Troubleshooters (Jackson Chase Novella Book 2) (4 page)

He ran a finger down the list on the first page, then the second. Mid-way through, he stopped. “The bakery that delivers here every morning is the Asha Bakery.”

Naseeb seemed to brighten up with this news. “I know this bakery. Not far from here. Let’s go.”

Frankly, I agreed. Assignment One in the bag. Still time for a little safari. Looking at the Lieutenant, it was clear he felt otherwise.

“Mister Aman,” he said, “we will not jump to conclusions. We do not know if the bakery played any part in this. Someone could have simply grabbed some old boxes.”

Naseeb lowered his eyes, attempting to be deferential in lieu of an apology.

“Might still be worth a look,” I said, partially to allow Naseeb to save face and partially because it was something to go on. Plus, I really did like the idea of wrapping this up and going on safari.

Kahembe considered this for a minute. “Very well. We will go together.”

On safari?

Chen observed this exchange silently, glancing between Kahembe and the video monitor. “Lieutenant,” she said, “while you go to the bakery, why don’t I take a crack at this video? I have some software that might be able to clean it up.”

It was clear that Kahembe was a bit conflicted. I could tell he wanted the help, but it meant he wasn’t completely rid of us. Apparently Chen’s skills won. He nodded and said, “We would appreciate your help.”

Seizing the opportunity, Chen reminded him, “And if you could get me the cell switch data, we’ll see if we can track the phones used.”

“I will have someone contact the cell tower operators immediately, Commander,” he replied.

“I’ll just see my colleagues out,” Chen said, and we took our leave.

N
aseeb started chattering
about the bakery lead as soon as we were out the door. Wanting to talk to Chen, I cut him off.

“Naseeb, why don’t you get the car and meet us by the gate?”

He agreed, and walked briskly off to the service car park to the side of the hotel.

“Guy’s pretty fired up,” commented Sterba.

“
He
is,” I said. “But for some reason, Lieutenant Kahembe isn’t.”

“Why?” Chen asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Work the phone angle as much as you can. We’ll see what turns up at the bakery.”

O
nce in Naseeb’s Land Cruiser
, we descended the hill west of the hotel gate. After crossing a bridge over a small riverbed, we turned off the main road and wound our way through smaller dirt side streets.

All around us, locals went about their busy day. Small groups stood at street corners chatting and waiting for the ubiquitous dala dalas—minivans that comprised a semi-private bus system. Each was named and decorated differently to stand out and advertise their route for local passengers. There seemed to be a fondness for pop culture references. We passed one called
Red Bull
, another
Madonna
. There was even one named after the last American President, complete with the posterized portrait made so popular in his campaigns.

Clusters of piki-piki—motorbike taxis—gathered here and there, the riders helmeted and ready for a fare. Women sat on tarps selling crops from their home or village, the tomatoes, onions, and potatoes set out in beautiful pyramids. Men steered hand drawn wooden wagons filled with hay or potatoes. Two men wrestled with one that strained under the weight of a mangled car chassis. And wherever there was a break in the buildings and a small patch of grass, small herds of goats or cattle grazed under the watchful eyes of Masai children.

This truly was a beautiful country of beautiful people. It made me sad to think that perhaps they were too kind and gentle, allowing extremists to bully their way in.

Naseeb wound us through the pebbled streets, passing a large market. “The market,” he said, “has always been a place for Africans to purchase their supplies. Food, clothing, even machine parts. But every day, more and more westerners are coming. They bring them in by the busload now.” He shook his head in a dismissive gesture. I let it be, and didn’t ask any questions.

A block further on, a new building stood tall and clean between the more traditional single-story wooden structures. A minaret capped one side.

“Mosque?” I said.

“No, that is a school. But I suppose one can pray there as well,” Naseeb said rather quickly. At Naseeb’s reply, I turned to Sterba and raised my eyebrows. He nodded, knowing that I meant we’d just seen an example of the money being spread around the world for schools to teach the Islamic faith. Some were legitimate, but many preached more hatred than following. As we passed by, Naseeb moved his hand from the steering wheel to his forehead, as if to wipe off some sweat or dust. I noticed the skin there was slightly tougher. A callous. I decided not to push him on the school’s curriculum.

We rode in silence for a while, until he said, “Ah, here we are.”

He turned right and parked on a dirt patch beneath a tree in front of a dilapidated one story structure. Painted above a stubby awning was the name
Asha Bakery
. As I got out of the truck, a small dust cloud announced the arrival of the police car that had followed us here.

Lieutenant Kahembe and one of his officers exited the battered vehicle and approached. Kahembe looked at me and said, “Commander Chase, please come with me. Chief Sterba can go with Officer Mwanga to the back of the building until we determine it is safe.”

Sterba nodded and held out his hand to the young officer. “Joe,” he said.

“Ambrose,” the police officer replied. He showed a small smile, but given that Joe had a hundred pounds on the man, I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or simply thankful to have a meaty barrier to stand behind in case things got ugly.

“Are we ready, gentlemen?” Kahembe asked.

“Good to go, Lieutenant,” Sterba replied. “Let’s roll, partner,” he added with nod to Mwanga.

They headed off around the side of the building. I noticed Sterba’s head swiveling, alert to his surroundings. There were a few small groups of men scattered about, their conversations halting while they watched to see what was going on. I know Sterba was scanning them, alert for the lone man watching a little too carefully, averting his eyes, or talking on a mobile phone.

I turned to Kahembe. “Let’s go. I’ll follow your lead.” I adjusted my T-shirt for easy access to the SIG Sauer P228 holstered on my hip. My switch to a more tactical mode didn’t go unnoticed by Kahembe as we walked across an open patch of dirt to the front of the bakery. While I knew we were just going to question the proprietor, I was keeping an eye on the door and the two windows to the left. We were exposed between the vehicles and the building, and I adjusted my route to approach the door at an oblique angle.

Kahembe adjusted his approach as well, saying, “It appears that you’ve done a bit more than sailing for your navy.”

“Just cautious. Been through a few doors where I wasn’t exactly greeted with a smile,” I replied.

We stopped at the wall just to the right of the door, using it for some degree of concealment. Being closest to the door, Kahembe tilted his head and took a look through the screen.

Turning back to me, he said, “I don’t think this is one of those doors.” And with that, he pulled it open and took a step inside, leaving me to wonder how he was so confident.

I followed behind him, and saw immediately that he was right. Standing in the center of the room was a large woman holding a tray covered with small loaves of bread. Upon seeing us, she lit up the room with a beautiful smile.

“Jambo!” she said. Not exactly the den of terrorists I had been expecting.

“Jambo,” Kahembe replied.

“Just a moment,” she said as she deftly slid the large tray into an old rolling rack.

She was perhaps in her late forties, and wore a brightly colored dress covered by an Old Mother Hubbard apron. Her head was wrapped in a beautiful piece of fabric matching the pattern of her dress.

“Ah, there we are,” she said, wiping her hands on the apron. “How may I help you?”

As Kahembe introduced us, another woman came out of the back. She too wore a bright dress, apron, and large smile. It was easy to see they were mother and daughter.

“My name is Dalia Asha, and this is my daughter Kamaria,” the older woman said. Just then, Mwanga and Sterba came through to the front room from behind the counter.

“Never hunted down a terrorist’s hideout that smelled this good,” Sterba said with a smile.

“Terrorist’s hideout? Bite your tongue!” exclaimed Mrs. Asha.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Asha,” said Kahembe. “We are investigating the explosion at the hotel.”

“Yes, such a travesty. Those poor people,” she said. Her hand went to her chest, where she caressed something under her dress. I noticed a gold chain around her neck, and imagined there was a cross beneath the colorful fabric.

“We understand that you provide bread for the hotel?” Kahembe said.

She nodded. “Since they reopened several years ago.”

“And how is your bread delivered?”

“Two brothers, Joseph and Samuel, have done our deliveries for a while.”

“Are they here now?”

“No. They have not come to work for several days.”

Kahembe and I looked at one another, each coming to the same conclusion. Mrs. Asha connected the dots at that moment as well.

“Oh, no.”

“How well do you know these boys?” I asked.

Mrs. Asha was silent, stunned by the thought that they would be involved. Her daughter, Kamaria, replied for her.

“We have known them since they were very young. They worked for us to learn about the business. Joseph wanted to have a bakery of his own someday, and we were happy to teach him.”

“Do you help them load their truck each morning?”

“No, they begin their deliveries well before the sun rises. We bake through the evening, and they use a key to pick up the bread for delivery very early each day.”

“I would like to speak to them,” said Kahembe, “if you could tell me where they live.”

“Of course,” said Kamaria.

As she was describing where they lived to the Lieutenant, there was a shout from the back room.

“A phone! There is a phone hidden in the flour!”

As a group, we went behind the counter to see what had been found. Naseeb looked agitated, and stood pointing at four neat stacks of flour. In between two of the stacks, a mobile phone was wedged.

I leaned in for a look. It was a simple feature phone, easily found virtually anywhere in the world. It looked to have been hastily tossed behind the sacks of flour, but had become stuck on its way down.

“What is
that
doing there?” asked Mrs. Asha.

I noticed Kahembe look at Naseeb before replying to Mrs. Asha. “Is this your phone?”

“No, mine is right here.” She withdrew a bright blue phone from her apron pocket. Her daughter did the same.

“This could be the phone used to detonate the bomb!” exclaimed Naseeb.

“Let us not jump to conclusions, Mr. Aman,” Kahembe said firmly to Naseeb. “And please, return to the car as I asked previously.”

“But...”

“We will handle this,” Kahembe said. I noticed him step into Naseeb as he spoke, effectively ending the discussion.

Turning to Mrs. Asha, Kahembe said, “I would like to take this phone as evidence in case it is related to the attack.” He looked around the room and, finding a plastic bag, used it to withdraw the phone. “We will be in touch, Mrs. Asha, thank you for your time.”

R
eturning to the cars
, we could see Naseeb fidgeting next to his Land Cruiser. “Have you arrested them?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Aman,” replied Kahembe.

“But you have it? The phone!”

Sterba turned to me and raised his eyebrows. He too was wondering why Naseeb was so fired up. Frankly, we had enough to think about after visiting the bakery, and we did not need Naseeb’s excitement. I wanted to diffuse this, and said, “Naseeb, what you found was
a
phone. It could be a great lead, or it could just be an old phone. We don’t know yet, mate. How about you take a break while we go back to the police station with the Lieutenant? We will call you when we’re ready to leave,”

Naseeb looked at Sterba, and then turned back to me. “Very well, Mister Chase. I will be ready when you need me.”

I shook his hand. He looked at the bakery one more time before getting into his Land Cruiser and leaving.

Standing in the cloud of dust left behind, Sterba said, “We’re not going to the police station, are we?”

“Nope,” I said.

“We’re going to the delivery boys’ home,” said Kahembe.

J
oseph and Samuel
lived together on the edge of town not far from the bakery in a tiny cinderblock rectangle that had surely seen better days. When we arrived, a police car was waiting. Kahembe signaled for us to wait while he handed over the phone found at the bakery for delivery to the station.

“We will see if Miss Chen can find anything out about the phone,” he explained. “Now, let us see if we can find these young men.”

Our approach was as before, with Sterba and Mwanga taking the back, while Kahembe and I headed for the front door. Again we were cautious, approaching through the dirt and grasses at an oblique angle. I checked the lone window for movement, and had the sense that the building was empty. As I looked at the door, however, I noticed that the wood around the knob had splintered, and it was an inch or two ajar.

I crouched slightly and withdrew my sidearm from its holster. Seeing this, Kahembe adjusted as well. My hands signaled him to look at the door. He nodded and drew his weapon.

We arrived at the side of the building and I took position closest to the door, Kahembe behind me. I moved my SIG to my left hand, and used my right foot to push the door open. Bursting quickly into the doorway with my weapon leading the way, I was immediately hit by a terrible smell and a waft of flies.

I took in the interior space, scanning from right to left. Empty. I stepped forward, looking for hidden spaces where someone might hide. Nothing.