The chef shook his head. ‘I was trying to help Mehdi and didn’t see the boy wake up. He took off on the bike.’
You win some, Dan thought with a sigh, you lose some.
He walked to his riad. Now the adrenaline had gone, he felt peculiarly weak, and his knees were trembling. He was also ravenously hungry, another sign of the adrenaline draining from his body. He bought a double kebab wrap from a street seller and ate it as he walked. The streets had quietened. He checked for a tail but nobody appeared to be following him. Probably because they already knew where he was staying. He entered the riad courtyard with a sense of relief. A tray of welcome drinks was set on a table and Dan picked up a glass of orange juice, drank it, then picked up another and took it to the padded seat that encircled the large palm tree. He stared up at the sky, surprised to see so many stars. Slowly, he felt himself relax. His shoulder began to throb. His fists ached. Gradually, he let his mind drift.
Kaitlyn had gone to the police station wanting to report her meeting with Commandant Jamal Azoulay from Rabat. Why not lodge her report with the Rabat Police? Was it because she didn’t trust the police there, or was it because the army was involved in the bombing? If so, why? He let his mind drift further. Had flight EG220 been the target, or someone specific on board?
‘Hello.’ A shy voice broke into his reverie.
Naziha stood just outside the door, looking in.
‘Hello.’ Dan beckoned the boy inside. ‘Why aren’t you at home?’
‘They’re watching something boring on TV so I came here to see you. Can I help you? Maybe find somewhere to eat?’
‘I’ve eaten but thank you.’
‘You are tired,’ the boy observed.
‘Yes.’
‘I will come back tomorrow.’
‘After school.’
Naziha nodded.
In his room, Dan rang Jenny. Told her about the night market, the Barbary macaques, an endangered species of monkey being paraded by photo-touts for money.
‘That’s awful. Poor monkeys.’
‘It’s a different world out here. But it’s beautiful. Ancient. You inhale history on every corner. You’d love it.’ He didn’t mention his mission and Jenny didn’t ask. After he’d spoken to Aimee, he hung up. Lay on the bed with his hands behind his head, thinking. After a while, he checked the BBC website. Checked his emails. Showered, went to bed. He slept restlessly, disturbed by images of knives and blood, the sound of Mehdi’s deep groan of agony.
The morning call to prayer washed over him in waves. Soft light bathed his room in buttery tones. He reached for his phone to see nobody had rung, and that none of his emails needed an immediate response. He clicked on the BBC News website. Flicked through the headlines and paused when he thought he recognised someone. A woman, mid-twenties, raven black hair, her face sharp and pale. Blue eyes and blush-pink lips, perfectly made-up.
He stared at the photograph, momentarily shocked. It was Isla, the flight attendant from his Miami flight.
EGRET AIR FLIGHT ATTENDANT BLINDED BY AEROTOXIC SYNDROME DOCTOR SUGGESTS
Isla Hanson, from Los Angeles, went blind overnight in her hotel in Kensington, London, on Saturday 9 March.
Initial tests failed to find the cause of her blindness and when asked if she’d been tested for aerotoxic syndrome, she said she ‘wasn’t sure’ but that she wanted more tests done after learning that James Matthes, aged 31, a long-serving Flying Bear Air steward, may have died from toxic air syndrome in August last year, as a medical examiner in the United States indicated yesterday.
Isla had been blinded overnight? She’d be terrified, poor woman. He read on to learn that although her parents couldn’t fly to be with her – no reason was stated – her best friend Emily was there.
After scanning the rest of the news, Dan rose, got dressed. Went to the roof of the riad where breakfast was served. The sun was already hot and he chose to sit in the shade. Breakfast was brought to him: a plate of fresh fruit, eggs and croissant, a coffee carafe. Sounds from the streets below drifted around. Pots banging, people talking, the put-put of a motorbike. His phone vibrated on the table. He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hello?’
‘It is Mohammed.’
Dan started to open his mouth to say he was sorry, how saddened he was about Mehdi, but Mohammed immediately added: ‘We must meet.’
‘Okay.’ Dan was cautious.
‘You go to my brother’s shop.’ Mohammed gave him an address as well as directions. ‘In one hour. Say you are looking for a gift, an embroidered fez. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Dan repeated.
Dan checked the internet to see the shop sold traditional men’s clothing. Set inside the city walls it wasn’t far, so Dan finished his breakfast. Legs stretched out, drinking the last of his coffee, he texted Jenny and Aimee. Jenny texted back. All was well at home, releasing him to concentrate on the job in hand. Finding Kaitlyn’s killer.
He took a long, roundabout route to the shop, doing his best to try not to be followed, but it was almost impossible to discern a pattern or remember a face in the constantly moving crowd of assorted races and dress.
The shop was quiet inside. Men’s shirts lined one wall, along with shelves of fezzes, hats and scarves. Djellabas lined the other, some plain, others striped, some with hoods, some without. A man stepped forward, inclining his head in greeting.
‘Marhabaan.’
‘Marhabaan,’ Dan responded, looking around the shop. ‘I am looking for a gift, an embroidered fez.’
‘Please.’ The man walked to the rear of the shop and pulled back a curtain. ‘Come this way.’
Dan followed him into a backroom where two women were sewing, a young man tapping figures into a calculator which he immediately put aside when they entered. Rising swiftly, he moved into the shop, to
