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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