The Language of Secrets Read online

  “I think I’ll have to talk to the superintendent myself, but I want to sleep on it first. It feels like we’re missing something.”

  “At least you can tell her you handled the Dars. What happened there—you didn’t say. I mean with Mohsin’s wife.”

  Khattak hit the replay button on the video Rachel had recorded. He muted the sound.

  “I made Alia believe that Mohsin was having an affair with Paula Kyriakou, in spite of the fact that the opposite is true. I used the same story to threaten Dar into backing off the investigation. All while promising a young reporter that I hadn’t made any threats at all. Not my finest hour, Rachel.”

  Rachel didn’t try to dissuade him. If Alia was innocent of her husband’s murder, it had been cruel to mislead her about the affair. But she wondered if what Khattak had done to Andy Dar hadn’t been worse somehow—shattering his illusions about his murdered son. At the time, the lie had seemed necessary. Perhaps Alia and Andy Dar would find solace when they learned the truth about Mohsin’s work for INSET. And when his murderer was apprehended.

  As eventually, he would have to be.

  “If we set things right at the end, maybe they’ll forgive us.”

  An unexpected warmth stretched between Khattak and Rachel. It had been the right thing to say, because he found comfort in it. Just as Rachel had found it comforting that Khattak had made himself at home in her kitchen, not bothering to ask her permission.

  The tea was for her nerves. The familiarity was that of a friend.

  He looked at her for a moment without saying anything. And then he patted her hand.

  “Thank you, Rachel.”

  Her gracious response was to slurp at her tea.

  Khattak hid a smile.

  “It goes without saying that you’re not going to Algonquin.”

  Rachel grinned. “Yet you still feel the need to say it.”

  “Even if they’ve handed over the rifles to the second cell, it’s too dangerous for you. Look at how Ashkouri accosted you tonight. He’s on to you.”

  “He was just so angry,” she agreed. “But why? What did I do beyond what I normally do to irritate people? He didn’t hear me on the phone until after he’d made the decision to follow me. It was something before that.”

  “Did you comment on Din’s performance?”

  “Just to say it was good. For all Ashkouri knows, I couldn’t even hear the lyrics.” She cast her mind back over the order of events at the club. “Christ,” she said. “I don’t know how I missed it. It was the tapes. I handed some cassette tapes to Grace. He must have realized that I’m the one who stole the An-Nahda cassette.”

  “There’s nothing incriminating on that tape, no code that either I or the Arabic professor could decipher. It doesn’t make sense.”

  He turned up the volume on Din’s rap.

  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.

  “And there’s no code here that I can think of. It’s just a form of braggadocio. And if he’s advertising the plot, it’s inordinately foolish of him. Do you have any of those cassettes left?”

  Rachel checked in her bag. She passed the remaining cassette to Khattak.

  “What do people use these for anymore? Why do they need them? You can record anything you want on a cell phone now.”

  “It’s a different kind of sound,” Rachel mused. “My mother used to record herself playing piano. She said the background noise on the tape provided an ambiance she wouldn’t get otherwise.”

  “There has to be a pattern of some kind. Hang on, Rachel. Let’s go over the information the superintendent gave me.”

  He found his briefcase and divided the contents of the folder between them.

  “Look for anything that explains it.”

  They read for several minutes, Rachel running her finger down the lines.

  “They go to a lot of different places. And they meet with a lot of different people,” she said. “When they’re not at Nur. But none of those people are members of the other cell, according to this.”

  “Martine Killiam said the second cell is the strike team. So how do they get their orders? When do they get them? Rachel—” A note of excitement crept into Khattak’s voice. “Is there anyplace that all three of them go? At different times? Jamshed Ali, Din Abdi, and Ashkouri? Would you check?”

  Rachel went over the summary report again.

  “There’s a gas station,” she said. “It’s also a convenience store. Grace mentioned it once. It says here it’s owned by a man named Ashiq Ayub.”

  And now she remembered exactly what Grace had said.

  Din got me some cassette tapes from there because Hassan keeps borrowing mine.

  “Sir—”

  But Khattak had it too.

  He slapped the folder against the table.

  “How did we miss it? How did INSET? It’s a drop spot. The wiretaps didn’t pick up any communication between the cells because they weren’t using landlines or cell phones. They didn’t speak about the details of the plot inside the mosque—they could have done that outdoors, or anywhere there was a lot of background noise. They avoided surveillance by using these.”

  He held up the single cassette.

  “Recording updates and instructions on the tapes, and using the gas station as a drop. It was how they avoided the wiretaps.”

  “But then how did INSET know anything about the plot at all?”

  Khattak’s answer was thoughtful.

  “They were tracking the Rose of Darkness website. And all computer communications, including websites visited by members of the group. But Rachel, don’t you see? Most of the information INSET used to coordinate their operation came to them through Mohsin Dar.”

  “That’s why Ashkouri had him killed,” Rachel whispered.

  “It has to be why.” He gave the tape back to Rachel. “And that’s why he followed you to your car. He thought you’d uncovered their most important secret. The poetry was a blind. INSET must have spent months attempting to decode it.”

  “When all along the answer was so simple. Old-fashioned, even. But one thing doesn’t make sense. If the gas station is a drop, why wouldn’t surveillance have connected the dots to members of the second cell? Someone must have picked up the tapes from there.”

  “It wouldn’t be the only drop, Rachel. They could use the tapes to vary the pickups. How often were members of Ashkouri’s group at the gas station?”

  Rachel checked against the record.

  “Three times in total.”

  “Very little over two years, then. And each of them went once?” She nodded. “What about the other two, Zakaria and Sami?”

  “Not that I can see. Whatever their role is, it’s low-level.”

  “Are there other connections, other places?”

  “Not for Ashkouri, Jamshed, and Din.”

  “It might have been a fallback option, when other locations couldn’t be arranged. The rest of the time they adapted. It makes sense that they wouldn’t have used the same drop each time. And even if members of both cells frequented the same places, they didn’t do so at the same time. That’s how INSET missed it.”

  “Sloppy,” Rachel commented.

  “It’s obvious to us now,” Esa amended. “But who would think of something so outmoded in this era of modern technology?”

  “It’s liking sticking a note in a sandwich bag and stuffing it into a knot in a tree. Anyone could have picked up the tapes.”

  “I’m guessing they were a bit more sophisticated than that.”

  “Is the owner of the gas station in on the plot?”

  Khattak consulted his share of the papers.

  “He’s not. Another reason they missed it. How many places could INSET canvass?”

  “Es
pecially if Mohsin didn’t know about any of this.”

  “Ashkouri didn’t completely trust him.”

  “That’s why he’s dead. He did something to tip Ashkouri off.”

  “Possibly the fact that he was trying so hard to get Din and Paula out of the group.”

  “He risked everything for them. The INSET operation. His marriage. His life, in the end.”

  * * *

  Khattak moved to the window to study the landscape below. The windows of Rachel’s living room looked out over a busy neighborhood bounded to the west by a park. Christmas lights bathed the untrammeled snow, a luminous field of gold and green.

  The night was dark, but not lonely.

  Perhaps that was because of Rachel.

  These were discoveries that needed to be shared with Killiam and Coale without delay. Everything turned on them. Perhaps it would accelerate INSET’s intervention. His phone showed that Sehr Ghilzai had called him twice, and Alia Dar once. Neither of them had left messages. Reason enough not to call them back. Yet.

  Before he could press Coale’s number, Rachel asked him another question.

  “Why is Ashkouri taking his group to Algonquin tomorrow? Why absent himself from the scene two days before the launch of the attack?”

  “It will be New Year’s Eve. The roads out of the city will be empty. Maybe it’s a strategic retreat.”

  It was a plausible explanation, and Rachel seemed to agree with it.

  She didn’t answer as she could have, that the roads out of the park led nowhere. Not to the border. Not to the frozen seas. Not to a tiny airfield like the Buttonville Airport.

  He was missing something. The encounters with Ashkouri, the message of the halaqas, the random bits of poetry, Mohsin Dar’s death and the missing gun, the information that had leaked through the sieve of INSET’s intelligence operation.

  The reason Dar had died.

  There was still something just out of reach of his understanding.

  You don’t know what’s loaded up and waiting on the tarmac.

  Could Rachel possibly be right?

  Missiles raining down on New Year’s Day.

  Was it conceivable in a city as good-naturedly diverse as Toronto?

  And why New Year’s Day, if the answer was yes? It didn’t mark the September 11 anniversary. It didn’t mark the anniversary of the actual Palestinian Nakba. Most people would be out of the city, on holiday with their families. The business district would be closed.

  Yes, there would be increased travel out of Union Station—but enough to justify the timing of this plot?

  Why wouldn’t Coale tell him what he knew?

  The answer to that was obvious enough.

  Your only job is to handhold Andy Dar. Beyond that, we have no further use for you.

  The words arrogant, offensive, intended to wound.

  Khattak had made his name at INSET. Pushing him out defied logic. He could have worked the CPS mandate, and been of value to INSET.

  Coale had screened the operation from Khattak from the outset. Esa had been let in only because Martine Killiam had seen the value of bringing Khattak onto her team.

  Coale’s agenda was personal, he knew. But was there more to it than that?

  How had Mohsin Dar ended up dead in the woods of Algonquin Park when he was the INSET team’s most valuable source of information? Why hadn’t he had cover from INSET?

  It hardened his determination that Rachel not go north with Ashkouri’s group. And he came to another decision just as quickly. He needed to confirm that RCMP agents had delivered inert material in lieu of ammonium nitrate to the members of the second cell. And then he had to convince Martine Killiam to activate the strike team without further delay.

  There were too many unknown variables.

  And he wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery of Mohsin’s death.

  Why kill him? What had tipped Ashkouri off? And where was the gun?

  * * *

  A text came in from Laine Stoicheva.

  Be careful. Dar might not be as controlled as you think.

  Another source of concern. Why the about-face from Laine? Was her attempt to assist with his objectives sincere, or were there deeper layers to her involvement? He knew from experience that Laine’s mind was complex and devious; she was capable of working several tracks at once.

  But if she wanted to strike out at Esa, there was no simpler means of doing so than to go along with whatever Ciprian Coale had in mind. So why the extra effort? What did Laine want from him? Redemption? Forgiveness? An expiation of her sins? She owed that more to his friend, Nathan Clare, than she did to him. She had caused Esa professional discomfort. The wound to Nathan had been personal and enduring.

  He didn’t have time to worry about Laine. She was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

  He called Martine Killiam for answers.

  And explained his rationale at length.

  24

  The brow of the moon was stenciled against the sky. Khattak crossed the park to reach his car, passing under the tangled branches of a stand of Japanese maples. The cold air penetrated the scarf at his throat, waking him from the gates of sleep. In the wind, the fir trees shivered, a quiet susurration through the park. Followed by another sound. A footfall slipping on the ice.

  With a half-second’s awareness, Khattak turned in its direction, avoiding the blow aimed at the back of his skull, but unable to dodge it altogether. A metal object pounded into his right temple with enough force to send him sprawling back against his car. His eyes watered. He couldn’t see. Blows rained against his stomach and his ribs with the same metal object. He couldn’t tell what it was.

  He used his left arm to block his assailant, trying to keep his balance. He was struck on the temple again, and this time he went down. He felt his ribs crack as heavy boots kicked at his torso. Pain sliced through his head. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys. Swearing at his attacker, he thumbed the car alarm. The noise blared through the empty park. His assailant kicked him once more, then fled.

  Khattak felt a stickiness at his temple. Blood leaked into his eye. He lay still for another moment, evaluating his injuries. Even for a police officer, personal violence possessed the power to stun. He breathed through his mouth, getting his bearings. He struggled to sit up against the front tire of his car. His fingers found his phone. He called Rachel, who didn’t answer. He left a message telling her to double her guard and to make sure her doors were locked. Then he called Laine, and asked her for a surveillance update on the members of Ashkouri’s cell. The man who had attacked him was strong and well built. For a brief moment, he entertained the notion that it might have been Andy Dar. But what he wanted to know was where Jamshed Ali was at this moment.

  Laine promised to call him back without questioning his reasons.

  Khattak lurched to his feet. After a few minutes, he found that he could open his car door, and swung himself into the driver’s seat. He found tissues in the glove compartment and dried off his face. His head was swimming. It wasn’t safe to drive, but he had no intention of calling either of his sisters to the scene. He tried Rachel again; no answer. He thought of calling Nathan, but it would take Nate forty minutes to reach the West End.

  His thoughts were going dark. He leaned his head against the steering wheel, trying to remember who lived nearby. He hit a button on his phone. A woman’s voice answered. He didn’t ask her to come. He asked her to keep trying Rachel.

  Before he lost consciousness, he left a detailed recording on his phone.

  * * *

  He was woken by the sound of an insistent rapping against his window. It was Sehr Ghilzai, her pale face looming out of the darkness. He unlocked the car door, passed her his phone, closed his eyes again.

  The next time he woke he was in a hospital bed in the emergency department. Rachel was seated at the foot of the bed, sipping at a cup of canteen coffee and frowning her way through a crossword puzzle.

  When she saw
him open his eyes, she put the crossword book away.

  She answered his question before he could ask it.

  “Two fractured ribs, twenty-four stitches, and a mild concussion. You’ll be just fine.” She gave him a crooked grin, and pointed at the round stamp on his forehead. “Gives you a bit more street cred.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  He was surprised to hear that his voice sounded slurred.

  “That’s the painkillers,” Rachel advised him. “Nothing yet. Your phone’s password-protected so I couldn’t dig too deep. How are you feeling?”

  The painkillers were effective. He felt drowsy and a bit thickheaded, nothing more. He gave Rachel the password to his phone.

  “You should have had it long ago. Did you tell my family?”

  Rachel shook her head. “I knew you wouldn’t want them to be worried. And honestly, I didn’t know how to handle Ruksh. I was afraid of what she might say or do with the news of your attack. If it had been more serious, I would have called her. Was that okay?”

  He nodded. A vision of Sehr’s pale face floated into his mind. Had he imagined that she had been there? He asked Rachel.

  “She brought you here, don’t you remember? I told her to go as soon as I got here. I wasn’t sure we could risk the association.”

  “Didn’t ask her to come,” Khattak managed. “Asked her to call you.”

  “From the state of our Crown prosecutor, I’m guessing she was too panicked to wait for my response. Sorry about that, by the way. I was in the shower; I didn’t hear the phone.”

  Khattak waved her apology away.

  “Have to see Killiam.”

  “They’re keeping you overnight. I called the superintendent. Your meeting’s been moved to later in the morning. I’ll stay with you until you’re discharged and drop you back to your car.”

  Khattak let his head fall back against his pillow. Rachel had done everything he would have done if he’d been able to act for himself.

  He thanked her wearily, asked her to go home.

  She scoffed at that, and told him to go to sleep.

  * * *

  Which was a much calmer reaction than Rachel had had when Sehr Ghilzai had reached her. Sehr had gone with Khattak in the ambulance, and used Khattak’s police ID to push him to the front of the queue. The private room and the first available bed were also due to Sehr’s influence.