Troubleshooters (Jackson Chase Novella Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

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