The Language of Secrets (14 page)

He joined the prayer in good time, keeping to the back, matching the men in the prayer rows to photographs in the INSET files. Several of them turned to look at him, then began to whisper to each other. Khattak was ready for this. Especially since his resemblance to his sister was unmistakable.

Rachel had called to let him know that her phone had been off during the halaqa. She had received his text warning her about Ruksh's presence at the halaqa, just a little too late.

I met your sister after I got your text, but I didn't need to do damage control. I don't think she gave me away.

And Rachel had told him something else. She had told him of Ashkouri's unusual question, along with her conclusion. She suspected that Ashkouri might be suffering from a form of mental illness.

Khattak wasn't as sure. Whoever was behind the planning of the Nakba attacks needed a cool and rational mind, in addition to the ability to map out the various stages of the attack, and the nerve and discipline to see it through. He would also need to be able to maintain control over a disparate group of followers, several of whom were gathered at the prayer—Jamshed, Din, Zakaria, Sami. They were all on INSET's radar, though the files were focused primarily on the trio of Ashkouri, Jamshed, and Din.

Rachel had speculated that Dar's murder, right before the attacks were scheduled to take place, might have unhinged Ashkouri, providing an additional source of worry to add to all the things that could go wrong with his New Year's plan.

But Khattak knew something that Rachel didn't. He understood Ashkouri's question in a completely different context than Rachel would have had access to. And it assured him, if there had been any doubt, that Ashkouri was committed to his plot.

Do you come from mud and crime?

It was the reworking of a line from a poem that had galvanized the Arab world. A cataclysmic poem that well predated Huntington's thesis on the clash of civilizations, the thesis that read Islam as a monolithic force hostile to the West, due to an ingrained inferiority and a permanent sense of inadequacy. The thesis paid scant attention to historical encounters with deeply damaging, long-term consequences, reinforced by new incursions into the Islamic world.

But in Adonis's famous poem, the East spoke back to the West, in a voice that was bold and unafraid. A voice that rejected the judgment of the West, demanding accountability instead.

The poem was called
A Grave for New York.

And the question Ashkouri had asked of Rachel was taken from the poem's blazing indictment of New York as a symbol of imperial power, an icon of decay. To come from New York was to come from mud and crime, and to be destined to return there.

Without difficulty, Khattak could see how Ashkouri would graft his particular ideology onto the poem's surface, ignoring the work's riches and subtleties, along with its critique of the dearth of creativity within the Arab world.

The poem looked in both directions at once: at the decadence of imperial power, and at the societies whose internal corruption had permitted the imperial expansion. Who even now suffered from postcolonial identity crises.

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 forward 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.”