Rising above the surrounding babble of security announcements in different languages and the distant honking taxis, the English accent, harassed and irritated, yet full of expectant self-assertion, gave her an immense rush of reassurance. Someone English, close at hand. She pinpointed the voice. ‘I don’t think that’ll do any good. We’ve tried all the main airlines. I’m going to ring the consulate again and insist. They keep saying that it’s a matter for the police.’ He was tall, narrow-shouldered, wearing a white linen suit that had creased a little in the small of his back. He sported a cream hat, wedged on the back of his head, which made him look theatrical, as if he were playing the part of a colonial inspector. An Arab in a shiny pink shirt with a neatly clipped moustache was leaning in towards him, anxious, fidgeting. Was this an airport official? No, insufficiently dressed. He was wearing sandals, the thongs tight over his bare toes. An undercover customs officer? Unlikely.
