The Language of Secrets Page 11

  But that was not how Ashkouri had read the poem. Khattak had told Rachel to keep her guard up, because Ashkouri was using the poem to threaten her.

  And Khattak was more concerned about the other ways the poem might speak to a man like Ashkouri.

  New York + New York = The Grave and anything that comes from the Grave. New York − New York = The Sun.

  * * *

  At the end of the prayer, the imam invited Khattak to make his announcement to the congregation of some twenty men and five women.

  The call to prayer had been a recording. Khattak wondered if that was out of respect for Mohsin, who had always given the call to prayer at Nur. Many of the men gathered in the room would have been able to recite the adhaan. Khattak could have done so himself. But that would have been an intrusion, an assertion of a secular police power over a private, religious space. And it would have placed Khattak on the footing of an equal among friends, instead of what he was: a detective investigating a murder; a man who suspected one of his coreligionists of terrible crimes, Mohsin’s murder a footnote to a much grimmer agenda.

  And there would be several among the congregation who knew that. Not least, Ashkouri.

  Attempts to convince them otherwise would be fruitless.

  And Khattak realized how much his work as a police officer had become a part of his identity. Because it wasn’t the duplicity that troubled him. It was its inadequacy as a tool to further his investigation. He stood behind the lectern, taking careful note of who was in the audience, who hadn’t trumped up an excuse to leave without engaging with him.

  Ashkouri was there. He nodded at Khattak, an informal introduction. And Jamshed Ali. And Dinaase and two of his friends, Zakaria and Sami. In the back row, he spied Rachel, alongside Paula Kyriakou and Grace Kaspernak. Rachel had described Grace with disturbing specificity. Even so, Khattak was taken aback. The young girl had mutilated herself.

  To what end? What anguish did she seek to soothe? That she was a girl on the margins was all the INSET files could tell him. Discarded, ignored, not worried over by anyone. Except for the boy who had left his community to come to Nur. Dinaase Abdi, Ashkouri’s disciple. A boy whose future seemed equally bleak, caught as he was in Ashkouri’s web.

  And there was one more person Esa Khattak recognized. A woman he hadn’t expected to travel to Nur in the snowstorm. Alia Dar. He wondered if it was possible that INSET had overlooked a personal connection she may have had to the mosque.

  She was sitting by herself, lost in thought, her knees curled up to her chest, her eyes damp. Out of the ambit of Andy Dar, beyond the reach of ordinary comfort. He hoped that the imam’s sermon had provided some solace. And that solace was all she needed, and not some form of expiation. If she had been on uneasy terms with Mohsin, she would need to be questioned again.

  “If you can be of help to the police, of course you must try,” the imam said.

  Khattak took that as his cue.

  “This is my first time at your mosque, and I appreciate the opportunity to meet with you. Naturally, I realize I come at a difficult time, but I hope you’ll accept that I’m here to do two things. First, to investigate Mohsin Dar’s murder. Second, to make sure that your concerns and priorities are fully represented during my investigation. Should you have questions, I’ll do my best to answer them. In terms of my questions, I’m certain that every person who attends this mosque, or who knew Mohsin Dar, would wish for us to achieve justice on his behalf. If that is indeed what you wish, I’m confident you will cooperate fully with my investigation.”

  He examined the small group of worshippers, taking the time to make eye contact with each person in the front row. He saw faces that were frightened, others that were confused, some that were skeptical. And Hassan Ashkouri, unaccountably relaxed, accepting that others would follow his lead.

  “Why are you here alone?” one man asked. “Where are the real police? Do they think they can foist a substitute upon us?”

  Khattak made careful note of the questioner. Not one of Ashkouri’s inner circle. Someone with a chip on his shoulder, who believed that justice was in short supply for members of his community. From personal experience? Khattak couldn’t say.

  He recounted his personal credentials as a member of Toronto’s homicide squad. And he explained his new mandate in some detail, thinking of CPS’s governing legislation. And remembering the difficulties that waited for him at Justice.

  You’re an investigator, not an advocate.

  No way to tell ahead of time where that line should be drawn, the law conveniently silent on the question. Whatever worked best for public relations at any given time.

  The man who had questioned Khattak shrugged, only half-convinced.

  Khattak read the names on his list. His interviews with the women would be perfunctory. But every person on his list would have to account for his time and his activities at the camp. And to explain what they had done when not one but two gunshots had resounded through the woods.

  The INSET transcript was muddy, indistinct. Khattak’s interviews might set that in balance. He asked to speak to Jamshed first, phrasing the request so that it sounded like an act of deference to an elder.

  They adjourned to the sunroom Rachel had described. Zakaria and Sami set up chairs for their convenience. Tea was offered, but Khattak declined—the mosque was cold, but it was best to establish the boundaries at once.

  Khattak studied the older man’s face. He was a widower in his late sixties, a retired accountant who wanted to be of use to his community. He undertook small janitorial tasks at the mosque, and was responsible for opening and closing the house each day. He lived above the mosque, in the five-bedroom house. Some of the other rooms were made available to travelers or important guests of the mosque.

  Khattak began simply. “Are you fond of winter camping?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  The other man was at his ease. His voice was deep, low-pitched, accented, with no obvious signs of strain. He wore loose-fitting shalwar kameez, covered by a thick cardigan and a Pashtun shawl. His hands bore the mark of years of physical labor, unexpected for an accountant.

  “It’s been a cold winter. Unusually cold for December, heavier than average snowfall. Even young people might balk at the thought of spending a week at Algonquin at this time.”

  “We were in cabins, not in tents. We were well-equipped for the cold.”

  “Whose idea was the camping trip?”

  “It was Mohsin’s idea. He thought it would make for a good vacation. Have you been to Algonquin in winter, Inspector? The scenery is quite spectacular.”

  Jamshed’s first lie. Mohsin had been instructed not to take the lead in any part of the Nakba plot, but rather to fall in with the ringleader’s suggestions.

  “He must regret that decision now,” Khattak observed.

  “It is a sad loss.”

  But the other man’s face was like stone, the cold eyes expressionless.

  “Who shared Mohsin’s cabin?”

  “I did.”

  “Did he seem upset to you for any reason? Did you observe anything out of the ordinary in his behavior?”

  “Nothing. He was excited to have the chance to show off his outdoor skills. Things he was good at.”

  Khattak heard the grudging acceptance behind the words.

  “Such as?”

  “Lighting fires. Marking out a trail. Snowshoeing. Cooking over the campfire.”

  It was on the tip of Khattak’s tongue to ask what other outdoor skills Mohsin might have possessed, such as marksmanship or survivalist training. He stopped himself. It was veering too close to the INSET operation.

  “Do you know if Mohsin had made any personal enemies? If anyone resented something Mohsin had done, or had a particular grievance?”

  “I know nothing of the kind. Mohsin was an important member of this community. He was very well liked. There is no one I can think of who would have reason to harm him.” Jamshed shifted f
orward in his chair, resting his elbows upon his thighs. “What of the janazah, Inspector Khattak? You know what an affront this is. Why has the funeral prayer been delayed?”

  Khattak had to be careful about this. It was the same complaint he heard whenever a homicide victim turned out to be Muslim. Swift, unimpeded burial was both the custom and the religious mandate. Delay was troubling to members of the faith. The soul was not at rest. The process of grieving could not begin until it was.

  And there were other traditions. That the body not be seen to decompose in front of the loved ones of the deceased, to minimize the spirit of wailing and lamentation.

  “The autopsy has been conducted with utmost respect for the dead. But burial will not be possible until the investigation is concluded.” Which gave him another line to pursue. “Do you know how Mohsin was killed?”

  Jamshed knotted his hands together. And now Khattak saw a kind of heaviness settle upon the man.

  “Yes. We all do, those of us who were there. We heard the gunshots, two of them.”

  “Were they close together?”

  “Yes. One after the other. Terrible and loud.”

  Sound would carry for miles in Algonquin’s pristine wilderness.

  “And what did you do when you heard the shots, Mr. Ali? Where were you at the time?”

  “It was late at night, nearly midnight. I was in my cabin, preparing to rest. We had eaten, I had prayed. I was tired.”

  “You were alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “If it was so late, as you say, didn’t you wonder where Mohsin was?”

  Jamshed cracked his knuckles, the noise loud and sudden.

  “Mohsin liked to take a walk at night by himself. To think about poetry, he said. To look at the stars, to feel the presence of Allah in the trees. This was the sixth night we were there. It didn’t surprise me.”

  A lump rose in Khattak’s throat. The words awakened an unexpected memory. He remembered this of Mohsin from their youth, even if he didn’t remember Mohsin’s interest in poetry. Hassan Ashkouri’s influence, perhaps.

  Then Mohsin’s words came back to him.

  He’s out there, man. He’s out there in the beauty of the land. Just open your eyes and look for Him. Open your heart and feel Him there.

  Perhaps a Mohsin’s idea of poetry.

  “Did everyone know this? That Mohsin liked to walk alone at night?”

  For the first time, Jamshed hesitated. Then he said, “Yes. I think so.”

  “And when you heard the shots?”

  “Haven’t you read the reports? I rushed outside. We all did. We looked at each other, counting heads, seeing who was there, who wasn’t.”

  “And were you all there? All at the same time? Apart from Mohsin?”

  Jamshed shook his head. “I can’t remember now. I think we were all there. Or maybe Dinaase and Grace met us in the woods.” His mouth tightened at the thought. “That girl serves no purpose except as a temptation to Din. She’s leading him from the straight path. The rest of us, yes. We just came out of our cabins. Hassan and Din shared one, Zakaria and Sami another. And the women were together.”

  “Who found Mohsin’s body?”

  “It took a long time. The woods were thick. No one knew which trail Mohsin would have chosen for his walk. We called out, again and again. No one answered. So we decided to split up—each of us taking a separate path. And then, I found him. It took me half an hour.”

  “Was he still alive? Did he say anything?”

  Jamshed shot Khattak a look of deep dislike.

  “Didn’t you read the report for yourself?” he asked again. “He was dead when I got there. He had dragged himself to a tree. He was sitting up, his back against it. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see. The snow was soaked with his blood. It was terrible. The whole thing was terrible. Thank God the young people didn’t find him.”

  Khattak believed him. It was the first thing Jamshed had said that didn’t reek of calculation. The personal encounter with death, however arrived at, was something that had shaken the man.

  “You say Mohsin dragged himself to the tree. How do you know this?”

  Jamshed Ali stood up. “There was a trail of blood in the snow. Perhaps as much as five feet long. Are we finished? I don’t want to have to go over that night again.”

  “Not quite, Mr. Ali, please. Just a few more questions.”

  “What else then?” He sat down again, his hooded eyes brooding.

  “You noticed the blood trail. Did you notice anything else in the snow? Any signs of disturbance, footprints, the weapon that was used?”

  “The only thing I noticed was Mohsin. Everything else was wiped from my mind.”

  It might have been the truth. Khattak didn’t think so.

  “Do you know what type of gun was used?”

  Jamshed looked at him sharply.

  “Why would I? I assumed he’d been killed by a hunter. Some damn fool chasing partridges in the night.”

  Another lie. A shotgun blast would have left Mohsin’s body in shreds.

  “The wounds from a shotgun are unmistakable,” Khattak said, choosing his words with care. “Didn’t you see—”

  Jamshed cut him off. “We were wearing winter clothing, Inspector. All I could see was that Mohsin’s parka was saturated with blood. I’m no hunter. I couldn’t tell the difference.”

  “Have you ever used a firearm, Mr. Ali?”

  “No.”

  That wasn’t the truth, Khattak thought. Laine had told him about the practice run with the bolt-action hunting rifles. But the forensics team had tested the hands of each member of the camp for gunshot residue. They had been wearing gloves. There was no conclusive evidence found on anyone’s clothes, no traces of spent ammunition, apart from the slugs from the Herstal.

  But someone could have worn a different pair of gloves and hidden them away somewhere at the campsite. Khattak needed to see the scene. The parameters of the INSET operation stifled him at every turn.

  “What happened next?”

  “They heard me calling I had found him. They found me quickly after that. And someone called 911.”

  “Who?”

  “Hassan Ashkouri. When it was obvious we couldn’t save Mohsin, he told us not to touch anything. We backed away.”

  Another lie. Mohsin’s cell phone was missing. Someone at the winter camp had taken it.

  But by whatever mysterious intimation that warns us when danger is at hand, Mohsin had left the phone he used to communicate with INSET at his house before heading up to Algonquin. Members of the INSET team had already collected it.

  So unless Mohsin was killed because someone in the Nakba group had tagged him as an agent, Dar’s cover should still be intact. Which would make the killing personal.

  If Khattak could trust that Ciprian Coale was telling him the truth, instead of working to sabotage his homicide investigation. But he didn’t trust Coale at all. Jamshed Ali and Hassan Ashkouri were dangerous men possessed of a deadly intent. If Mohsin had gotten in their way, they would have taken steps to deal with him. Like two gunshots in the woods.

  Esa had one more question for Jamshed Ali.

  “I’m curious about something. If this was a vacation as you say, why didn’t Alia Dar join you at the camp? Why didn’t she come with Mohsin?”

  A world-weary expression crossed Jamshed’s face, along with a tinge of distaste.

  “Mohsin was getting very close to Paula. Alia would just have been in the way.”

  * * *

  Dinaase Abdi slunk into the sunroom like a child who’d been called into the principal’s office, his expression managing to convey both rebellion and a reluctant deference.

  Esa wondered if Din had had run-ins with the police, stopped to ask where he and his friends were headed, identification demanded on the flimsiest of pretexts, or without any pretext at all. He thought of Desmond Cole’s essay on the practice of carding Toronto’s black population, and its exertive
impact on the city’s policing methods. Khattak’s community-specific mandate couldn’t erase the differences between his experiences and Din’s, something he needed to remember.

  Without forgetting Din’s role in the Nakba plot.

  Jamshed Ali might have ice water running through his veins, and Hassan Ashkouri had been so calculating as to entangle himself with a high-ranking police officer’s sister, but Dinaase Abdi was a seventeen-year-old boy. If there was to be a crack in the Nakba plot, or in Mohsin Dar’s murder, it would start with Dinaase.

  The boy was nervous, slinging his hands in and out of his pockets, playing with the long chain he had snapped to the back of his baggy jeans. He wore the Palestinian scarf, the kaffiyeh, wrapped around his neck several times. He burrowed into it like it was a form of protection.

  He spoke before Khattak could begin.

  “Gracie was at the camp. You gonna call Gracie in?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Gracie had nothing to do with it. She didn’t even want to go to Algonquin. She was only there because of me. Gracie never paid any attention to Mo. She didn’t care about him, one way or the other. And he didn’t care about her. So tell me, why would she shoot him?”

  “When you put it like that, it’s clear that she wouldn’t.”

  Din stopped his nervous fidgeting.

  “Then you feel me, right? You’ll leave Gracie out of this. Anyway, she was with me the whole time that night. Except for the time she spent with Paula.”

  Khattak heard the uncertainty in his voice, decided he could use it.

  “Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?” He looked down at the notes he had taken during his interview with Jamshed. “Where were you when you heard the gunshots? And before you answer that, let me warn you that Mr. Ali has already said that you weren’t in your cabin.”

  Din didn’t answer in the manner Khattak had expected. Instead, his voice rising, he challenged the inspector.

  “Why do you need to warn me? You think I did this? I didn’t. I loved Mo. I freaking loved Mo. He was my big brother. That he’s dead wrecks me, do you get that? It wrecks me.”

  There was real emotion in Din’s voice, but Khattak had long since learned that emotion was no guarantor of truth. It could just as easily serve as the cover for other feelings—feelings that, in this case, would betray Din. And Rachel had told Khattak of the gentle flirtation between Din and Grace in the kitchen the night before. Carefree and candid, untainted by grief.