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?”