The Language of Secrets Page 20

  “No one is infallible,” Khattak said.

  “Exactly,” Sehr agreed. “In Andy’s case, I think you may have discovered his point of weakness. I would use that if I were you. And look!” She pointed outside. “The sun’s found its way out of that mess of clouds. Let’s count that as a good omen.”

  Khattak didn’t believe in omens. Nor did he turn to look out the window.

  * * *

  Rachel noticed.

  “Why’d you sit with your back to the window, sir?”

  Khattak hesitated. And then he saw that Rachel wasn’t just curious. She was asking out of worry over him.

  “Is it something to do with INSET? You think they’re tracking you?”

  He managed a tired smile.

  “I have it on good authority that my house and my sister are under surveillance, but that’s not the reason why.” He gestured at the round glass windows of the Café des Artistes. “This is where I met my wife. She was a close friend of Sehr’s. The first time I saw her was through that window.” He shook his head, dissatisfied with himself. “It’s foolish, I know. I can’t stand to look out that window knowing she’s not there.”

  And Sehr knew it. Yet still she continued to push him.

  A friend who couldn’t understand that he loved Samina still. No matter who else crossed his path in life, Samina would always be part of him.

  * * *

  Nothing had changed, Sehr thought as Esa left.

  He was still in mourning for his wife. Seven years had passed since her death, yet he mourned her like it was yesterday. And Sehr wondered what it would feel like to be loved like that. To mean as much to anyone.

  If Sehr had met Esa first, met him on her own instead of with Samina by her side, the whole encounter would have played out differently. Perhaps she would have had a chance. Instead, they had never moved beyond this somewhat stilted friendship. And not for lack of trying on her part. Nor for lack of courage.

  She closed her eyes, lost in a rootless nostalgia, the excruciating memory that time had not dulled. The reason that Esa couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

  And that other one—the illumination of Esa’s face the first time he had spoken to Samina.

  He had never looked at anyone that way but Samina.

  And afterward—

  Well, nothing had changed.

  Sehr had been doodling in her notebook, not engaged in her work, as she had been pretending when Rachel and Khattak had arrived.

  She looked down at the words she had aimlessly scrawled on the page.

  He loves me.

  He loves me not.

  * * *

  It was putting her job on the line, she knew. And despite the high road she had taken earlier, Sehr found she didn’t care. She had listened to Esa’s review of the investigation, and discovered the connections that were invisible to the detectives. And understood the implications of those connections as well.

  Rachel and Esa had yet to penetrate through to the heart of things. They couldn’t move forward in any meaningful way, despite the breakthrough Rachel was convinced of.

  Because they still didn’t know.

  And Sehr didn’t understand why Ciprian Coale had withheld the single most critical piece of evidence from them. The evidence that made the identity of Mohsin Dar’s murderer plain. The evidence that would put an end to any chance of disrupting the INSET operation by careless intercession. Rachel was so much closer than she realized.

  It was Ciprian Coale’s personal agenda that kept the truth from the CPS detectives. Did Ciprian’s hostility to Esa run so deep that he was prepared to risk the two years of assiduous effort by his team? Was he prepared to risk the lives of innocent people, just to bring his personal enemy down? Couldn’t Ciprian see the danger to his own career if the Nakba plot were to succeed? Why was he so wholly focused on Esa?

  She pondered the facts for several more minutes. In her briefcase, there was a memo from the Outreach Coordinator, written on Ciprian Coale’s behalf.

  She searched for the memo, read it again.

  Lingered over the signature.

  Made the inevitable connection.

  And realized why.

  * * *

  Esa needed to know the truth, or he would go astray. Much farther astray than he already was, threatened from every side. Sehr knew what that felt like, remembered the hush in the room when her name had been selected to join the team of prosecutors. The sideways glances and hasty recoveries. The murmurs about her personal background. The silence that fell just as she entered a room. The loneliness of exclusion.

  Where did her loyalties lie?

  There was nothing save the years of this carefully sustained friendship between Sehr and Esa. He’d given her no reason to hope for more. But she wasn’t about to let Ciprian destroy what was left of Esa’s career.

  Not if it was in her power to help him.

  She made the decision and picked up her phone.

  21

  Rachel made her way to the Queen Street West venue where Grace and Din were meeting. She wouldn’t have thought that the posh bars and hipster clubs that dominated the neighborhood would be a likely venue for upcoming rap artists.

  She was right. Between the Hideout Bar and the Good Son, there were rooftop clubs and restaurants, and basement doors that beckoned the unwary. She slouched her way into the one at 885. The stairs below the street level were narrow and dim. The stink of garbage accompanied her descent into the netherworld.

  Under the exterior light, a name was scratched over a metal plate, the graffiti artless and casual.

  Gori.

  Rachel recognized the name from her tenure in the West End, working gangs and drugs in the area known as Dixon City, six high-rise apartment buildings that had seen more than an ordinary share of violence.

  And now the name of this hip-hop club.

  She squeezed herself between dozens of gyrating young bodies, the throb of the bass ricocheting through her chest. Clubs were not Rachel’s scene. The occasional bar, maybe. But never an underground club that was in clear violation of the fire code. A hundred or so people—many of them underage—squeezed into a small space, laughing, talking, barely able to hear the kid behind the microphone, in this case a pimpled youth in his early twenties with two large black buttons extending the lobes of his ears.

  She caught sight of Grace in the flickering lights—no disco ball, but a flashing sound and light system generated by someone’s laptop. The stage was just over a foot higher than the wood floor where the audience swayed to a single groove.

  Grace’s magenta hair was brushed straight up, the dark eye shadow traded for two bold smudges of silver. The tips of her eyelashes gleamed with it. She looked surprised to see Rachel, but not unhappy. The corner of her mouth lifted in what could have been a smile or a sneer. One thin arm waved Rachel over.

  Din Abdi hovered by the single step that led to the stage, waiting his turn. His lanky body was graceful as it swooped and curved in time to the music. Grace’s arms were linked about his waist as she danced with him.

  “You come here often?” Din asked. “Never seen you here before.”

  “Never,” Rachel shouted. “I’m supposed to meet my brother here.”

  That Din couldn’t hear her was obvious. His lips pulled back from his teeth, but it didn’t look like a smile.

  “Quite a mix in here,” she said close to Grace’s ear.

  The kids were black, white, brown, Asian.

  Grace shrugged. “It’s Toronto,” she said.

  A group of men approached Din—tattooed, pierced, some with kaffiyehs, others without. They spoke to him in a language that didn’t sound all that different from Arabic to Rachel’s ears.

  “Somali,” Grace said, pulling Rachel away.

  One of them grabbed hold of Grace’s arm.

  “Casper the not-so-friendly ghost. Been a long time.”

  Grace shrank away, trying to free her arm.

  “Chil
l,” Rachel said, detaching the man’s grip with a strategic application of force. He held up both hands, his mouth wreathed in smiles.

  Rachel drew Grace away, putting some other bodies between them. Grace’s eyes followed Din, surrounded by the circle of newcomers.

  “You don’t like them?” Rachel asked.

  “They’re Goonies,” she said. “Dixon City Bloods. It’s never good when they come looking for you. A couple of them used to go to our school. Din was kind of in. And then because of Hassan, he got out.”

  Rachel knew from experience that once you were inducted into a gang, fighting your way free was not a simple matter of choice. And if Din had been in the Bloods, if he had been blooded as part of an initiation ritual, it was something else for her to consider. It made Din more of a threat, more grown-up and ready to face the consequences of his actions.

  “He wanted out?” she asked Grace, who was no longer moving to the music.

  “None of your business,” said Grace. “You ask a lot of questions about things that don’t have anything to do with you.”

  Rachel blinked in surprise. If anyone were to cotton on to what she was really doing at the mosque, she wouldn’t expect it to be Grace.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, making her tone casual. “My brother says that about me all the time. But he’s a kid, and I try to watch out for him. You looked a bit worried, so I thought maybe I could help.” She jerked her head in Din’s direction.

  Grace sighed. Maybe in light of Rachel’s rescue, she thought her hostility wasn’t worth it. “There’s not much future in the Bloods, you know? I didn’t want him to end up dead in some back alley. But the Bloods can find you anywhere. Unionville’s not far enough to run. They killed a kid at a house party in Scarborough.”

  But Hassan Ashkouri was no safer a bet for a young man who found himself alienated and outcast. Who’d been swept up by the Rose of Darkness website’s flattering personal attention.

  “Hassan did something,” Grace muttered, in answer to Rachel’s thoughts. “Got them off his back for a while. We shouldn’t have come here tonight.” She tugged at her spear-shaped bangs. “It’s just—when I’m not with him, he tends to do stupid things, and then I’m the one who has to figure out what to do.” She fixed her clear-water eyes on Rachel. “It’s a big responsibility, looking after him—but it’s like the one thing I’m good at.”

  Silently, Rachel agreed.

  A kid looking to escape a gang should not have returned to a club whose name was Gori, the Somali word for “gun.” The incentive must have been powerful. More than just the chance to preach from a stage where no one could hear your oratory.

  “Why did you come, then? It’s pretty hard to get here from Unionville, isn’t it? I can give you a lift back, if you need one.”

  The night was freezing. And Grace was dressed in a leather miniskirt over her leggings, wearing a sweater full of holes over a tank top that didn’t reach her ghostly white midriff. Her navel was one of the few things she hadn’t pierced.

  “No. That’s okay.” Grace nodded to someone in the distance. “Hassan’s arranged it.”

  Rachel turned to look.

  “Hassan Ashkouri comes to these clubs?”

  Grace rubbed at her stomach. “Just this one. He says he likes poetry. He doesn’t care what kind.”

  The teenager on the stage had finished his jam. It was Din’s turn. But the Dixon City Bloods hadn’t shifted position. They had cornered Din in their midst. His voice rose. He gestured angrily behind them.

  One of them turned to look.

  Hassan Ashkouri stood just inside the door of the club. He was dressed in black jeans and a black shirt. A silver tasbih was threaded around his wrist. And on the fourth finger of his left hand, there was a raised carnelian mounted in a silver setting.

  His otherworldly face was taut with anger.

  The Bloods fell back, the tallest one offering a salute. Din hurried to the stage and grabbed the mike. He nodded at the DJ, who thumped out a sluggish backbeat. Din paced the stage with a natural grace, pouring words into the microphone.

  Rachel held up her cell phone to record him. And swiftly snapped photographs of each of the members of the gang that had accosted Din. And asked herself why they had backed off. And where Zakaria and Sami were. And the more pressing question of precisely what Hassan had done to arrange things for Din.

  Hassan found his way over to them, his eyes taking in Rachel’s markedly different attire.

  “Sister Rachel,” he greeted her. “We meet again so soon. Did Grace invite you here?”

  “No,” Grace answered for her. “Rachel’s meeting her brother here.”

  “Ah. You have a brother, Sister Rachel?”

  Rachel could see he didn’t believe it for a minute. It was one coincidence too many. Mohsin Dar had kept up his masquerade for two years. Ashkouri had rumbled Rachel in little over a week.

  “Yes,” Rachel said, bobbing her head in time to Din’s music. “He told me about this place. Said it was underground, that the people weren’t just posers, they were serious artists. Like Din.” She lifted her chin toward the stage. Ashkouri didn’t turn. He kept his focus on Rachel, reading the band logo on her shirt.

  “There is a song off that album that I like,” he said conversationally.

  It was a test. To see how deep Rachel’s cover went. But this was something she hadn’t invented. The closer she stayed to the truth, the less chance there was of giving herself away.

  “Don’t say ‘Message in a Bottle’,” she said. “It’s much too obvious. You strike me more as a ‘Walking on the Moon’ fan.”

  It was weak and a little obvious, but it diverted Ashkouri.

  “Perhaps,” he said with a half-smile. “Though I don’t think you know me well enough to guess.”

  How true.

  On the stage, Din was rapping vigorously. Rachel struggled to hear the lyrics.

  It sounded like the poem—Hassan Ashkouri’s poem. Except a little different.

  O homeland/O heartache/There is no retreat.

  O homeland/This heartache/ends in defeat.

  Whose defeat? She didn’t think she wanted to know.

  “So what song do you like then?” Rachel asked.

  “‘Bring on the Night.’”

  It was another quiet threat.

  Because wasn’t that just what Ashkouri was doing?

  Bringing on the night?

  And did he realize that the lyrics of that song were about the execution of a man who had murdered two people?

  There was a clever self-awareness in those dark eyes. Of course he knew.

  Ashkouri looked around the club, at the writhing bodies wrapped together under a blanket of smoke and noise.

  “Where is your brother?” he asked Rachel. “Why don’t you bring him to the mosque? Young believers are the backbone of our community.”

  Even if Rachel hadn’t been taking on the role of an undercover cop, she never would have brought the kid brother she loved within a thousand miles of Hassan Ashkouri’s ambit.

  Grace blinked several times, the silver eye shadow resembling two flat metal coins. Rachel recognized her panic. Though Rachel had no claim of friendship over her, Grace was trying to warn her.

  Don’t bring your brother to the mosque. And don’t come yourself either.

  Or was Rachel imagining it because she was growing fond of the girl?

  “Mark goes his own way,” Rachel said. “He’s not too keen on the path I’ve been exploring.”

  Ashkouri bared his teeth.

  “It’s more than an exploration, I think. You’ve been with us quite often of late. Wherever I go, there you are.”

  O homeland/O heartache/This life’s just a cheat.

  O homeland/O heartache/In Junnah we’ll meet.

  Rachel tried to look innocent.

  “I guess I like poetry, just like you.”

  Ashkouri moved close enough to Rachel that she could feel his breath on her
neck. He might have mistaken her for another Paula, entranced by his good looks and glibly sibilant tongue. But Rachel had been in the company of attractive men before. Her boss was one such. Nathan Clare was another. Hassan Ashkouri repulsed her. The handsome façade couldn’t disguise his true identity, the persona she wasn’t meant to see. The man who gauged life and death by some other calculus.

  She’d had enough of Ashkouri.

  She wanted to be there when INSET arrested him.

  And if a murder charge could be brought to bear in addition to the terrorism charges, even better.

  Rachel checked her phone.

  “Looks like my brother can’t make it.” She held up her car keys. “Grace. You want a ride uptown?”

  Grace chewed her lip, her gaze darting between Rachel and Ashkouri. It was clear that there was something she wanted to tell Rachel, that she was starting to open up, but it was also clear that she wouldn’t take another step in Rachel’s direction as long as Ashkouri was around.

  He bowed his head politely.

  Din was still rapping from the stage.

  You calling this a bum rap/you calling this a heart attack/you don’t know what’s loaded up and waiting on the tarmac/downfall coming, no jack/new year’s rain is night black/do you hear the ice crack/worse than any hijack/speeding down the wrong track/call this one a death hack.

  “I’m okay,” Grace said at last. “I’ve gotta wait for Din.”

  “He’s good,” Rachel said. Her phone was still recording. She’d palmed it in her hand. “Tell him I said so. Oh, and Grace. I brought these for you. I thought you could use them because you said you like to make your own mixtapes.”

  Rachel groped inside her bag until she found the cassette tapes.

  “I can’t believe they still sell these anywhere.” She handed them over with a grin.

  Grace shoved them into her backpack with muttered thanks.

  And Rachel looked up to face the cold rage in Hassan Ashkouri’s eyes.

  * * *

  Why was he angry? And not just angry, but furious?

  She shivered as she hustled her way back to the car. What had she done to cause such an overt reaction? Ashkouri couldn’t tell that she’d been recording Din on her cell phone. Or that she had been worried by Din’s spoken word.