‘Where can I find Commandant Jamal Azoulay?’ Dan asked.
‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
The trail seemed to dry up at that point, which made Lucy’s email a godsend when it came in later that day. Tazi & Co may not exist, according to the head of security at Soekarno-Hatta International Airport in Indonesia, but there was an address on the shipping invoice, in Rabat. This meant the two companies were separate. A quick internet check told him the shipping company was still in business. Mohammed offered to drive. Dan tried to dissuade him.
‘It could be dangerous. Look what happened to Mehdi.’
‘I have known Mehdi since we were children.’ He ran a hand up his jaw, rasping the bristles. ‘We are like brothers. Our wives are best friends, our children too… I must protect him because by doing so, I also protect my family.’
Now, they stood outside a group of warehouses on the Avenue Zarbia, a stone’s throw from the Aéroport international de Rabat-Salé. Across the road stood a complex: Cité Militaire. Dan felt his senses quickening. Had Kaitlyn been here?
He glanced up as a Royal Air Maroc aeroplane roared overhead, flaps and gear down as it approached the runway. Together, Mohammed and Dan headed for the warehouse office, set behind a docking area where four trucks were parked. A man in brown overalls sat at a desk inside, smoking. Dan let Mohammed do the talking. When he mentioned the name Commandant Jamal Azoulay, the man’s expression grew guarded.
‘He knows the Commandant,’ Dan stated.
‘Yes,’ agreed Mohammed.
‘Where can we find him?’
When Mohammed asked, the man shook his head.
Dan stepped close, towering over him. He held the man’s eyes. He spoke softly. ‘I’ll only ask once. Where is he?’
The man swallowed. Looked at Mohammed then back at Dan. He swallowed again before some tension left his face, then his shoulders. Dan guessed he was thinking, it’s no skin off my nose.
Mohammed translated as the man spoke. ‘The Commandant, he used to be based here in Rabat at the army logistics centre, but he’s retired to Marrakech.’
‘His address?’
The man turned to his computer. Tapped a while. ‘Here.’ He swivelled the screen around and pointed at an address. Dan committed it to memory. Next, Dan brought out his phone and showed the man the shipping invoice. Yes, the man said, he remembered the shipment. Yes, it contained highly sensitive, top-of-the-range bomb detectors bound for Indonesia. No, he didn’t know that the company Tazi & Co didn’t exist. He was surprised, because he’d been paid, after all… his words trailed off and at the same time his facial expression changed. Grew guarded once more.
‘How were you paid?’
The man looked at the ground when he spoke.
‘Cash,’ Mohammed translated.
‘How much?’
At that, the man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Does it matter?’
Dan wasn’t sure that it did since the man appeared to be nothing more than a shipping agent.
Another aeroplane engine thundered overhead. Dan waited until the noise had abated before bringing out a photograph of Kaitlyn and putting it on the desk.
The man stared at the picture. He gave a nod.
‘She was here on Friday, two weeks ago.’
‘The first of March?’
Another nod. ‘She asked the same questions as you. She went to Marrakech to meet the Commandant.’ A look of anxiety crossed his face. ‘I was happy to help her. She survived the air disaster, you know. EG220.’
‘So did I,’ Dan said.
The man blinked. ‘May Allah be praised.’
Back in Marrakech, the two men headed straight for the Commandant’s address to find a modest house with a flock of sparrows dust-bathing on the front path. Dan could feel the sun on his head and shoulders, hear the sound of a game of football on a flat area of dirt on the other side of the road, but his attention was on the Commandant’s front door.
Mohammed knocked. Dan stood back, body language carefully neutral, belying the fact his pulse was up and that his weight rested on the balls of his feet, ready for anything. This was the man who’d sold defective bomb detectors to the Indonesians. A man who might be implicated in Kaitlyn’s murder.
The door opened. A short rotund man with speckled grey hair answered. Small brown eyes behind spectacles, snub nose, a fleshy mouth. He wore an open checked shirt and jeans. He smiled at Mohammed. Said something that Dan guessed was along the lines of, can I help you?
‘Commandant Jamal Azoulay?’ Mohammed asked. His tone was grave.
The man answered. The two men talked very briefly until Mohammed turned to Dan and gave a nod. It was his signal.
Dan strode forward. Put a hand against Azoulay’s chest and propelled him inside his house. The man started to yelp but Dan put one hand over his mouth, his arm around the man’s neck, and lifted him off his feet.
‘Quiet,’ he hissed.
He had no idea if the man spoke English, but Azoulay got the message and fell silent.
‘Who else is in the house?’ asked Dan, easing his hand from the man’s mouth.
Azoulay started to tremble. ‘Je ne comprends pas.’ I don’t understand.
Mohammed hissed something at the Commandant. The man stammered something back.
‘He has no English,’ Mohammed stated. ‘I translate for you.’
‘Ask him if he’s alone.’
Terror stood in Azoulay’s eyes. ‘My w-wife and children are here. P-please don’t hurt them.’
Dan hauled the man into a side room. Tiled floor, sofas, coffee table with two tall bronze candlesticks. Dan pushed him against the wall, hard enough to smack his head against it. He heard Mohammed shut the door behind them.
‘How many children?’
‘Th-three. P-please, I’ll d-do whatever–’
‘You supplied false bomb detectors to Indonesia.’
The colour left the man’s face so fast Dan was surprised he didn’t faint.
‘Didn’t you?’
Azoulay just stared at him, ashen.
Dan brought out Kaitlyn’s photograph. Held it in front of the man’s face. His voice was low and filled with ice-cold rage. ‘She was murdered last week. She died because of you.’
‘No, no, no.’ Azoulay’s voice was thick with fear and rising hysteria.
