All morning long, Max watched the same images loop in constant replay on CNN International and the BBC: screaming people running down the airport road as smoke billowed from the terminal behind them, bloody commuters stumbling out of the Maelbeek metro station. He watched them on the TV in his parents’ bedroom as his parents and Claire fielded emails and calls from worried family and friends. Thirty-two people had died and hundreds more had been injured.
By afternoon, the images were seared into his brain, and the only thought that made him feel any better was that the people he loved were safe. His mother had not taken the metro that morning, deciding to walk instead. His father had picked up Claire and driven her home. And Ahmed was presumably still at the School of Happiness, which, like the rest of the schools in Brussels, had gone into lockdown soon after his mother had picked him up.
Around two, the doorbell rang, startling his mother.
“Who’s that?”
His father jogged down the stairs. Could it possibly be Ahmed? Max darted after him.
“Don’t open it if you don’t know who it is!” his mother called after them.
For once, his father took her advice and looked out the kitchen window. “Don’t worry! It’s just that police officer.”
Inspector Fontaine was standing on the stoop, a grave expression on his face. Max’s heart thumped. Ahmed wasn’t there, thankfully, but what if Fontaine wanted to see the wine cellar? Max wondered if he should run downstairs and clear out Ahmed’s stuff, but there was no time. His father was already opening the door. As Fontaine stepped into the vestibule, Claire appeared on the stairs and bugged out her eyes at Max.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Monsieur How-Weird,” Fontaine said. “But after the attacks of this morning, there is a state of urgency.”
Max realized he meant “state of emergency,” but Fontaine seemed rattled and Max wasn’t about to correct his English. The cop’s eyes darted from Max to Claire to Max’s mother, who raced down the steps past Claire.
“It’s horrible!” she said. “Do you think there’ll be more?”
“I do not know, Madame,” Fontaine said somberly. “The counterterror division has transmissions from the plotters and their accomplices. Many of them are coded, but I can assure you we are following every lead.”
“I hope you catch them,” his father said.
“I have made it my personal mission, Monsieur. But all of us must help. Which is why I have come by. I wish you to have my mobile number.”
Fontaine scribbled on the back of a card and handed it to Max’s father.
“If you see anything that is not ordinary, call me. Do not hesitate. These terrorists are not just in Molenbeek. Right now, they can be hiding anywhere. Arab men, young ones in particular, who are secretive, who act bizarre, who trespass—”
Max felt like he couldn’t breathe. Fontaine was basically telling the whole neighborhood to look for someone like Ahmed. How long would it take for one of the neighbors to betray them, just as a neighbor had betrayed Albert Jonnart and Ralph?
“‘See something, say something,’ as we say in America,” his father said.
“Exactement. And the children too.” He glanced at Max, then Claire. “Listen to them. Sometimes they are more observant than the adults.” Fontaine allowed himself a faint smile.
Max glanced at Claire, willing her to stay quiet. She turned away and headed back up the stairs. Fontaine gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“We will catch them, Mex, do not worry! T’inquiètes pas.”