Isla bit her lip. ‘I don’t think they’re looking at aerotoxicity in my case. I’m being tested for cancer, brain tumours, that kind of thing.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded taken aback. ‘Perhaps they’re unaware how horrific breathing contaminated air can be.’
Isla’s anxiety rose. ‘I did mention it.’
‘But they didn’t take you seriously.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that…’ She wished Emily would get here. Or a nurse. She wasn’t comfortable with the conversation.
‘Most physicians have never heard of the term aerotoxic syndrome.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve known them diagnose sufferers as having psychological or psychosomatic disorders. One doctor told a Flying Bear flight attendant it was all in his mind. His condition worsened because it wasn’t treated properly. He died in August.’
She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she remained silent. She heard him move to one side of the room. He wore soft-soled shoes, slightly squeaky. She turned her head to follow him.
‘It makes me so angry when this happens,’ he went on. ‘The supposed experts closing their minds to reason. You must tell them it’s the toxic chemicals in the fumes that attack the central nervous system, which consists of the spinal cord and the brain. That’s neurological, isn’t it?’
She grew alarmed. ‘Yes.’
He moved back to the centre of the room. ‘Get them to test you, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Whether it’s aerotoxic syndrome or something else, I really hope you get better soon. You’re a beautiful woman, you shouldn’t have to have your life sabotaged like this.’
24
Dan sat with a glass of mint tea on the balcony of the Café Glacier, looking down at the bustling open square of Djemaa el Fna. There were dancers, acrobats and musicians. Orange juice sellers and snake charmers playing hypnotic melodies on flutes to make their cobras dance. Women offered henna tattoos while others sold souvenirs, candles, leather bags and baskets from where they squatted on the ground.
He checked his watch: 19:45. Lots of time.
He studied the square for a while, making sure he’d get his bearings amid the chaos before committing himself. Finally, he descended to ground level and immersed himself in the turmoil. Long rows of dining stalls were lit by strings of electric lights, everything blurred by great clouds of smoke wafting from cooking fires. Cumin, garlic, ginger. His mouth watered.
Stall 102 looked identical to all the others and was crowded with locals as well as Western tourists. A man in a white chef’s coat invited Dan to sit on a stool and enjoy some koftas. Olives and bread were put in front of him. Dan ordered some spiced tea.
19:55.
People jostled past, occasionally bumping into him, apologising at the same time as they walked on. He pretended to watch a beggar working the table, selling packs of tissues, but his attention was all around, senses alert and aware of the sound of chattering, oboes playing and drums beating, the strong smell of hashish.
An uneasy movement in the crowd caught his interest. He wasn’t surprised to see it was Mehdi, looking over his shoulder, expression apprehensive. When he caught Dan’s eye he smiled, something in him relaxing. He was an ordinary-looking man of average height, dressed in ordinary trousers, a striped shirt and leather shoes. Someone you wouldn’t look at twice except for the steadiness in his eyes that spoke of an inner strength, hinting he might be an individual you could depend upon.
Dan rose to greet him. Mehdi offered his hand. Dan shook it but the man put out an arm and hugged him.
‘For saving those children,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I remember it so well. You were a hero.’
‘You were there?’
‘I was one of the first responders. It was terrible…’ He shook his head. ‘I still dream about it. The devastation… charred remains. A toilet seat here, a guidebook there. Suitcases, shoes, magazines, clothes. Entrails, body parts everywhere. It was like hell.’
‘Did we meet back then?’
‘No. But we all knew who you were. You looked after those children, became their unofficial guardian. You flew back to the UK with them.’
MI5 wouldn’t have liked that, Dan thought. He’d obviously felt responsible for the children, taking them under his wing. And having seen his father’s emails to Kaitlyn over the years, his father had obviously helped too.
The chef came over and Mehdi rose. They kissed cheeks, greeting one another affectionately before Mehdi turned to introduce Dan.
‘Dan Forrester,’ he said, ‘this is my good friend, Mohammed.’
Dan shook the man’s hand.
‘Sit, sit,’ Mohammed said. ‘I will bring the food.’
They sat back down. Mehdi broke some bread and dipped it in olive oil. Dan did the same.
They made small talk. Mehdi had two grown-up children and three grandchildren, all toddlers. His wife was called Anisah and they’d been married for twenty-eight years. As he spoke of his family, the sergeant’s eyes softened.
When dishes of sardines and calamari were placed before them, Dan thought it was time to open the subject. ‘You saw Kaitlyn recently.’
‘Just over two weeks ago. She walked in from the street. She wanted to make a report.’
Dan heard a motorbike approaching. He hadn’t seen any motorised vehicles in the market and its presence made him look around, but he couldn’t spot it through the crowds.
‘I told her we were Tourist Police, that we couldn’t help. I directed her to the Commissariat.’
‘She went?’
‘Yes, she made her report to Commissaire Hafid Khatabi.’
Hafid Khatabi had helped her, Dan thought, but didn’t want to be involved any more.
The motorbike was closing in. Dan twisted sideways, trying to peg it. ‘What was she reporting?’
‘She’d met with a man called Commandant Jamal Azoulay.’
‘In the army?’ Dan raised his eyebrows.
‘An officer. His rank is equal to your British major. Not so high.’
‘Which division?’
Mehdi frowned as he thought.
Dan caught the flash of the motorbike’s headlights and turned his body, nerves tightening, and at the same time there was a flurry of movement from the beggar and Mehdi gave a groan and fell
