“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.”