t like the answer, he’s dead meat.”

Rina translated the question. The man turned white but said nothing. Decker knew it was useless questioning him among the masses. He jerked him like a rag doll. “Let’s take a walk back to the yeshiva—”

“No yeshiva!” the man cried out. “Is bomb there! No yeshiva!”

“You
fuck
!” Decker screamed. “Moti, run back and evacuate the yeshiva immediately.” Decker gripped the bomber’s arms and pushed him forward, dragging him as he went limp. “Now you’re going to show me and the police where you put the bomb, you understand!”

“No good! Fife minoots!”

“It’s going to go off in five minutes?”

The man nodded. “Fife minoots.”

“Jesus Christ!” Decker grabbed the first male he saw—a man in his forties who appeared fit. “Hold him.”

Decker took off, raced in the direction of the yeshiva, his only concern now saving the boys. Moti had just finished rounding up the boys when Decker stormed into the
bais midrash
. Moti was trying to keep order among panicked boys, but was losing control. Everyone was running toward the stairwell. Moti saw Decker and started shaking.

“Someone has to go upstairs to get the boys in the dorm!”

“Got it!” Decker screamed. “Single file everyone.” He began pushing boys in an orderly line. “Move it, but watch your feet. I don’t want anyone trampled on. Moti, is there another staircase—”

“No.”

“Then we’ll make do with this.” Decker bounded up a flight of steps, then went running down the hallway, shouting the word “bomb” as he pounded on doors. He fished out about twenty boys and led them to the staircase. He checked his watch.

If the motherfucker was right, he had two and a half minutes to go.

Up the final flight of stairs. Again, shouting to be heard. Three boys emerged from the front rooms. Then to the last room down the hallway. Out came a teenaged boy dressed in yeshiva garb, a small mole under his eye.

Gil Yalom.

Victory, but a pyrrhic one if they all blew to smithereens. Decker grabbed the teenager’s hand and led him and the remaining boys to the bottleneck of human flesh, disorganization, and panic slowing things down. Decker knew he was going to have to direct traffic if they were all going to get out of here alive.

Two minutes to go.

To Gil, Decker said, “I’m police, Gil. I’m here to help. If you run from me, you’ll be dead in a week. So wait for me outside!”

Decker broke loose of Gil and pushed his way to the front, using his wide arms to unclog the drain. He pushed boys, rearranged them, forcing order upon the horror-stricken. Rapidly and orderly—two at a time out the door. He looked up.

The staircase was still half full.

One minute to go.

“Run! Run! Run!” Decker shouted as he and Moti
shoved the boys out the door. “Far away from the building! Run!”

Decker looked up at the staircase again. At the top, behind all the boys, were a dozen rabbis holding Torah scrolls—four large scrolls, two men to a Torah. Decker prayed they wouldn’t drop one of them in his sight. That would mean forty days of daylight fasting…providing he made it in one piece.

Decker looked beyond them, at the empty space at the top of the steps.

Thirty seconds.

More and more boys filing into the streets. Moti shouting at them to go farther back. At last, Decker could see Gil Yalom approaching the exit.

The last of the boys!

Behind him a parade of long-coated rabbis. Slowly, the Torahs began to descend the last flight of steps, rabbis walking carefully so they wouldn’t drop the holy writings.

Twenty seconds.

Three steps down, another three steps down.

“C’mon! C’mon!” Decker shouted.

Ten seconds.

Another step down.

Five.

And another.

Four.

Another.

Three.

To the front door.

Two.

Decker grabbed the last of the holy scrolls and fled to the streets.

One.

And then nothing.

A huge crowd had gathered. They waited.

Fifteen seconds passed.

And waited.

A minute.

And waited.

Decker shifted the Torah onto his right shoulder and looked at his watch. Another thirty seconds had passed.

A false alarm.

The police arrived, two cars, then another two. They pushed the crowds back. One gentleman was moving toward Decker, who was still holding the Torah. He spoke, Decker didn’t understand. Then the man started talking English.

He was with the police, around five-ten, one-eighty with well-developed arms. His complexion was dark, his face was round with fleshy cheeks, and he had a head full of black curls. He was wearing a yarmulke. His English was accented but understandable.

“Who are you?” he repeated.

“You want the long version or the short one?” He looked around. Gil Yalom was standing by himself, wiping his eyes. “Someone planted a bomb in the yeshiva.”

“Who?” the cop asked.

“I don’t know who he is. He’s back a couple of blocks. They’re holding him for you. I ran back here to get the boys out.”

Three minutes had passed. The yeshiva remained whole.

Decker shifted his weight, realizing he was still holding the Torah. He called a rabbi over and passed him the holy scroll. Once liberated of the heavy article, he rolled his shoulders and looked at the cop. The face was round and he looked to be around thirty-five, with intelligent black eyes.

The man lit a cigarette and blew smoke in Decker’s face. “I hear on my radio. There is no bomber—”

“
What
!”

“He escape. Where he say he put bomb?”

“I think it’s in the
bais midrash
.”

“You think? You don’t know?”

“He never said where he put it.”

“He never said! A quiet man, this escape bomber.”

Decker stared at the cop, aware that he had zip credibility. “I gave the bomber over to someone in the crowd, then came back here to
help
. I told the man to hold him until the police came!”

Moti broke into the conversation. He and the cop spoke for a few moments in Hebrew. The cop turned his attention back to Decker. “You have some identification on you?”

Decker reached into his jacket pocket, then handed a stack of papers to the cop—his passport, his badge, and official papers for the Yalom boys. The cop started to riffle through them, staring at the typed words. He probably spoke some English, but Decker was willing to bet he didn’t read it too well. Rina had finally caught up with him, hugged him fiercely.

“Thank God!”

Decker embraced her back. Five minutes had passed and still nothing had happened. He felt like a fool.

The cop took his cigarette out of his mouth. “Who is this woman?”

“My wife.”

“You always take your wife on your cases…” The cop squinted and studied Decker’s passport. “Sergeant Peter Decker, is it?”

He pronounced the word
ser-kee-ant
.

“I don’t speak Hebrew,” Decker explained. “My wife does.”

The cop pocketed Decker’s identification. The action gave Decker a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “We talk later. I make my calls. You wait here.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You have my passport.”

“
B’emet, adoni
. You not go anywhere.”

The cop turned his back, just in time to miss the initial blast from the second floor of the yeshiva. It was followed by an even stronger explosion. Glass rained down, the air heavy with the smell of smoke and fire
and panicked screams. Decker pushed Rina’s head deep in his chest and shielded his own eyes from the glass. When he looked up, he saw flames licking the sashes of the blown-out windows. Rina was shaking in his arms, sobbing against his chest. Decker looked at the hundreds of black-garbed boys. The children were hugging each other and crying. The rabbis were embracing the Torahs and weeping as well. Moti Bernstein had frozen in panic, tears running down his cheeks. Decker blinked. His own eyes felt as dry as dust.

The cop stared at Decker open-mouthed, his dangling cigarette falling from his lips and onto the ground. In a soft but firm voice, he said, “Who
are
you?”

Decker’s eyes were on Gil Yalom. “See that boy over there sitting under the olive tree?”

The cop nodded.

“I came here to look for him. His name is Gil Yalom.” Decker pointed to the scorched building. “I’m looking for his brother, Dov, as well. Rina, can you give this guy a quick rundown for me.”

Rina spoke rapidly. The cop answered her back in equally rapid Hebrew. They spoke for a few minutes. Then the cop crooked a finger in Gil’s direction. Slowly, the boy got up, his face a mask of terror.

The cop said, “We need to talk—all of us.”

Decker said, “I’m ready.”

In the brief car ride over to the police station at French Hill, Rina, placed in the front seat, had learned that the cop was a
mefakeah
—an inspector. His name was Ezra Elhiani; he was thirty-four and a former colonel in the Israeli army. His division had been tanks. Elhiani wore dark slacks and an open-necked white shirt. He smoked like a chimney, sucking his cigarettes down to the butt. The smell was so thick, it was nauseating. Unfortunately for Decker, it was also inviting.

Four years and, like a zombie, the cursed craving refused to die.

Knees to his chest, Decker was pressed into the backseat, next to Gil Yalom. He tried to make some headway, the first question being, where was his brother, Dov? But no matter how much he stressed urgency, Gil sat motionless and mute. Decker knew Gil’s behavior was a product of shock so he eased up. But his mind kept going, bursting with images.

A director couldn’t have staged the scene with more drama. The screaming fire trucks, the wailing ambulances, the racing squads of police cars, frightened boys hugging themselves, hysterical neighbors hugging each other, rabbis praying in the street, and lots of standers-by offering opinions without foundation. Then the newspeople came. Lucky for Decker he didn’t speak Hebrew. He was relieved when Elhiani motioned Rina, Gil Yalom, and him over to the police car.

It was a tiny thing—a white compact with a blue flashing light—an igloo on wheels. He could barely squeeze inside. He opted for the backseat to get to Gil. But it was Rina who got information, such as it was.

At police headquarters, Gil was taken away immediately. Decker and Rina were seated in a tiny windowless cell barely big enough to accommodate the few folding chairs it had. There was a one-way mirror on the wall.

Elhiani came in, lit up, and blew out a plume of smoke that hung in the static air.

Decker said, “We’ve got to get Gil Yalom to open up. Find out where his brother is staying. If someone tried to blow him up, someone’s going to do the same for Dov.”

Elhiani puffed his cigarette and licked his lips. “The boy is not talking to anyone right now.”

Decker reminded himself to speak slowly. “People are going to die unless we find out where his brother is hiding.”

“Your anger will not serve anything,
adoni
.”

Decker took a deep breath. “I’m not angry, I’m
anxious
. We evacuated just minutes before the building blew up.”

“Nothing blew up,” Elhiani answered evenly. “Yes, windows popped, and some
sepharim
burned. A pity, but the fire people put the flames out like that.” He snapped his fingers. “The building still stands and hardly a stone is cracked. Good construction.”

Decker glared at Elhiani.

“Not that you didn’t do a
tovah
and a
mitzvah
,” Elhiani said. “Maybe we give you key to the city and take your picture for newspaper.”

Decker forced himself to unclench his jaw. “I’m not interested in accolades, but I do want to find Dov Yalom. I need to talk to Gil.”

“The boy is with doctors. He is in shock and is given sleepy medicines. Your talk with him will have to wait.”

Decker was about to explode, then held back, remembering the ride over. The boy had been stunned with fright. What was the use of pounding him with questions he couldn’t process?

“I go through all your official papers,” Elhiani said. “Everything is in order. Why don’t you contact police when you first got here?”

Decker said, “I just arrived here yesterday.”

Elhiani raised his brow. “Do you always make such excitement in twenty-four hours?”

“It’s a long story.”

Elhiani sucked in smoky poison and took out a pad and a pen. “Tell me your long story, Sar-kee-ant.”

Decker did just that. Every so often Elhiani would interrupt and ask Rina to translate. After Decker had finished, the room was silent, bathed in suds of nicotine.

Elhiani leaned back in the folding chair. “Why do you think this bomb is for Yalom and not terrorist act?”

Decker ran his hand over his face. “That’s just it. It was supposed to look like a terrorist act. The only reason
we
know it wasn’t random is because we know the history.”

“I’m still not so sure,” Elhiani said. “Describe to me this mad bomber.”

Rina broke in. “He came into the yeshiva wearing a long beard and an overcoat. He acted like a
meshulach
. He even gave me a card with the name of the yeshiva he was collecting for.”

“You have the card?”

“In my purse.”

“And where is your purse?”

“You took it,” Rina said.

“Ah,” Elhiani said. “Please. Continue.”

Rina said, “I had no reason to suspect he was anything else but a
shnorrer
.”

“But you changed your mind?”

Rina squirmed in her seat as she thought about a soldier’s words.

They may know the motions, they don’t have the emotions
.

“It was the way he kissed the mezuzah.”

Decker looked at her. “What?”

“When he walked out of the
bais midrash
, he didn’t kiss the mezuzah right.”

“You told me to tackle a complete and utter stranger based on the way he kissed the mezuzah?”

“I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Please, please.” Elhiani waved his hand. “Go on,
g’veret
.”

“Peter, rabbis usually touch the mezuzah with the fringes of their tzitzit, then kiss the fringes. Even if they use their fingers, they touch the mezuzah with their fingertips only. This guy covered the mezuzah with his entire hand and kissed his palm. Someone had schooled him, but not quite correctly. And even though he was wearing tzitzit, he didn’t use them. Because he didn’t know what they were for.”

She threw up her hands.

“What can I say? It’s an intangible thing. And I was right.”

Decker thankfully admitted she was.

Elhiani spoke to her in Hebrew. Rina laughed.

Decker asked, “What’d he say?”

Rina said, “The moral of the story is listen to your wife.”

“I have a problem,” Elhiani announced.

They waited.

Elhiani said, “If this is not act of terrorism, if the bombing is to kill Gil Yalom, it is a stupid way to do that. What if Gil was not in
bais midrash
? Then the explosion does nothing to him. And as fact, he wasn’t in the
bais midrash
.”

Decker said, “At any given time during the day, the
bais midrash
holds the majority of the boys. The man was playing the odds.”

“I don’t understand playing odds?”

Rita translated.

“Ah,” Elhiani said. “They want him dead but only ninety percent.”

Decker smiled. “Mefakeah, someone brutally murdered this boy’s parents. The boys fled in fear. I think someone was out to murder Gil. But he didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he was out to get Gil. So he made it look like a random terrorist act. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, your English is okay.” Elhiani puffed away. “And you think your mad bomber will be out to get the other brother?”

“Him or someone else. But yes, I think Dov Yalom, wherever he is, is in danger.”

“It still doesn’t make me sense,” Elhiani said. “To use a bomb. Bomb isn’t missile. Bomb doesn’t aim and hit target. Bomb just explodes. If you are there, you die. If not, you don’t die. Why use something so unperfect? Why not choose to stab him on the street like terrorist usually do?”

Decker said, “Gil was in hiding. Which means the hit man—”

“Hit man?”

“A hit man is an assassin.” Decker paused, then said, “Think about it, Mefakeah Elhiani. In order to get Gil, the assassin would have to go inside the yeshiva to find Gil. Then he’d have to get Gil alone. Then he’d have to get close to Gil to stab him or shoot him. He’d have to make sure that the gun didn’t make too much noise. Or that Gil didn’t scream. Because noise would attract attention. Then he’d have to escape. Wouldn’t it be easier to just sneak inside dressed like a rabbi and drop off a small package inside a crowded
bais midrash
, hoping that one of those boys is Gil Yalom.”

Elhiani lit up another smoke and puffed away as he thought. “It make some sense.”

Decker rubbed his eyes. “So if they tried this method for Gil, why not for Dov.”

“But fortunately, it didn’t work.”

“We were lucky.”

“Whatever the reason, it didn’t work.”

Decker said, “Maybe they don’t know that. The bomber escaped. I’m sure he didn’t go back to his boss and tell him he messed up. So look what the boss sees. A building with blown-out windows, pandemonium in the streets—”

“What means pandemon—”

Rina translated.

Decker said, “To the bomber’s boss, it looks like success.”

“And who is the bomber’s boss?”

Decker remained cagey. “I’m not sure, Mefakeah. I have my suspects but that’s all.”

“Which is suspects?”

Decker and Rina traded looks. Then Decker said, “There’s a woman in Israel named Kate Milligan. She is a well-known lawyer who has worked for the VerHauten Diamond Company for many years. She’s big, she’s important, and this afternoon my wife tailed her into Hebron. But not before she overheard her talking to two men.”

“Two Arabs. One named Ibri, the other named Gamal.” Rina said, “Milligan told them that if their idea of heroism was blowing up a school bus, they were working for the wrong person.”

Elhiani’s eyes got wide. “Where do I find this lady?”

“She had a meeting at the American Colonial Inn about two hours ago,” Rina said. “Maybe she’s staying there. I also have license plate numbers for you in my purse. Maybe that will tell you something.”

“That’s why I need Gil Yalom. I was hoping Gil could tell me something.”

Elhiani bit his lip. “But he has been put out. Maybe tomorrow he can talk to both of us.” He picked up the phone and spoke rapid Hebrew. Decker looked to Rina for translation.

“He’s having an underling call up the American Colonial Inn.”

“That is right,
g’veret
. Your Hebrew is good.” Elhiani sat back in his chair. “I still think this bomb is strange. You don’t use bomb to kill pacific people.”

“Pacific people?” Decker asked.

Elhiani spoke to Rina. She said, “He meant specific people.”

Decker continued his argument. But even as he spoke, he recognized the validity of Elhiani’s point. Want someone dead, take him out directly. Bombing would have been a clumsy way to kill. The phone buzzed. Elhiani picked it up, then slammed it down.

“Milligan’s not there.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Decker said.

“I don’t know if she was staying there, Peter,” Rina said. “Only that she had a meeting there. For all I know, she’s staying with her pal Donald in Hebron.”

“Yeah, I forgot about him.”

“What?” Elhiani said. “Who is Donald?”

Rina said, “The man for whom Ibri and Gamal were working. I think he lives in Hebron.”

A hard pounding at the door echoed through the small chamber. Elhiani frowned, then got up from his seat. He opened the door, revealing an ashen-faced policewoman who spoke using her white-knuckled hands for emphasis. Elhiani punched his fist in his hands. Rina covered her face and muttered an Oh God.

“What?” Decker said. “Another building exploded?”

“Not a building.” Rina had tears in her eyes. “An explosion at Kikar Zion—an open square in the heart of Jerusalem’s shopping district. Someone put a bomb in a garbage can. Two dead, fifteen wounded.”

Elhiani turned to them. “You two can leave your number with me. Now I have other business.”

Assessing his mood, Decker decided he was tired, famished, and pissed-off in that order. It had taken them
two hours to retrieve Rina’s purse, another hour to get back to their car. By then night had fallen over the silent city. Two bombings within an hour of one another made people retreat to the safety of their homes. The city was eerie with calm. The curbs once filled with parked cars were empty. Only the Subaru remained alone, sitting like a punished child behind the police ropes.

Decker unlocked the door, and he and Rina dragged themselves inside the car. He rubbed his eyes and smelled his smoke-drenched clothes.

“I sure wouldn’t want to be a bronchiole in Elhiani’s lungs.”

Rina gave him a tired laugh.

“Are you hungry?”

“You can eat?”

Decker nodded. “’Fraid so.”

“Sure, let’s get something to eat.” Rina paused. “First let’s go back to Tel Aviv. Who knows when the next bomb might go off?”

Decker started the car engine. “So you buy Elhiani’s terrorist bomber.”

Rina sighed. “Well, someone’s bombing the city. Maybe it was random, Peter.”

Decker said, “Gil Yalom just happened to be in the yeshiva that blew up?”

“Who knows?” Rina said. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that, coincidence or not, you saved
lives
.” She felt her eyes watering. “I’m very proud of you.”

Decker turned off the motor and leaned over the console to hug his wife. “Thank you. And you should be proud of yourself while you’re at it. You spotted the guy.”

“
Baruch Hashem
,” Rina sobbed out.

“
Baruch Hashem
,” Decker repeated.

Rina dried her tears with a tissue from her purse. “So if this was a random terrorist act, maybe Dov Yalom isn’t in danger like you thought.”

“I think he’s still in danger.”

“All I’m saying is, maybe we still have time to find him.”

“Well, hope springs eternal confusion or something like that.” Decker started the car and pulled away from the curb. “You’ll have to navigate me back.”

Rina gave him a series of directions.

Decker said, “How about we go back to the hotel and order room service at outrageous prices? Maybe if they find out we’re heroes they’ll give us a discount.”

“Don’t count on it.” Rina looked at her lap. “A man from the
Jerusalem Examiner
left his card with me. It’s an English-language newspaper. He wants to interview you—”