“The police caught and lost your attacker,” Ian said in that quick way that was unique to him. He tended to get straight to business and avoided any pleasantries or time wasters, as he liked to call them. It was what worked for both of them. “I just spoke to the detective on the case.”
“What do you mean lost?” Talib asked.
“The bugger slipped police restraints as he was being transferred. Had him on a minor traffic violation and it was only your mention of the lazy eye that had our officer frisk him and find the switchblade.” He gave Talib the name of the suspect, but it meant nothing to him.
Talib returned to the Sahara Sunset later that day with a feeling of relief and of coming home.
He knocked on the door, not wanting to scare her.
“It’s me, Talib,” he added for good measure.
The door opened and her smile of relief almost melted his heart. “Talib,” she said. “Where have you been?” And that was followed by an immediate gasp. “What happened to you?” Her hands were on his cheeks, as she gently ran her fingers down his bruises. “Who did this?” she asked in a tone like she was about to launch war on the perpetrator. She had his hand before he could answer any of that and dragged him over to the couch. In truth, he followed willingly, rather enjoying the attention.
“You need ointment, bandages...” She tsked.
“I’m fine, Sara, really.” He patted the seat beside him. “Sit down with me. That’s all I need right now is you.”
“I can’t believe it. What happened?” she asked as she sat down close beside him. Her bare arm rubbed against his and the thought of his bruises went to the back of his mind.
It was like being met by a wife’s loving scolding. He’d never thought that of a woman, never thought he’d want to be in that position. The words were oddly unromantic and yet they made him feel as though his world just turned around.
“Talib,” she said, shifting on the seat so that she was turned sideways to look at him. “I was worried.”
“I would have been here sooner. I had a bit of a scuffle.”
She brushed his arm with her hand. “I’m so sorry, Talib. I should never have come. I’ve put you in danger, disrupted your life. I’m sorry.”
“The only mistake you made, Sara,” he said thickly, “was not finding me sooner.”
Thirty minutes later, as they sat together over coffee, there was rustling in the bedroom and the sound of their son’s voice chattering in his version of English and baby talk. The mix was uniquely his own.
Sara stood up. He touched her arm with gentle fingers. “Please,” he said. “Let me. I’ve never gotten him up from a nap.”
Something in her face broke, like she might cry. He leaned down and kissed her. “I didn’t mean that as a jibe. I really meant that I want to make up for lost time,” he said.
“I know,” she said softly.
Later, they ordered supper, a pizza, and enjoyed it together as a family. They were moments they would all remember. He stayed with her through that night, spooning her, feeling her soft curves and realizing that restraint was more difficult than he thought.
But he knew that he had to get moving. He didn’t have the luxury of hanging around a hotel suite. It was his job to keep them safe.
His phone rang early the next morning and he answered to hear Barb’s voice. “The suspect was last seen leaving one of the seedier areas of the Medina the evening before the attack.” She gave him the address that they both knew housed more criminals than upstanding citizens.
“Possibly where he lives,” Talib mused. “Or there was some sort of business dealings, or a myriad of things.” He considered the options. “Not a great area,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Still working on it. This is a tough one. There isn’t much information easily available.”
“None of your research is easy, Barb,” Talib said with a laugh. “You’re the best. Keep digging.”
“Always.”
He disconnected. There was only so much that could be found by their desk-bound researchers. He needed to get back in the field and check the address out.
“I’ve got to go,” he said to Sara who’d been awakened by the call. It was just after 6:00 a.m. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Talib. We’ll be fine,” she reiterated. “Everything is secure. You do what needs to be done to make sure our son is safe.” She hesitated, then took his right hand in both of hers. “Be careful. Don’t do anything risky,” she said. “Promise me.”
He couldn’t do that. Instead he leaned down and kissed her, wanting to pull her into his arms and offer more comfort than that brief kiss. Instead he left her with the promise that he’d see her soon.
Thirty minutes later Talib stood outside a run-down apartment building on the edge of one of Marrakech’s oldest souks. Unlike the other areas, this particular section didn’t have the vibrancy that drew the tourists and locals alike. Much of what might once have been heritage buildings were now weathered and broken. He passed a small, gray, rectangular building, which was wedged between two bigger buildings of a similar style, before arriving at his destination—a decrepit, four-story brick structure.
Farther down an alleyway, two white-haired men were smoking and talking. Both of them were too far away to ID him and neither of them paid any attention to him. He could slip in and out. A check with the super had confirmed that the tenant worked an early morning shift leaving well before six in the morning and returning to the apartment later in the afternoon. Hopefully, there was evidence in the apartment of who he was, who he knew and, better yet, who he might be associated with.
He jimmied the lock on the main door and slipped inside. He was met by a rush of stale, hot air that made him want to breathe as little as possible. The smell of something rancid, like cooking oil, wafted through the air—it was an unwelcome stench. There was no one else around. He took the concrete stairs, one at a time, with caution. The staircase was steep and narrow. The apartment was at the end on the second floor and as he stood outside of it, silence seemed to tick around him.
He put his ear to the wooden door. No sound. A door banged shut on the floor above him and his hand jerked back from the knob. He looked around. There was no one, nothing near him. Minutes later he was inside. The room was meager. Directly in front of him was a cot and to his right, a small television. There was a bathroom to his left, the only other room unless you counted a closet and an open-area kitchenette. He stepped farther in, moving around a stack of travel magazines.
“Going somewhere?” he murmured. The possibility was there—if this was their man, that he was picking the next destination where he could take the money and run. But there were no answers from a stack of magazines.
He stepped deeper into the room. Despite the fact that clothes and paper were strewn across the bed, they were arranged in an oddly organized way. It was a contradiction and yet it was clearly a pattern. He lifted a magazine from the bed.
A piece of pale yellow note paper slipped out from the pages of the magazine. There was a name on that paper. It was a name that wasn’t unfamiliar to him. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but he’d gone to primary school with a boy by that name. It wasn’t a common name. And there was a phone number. He grimaced at the thought of calling the number out of the blue, and saying what? What did Habib Kattanni have to do with a two-bit criminal who had fled detection? He frowned. His mind went back to the fact that Habib had gone to school with him. It was years ago and he couldn’t imagine what the connection might be now. In fact, logically he’d like to say there was no connection, but the evidence seemed to be hinting otherwise. That gave rise to the question that the man might have the same name as the boy he’d gone to school with, but there the similarity stopped. Same name—different person. They were all things that needed to be followed up on. He thought back, remembering the boy who had been there for a term, maybe two—he wasn’t sure. And then he’d left. There’d never been any explanation. What he remembered was his father saying something about the disgrace of it all. His father would have known for he’d employed Habib’s father for a brief time after what everyone referred to as the scandal. Unfortunately, his father was no longer around for answers.
Talib looked at the paper and tried to dredge up any memory of the man. But there was nothing. It had been a long time ago.
Habib.
The few memories he had weren’t good. He remembered that he was a whiney, unlikeable kid, but that didn’t mean anything. Kids were a lot of things before they matured and became who it was they were meant to become. He couldn’t see anyone he had gone to school with sinking to this. But why was Habib’s name here, in this apartment? Was it a case of same name, different identity?
He stuffed the paper in his pocket and did a thorough check of the room. Whoever he was, he’d left in a hurry, but he’d taken almost everything of importance with him. None of it was matching what the super had said. The evidence he saw was looking like the tenant wasn’t coming back. Ten minutes later, he was finished. He’d found nothing except the one name that led him into the shadows of his past—to when he was a boy.
He paused in the doorway as he contemplated the abject poverty so in opposition to the homes that anyone who had gone to his primary school had come from. Had the unsub contracted this man to attack him? And how was Habib linked into all of this, or was he? Had Habib hired someone to attack him? That made no sense, but if he hadn’t, who had? What motivation did he have? The connection, the link, was the dead boyfriend, Tad. But dead men didn’t talk.
He left, closing the door behind him, making sure to leave no evidence that he’d been there. Despite his belief that his parking-lot assailant was gone, he made sure that no one saw him as he left. But there was no one around, the cramped, age-greased corridor was as silent as when he’d arrived.
Outside, the narrow street was crowded with people and the occasional donkey. A slight man on a Vespa wound his way slowly through the throng.
Talib slipped into the crowd. His clothes were as worn as anyone else’s in the area. He’d made sure to haul out the clothes he used to do some of the mechanic work on his vehicles. This wasn’t an area where designer clothes and pressed shirts would fit. He wasn’t much of an actor and he knew that how he presented himself was different than the working class that held the majority in the area. If someone questioned his appearance... But it didn’t matter much anyway—the man he was after had already run.
He passed another alley, and saw a man of average height and build, and in faded jeans and an olive-green T-shirt watching him from the shadows.
Then the man motioned to him.
What the hell? Talib thought as he watched the man jerk his head to the alley, as if indicating he should follow.
The man disappeared again into the shadows.
He moved into the head of the alley. There was no one around him. He had his gun in one hand and yet it seemed like overkill. But he wasn’t taking any chances. The man seemed to have disappeared. He could go forward or back out—this could be a trap. Just as he decided to back up and return to the busy shopping area behind him, he felt the presence of someone. He had no time to turn or duck.
The blow came before he could react. It was silent and even more lethal because of it. As Talib fell he could only think of one name—Sara. He had to get up. He had to go to her. Instead he kept falling, down, down as if the spiral was out of control and would never end. It finally did end as consciousness left him.