or had been used to create a distraction. Since the damage had been contained and been in an area that saw low traffic, he was led to believe that whoever had done this wasn’t going for a high kill rate. It could be a grudge against the owner. The explosion hadn’t been far-reaching enough to provide much of a killing field. Unless there was another explosive, or this one had been a screwup...
He strode through the hotel doors, which someone had had the foresight to prop open. Inside, the emergency procedures weren’t quite so efficient, as he had to weave through a lobby still crowded with stragglers.
Traces of smoke swirled through the lobby, but he was immediately able to see where the explosion had been. Embers still burned in two ruined suitcases. Clothing was scattered everywhere. The metal suitcase trolley lay where it had tipped over. To his left, a woman, wearing only a bathrobe and flip-flops, tripped and stumbled. He was there in a flash. His reflexes were quick. They’d been honed by physical fitness and a regular baseball scrimmage with friends that occurred at least twice monthly. He had her elbow, and powered her toward the door, where he released her ten feet from the exit.
“Thank you.” Her lips trembled but there was a stoic gleam in her eye. “I’m all right now.”
He nodded but watched as she hurried past a hotel employee who was directing the remaining guests. He remained standing there, watching until she was safely out of the building.
He turned and scanned the lobby and saw a woman moving away from the crush and out of sight. She was wearing a maid’s uniform. The dull beige material was designed to fade into the background, to provide service while flitting on the periphery. It was the perfect ensemble for what was intended, but now it seemed that blending in was giving her an advantage. The thought was one he tagged and filed away for later consideration; there were other things to concern himself with now. He was more interested in the explosion site and how someone had slipped in and out and planted the explosive unnoticed, than in the maid’s uniform. He knew, from looking at the hotel plans, that a corridor led from the back of the lobby to conference rooms and a back exit. He was surprised that no one else seemed to be using that exit.
He activated the portable explosive detection device. As he moved slowly along the perimeter of the lobby with the device, he was cognizant of the rapidly thinning crowd. He was also aware that no one was acting suspiciously, but rather that there was still a great deal of confusion. People were almost spinning in circles as smoke continued to obscure the exit and the remaining staff seemed to have evacuated. So much for security measures, he thought, realizing that not everything he’d advised had been implemented. His attention returned to the device. The lobby wasn’t officially clear of explosives yet, but he was reasonably sure that there wasn’t another planted.
He moved away from the luggage and farther into the lobby. As he did, he looked down and saw a child’s soother on the floor. That was odd. There weren’t any children in sight. He didn’t expect there to be. Even in chaos it seemed people managed to instinctively grab their children. He wasn’t sure why, but he picked up the soother and put it in his pocket.
He looked up, thinking of the woman in the maid’s uniform. She was the only one he’d seen using the back exit. His instincts, everything in his being, told him that something was off, that there was something more to this lone woman. Had she placed the explosive and come back to see the results of her work? Even as he considered that option he discounted it. Her mannerisms hadn’t reflected anything nefarious.
As he made the decision to follow her, a woman’s panic-torn voice sliced through both the chaos and his thoughts. It brought his attention, to the lobby.
“Everett!”
The voice sounded familiar, even muted by the chaos of sounds that swirled around him. He didn’t have time to analyze it. Instead, he moved deeper into the lobby, turning left and following the path of the maid he’d seen head in that direction. He turned a corner in the corridor and that’s when he saw her. She was holding a small boy by the wrist, causing him to stand on tiptoes. The child’s cheeks were wet from crying and he had his free thumb in his mouth. She was wearing a cream-colored head scarf and the beige uniform he’d caught a glimpse of earlier. Nothing about her seemed out of the ordinary. It appeared only that she was leading a child to safety.
But his gut told him that something was very wrong. “What are you doing with him?” he asked in Arabic. He doubted that the child was hers. No worker would have brought their child to work.
His theory was justified by the look of panic in her eyes and the way she held the boy by the wrist rather than by his hand. Clearly, she was unfamiliar with children that young, the panic obvious in her entire demeanor. He supposed his size and the fact that he was carrying an unconcealed firearm made him look official. Police, she might be thinking, although it wasn’t true.
“Where did you get him?” he asked without explaining who he was. He acted on his first hunch. “He’s not yours.” Aggression could work to his advantage in this instance.
Her mouth tightened and her eyes darted, as if she was seeking an escape.
He strode forward and kneeled down in front of the child, who now had half of his free fist stuck in his mouth. His face was smeared with what looked like dirt and streaked with tears. His dark hair curled wildly in every direction, but his shimmering light brown eyes looked at Talib with more curiosity than fright.
Talib stood up. He wasn’t sure what was happening here, but he intended to get to the bottom of it.
“A man said his wife had taken him. He paid me to deliver him to the back exit.” She clasped her hands and backed up. “I...” She stumbled, speaking in Arabic. “It was easy to take him. There was so much running, screaming.”
“You took him in the confusion?” he asked.
She nodded. “I don’t understand much English and that’s what he—” she pointed at the child “—speaks. Although he can’t speak much, he keeps saying Mama.” She looked genuinely frightened and possibly even sorry. “I...something was wrong. I was going back to the desk to tell Mohammed,” she said.
“Who’s Mohammed?” Talib asked and made no effort to filter the edge from his voice.
“My supervisor,” she said anxiously.
“How much money were you offered?”
“None. I wouldn’t—”
“If you want to keep your job...” He let the threat dangle. He was beginning to lose patience with the whole situation. “Look, I assume you need the money but this kid isn’t the way you’re going to get it.”
“He said he was his father. I needed the money. But I was going to take him back.” She shook her head and looked down at the boy.
“You were doing the right thing,” Talib said, strangely believing her. Poverty could cause good people to do desperate things. And in Morocco, the father’s rights could still often trump those of the mother. It was possible that she truly thought she was bringing the boy to his father. Possible, but unlikely. He squatted down and picked up the child.
“I’ll take it from here,” he said with the voice of authority that was never questioned. “I’m sure his mother is beside herself with worry.” The woman’s story had rung true and odds were that she was struggling to feed a family, possibly extended family, on a maid’s wages. Still, she had taken this child, and in ordinary circumstances he would have detained her. He shifted the toddler on one arm just as the panic in her eyes
