The Language of Secrets (15 page)

“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.

“Did you do this?” Khattak asked.

Din muttered under his breath.
Here to represent us? No fucking way.
To Khattak he said, “I didn't. No way you'll believe me, but I didn't.”

“If it proves to be true that you had nothing to do with Mohsin's death, I'd have no reason to disbelieve you. So help me prove it. Where were you when you heard the gunshots?”

“Out. In the woods.”

“By yourself?”

Din slumped down in his chair. He slid his fingers between the loops of his chain, manacling his knuckles.

“I already told you,” he said, sulking. “I was with Gracie.”

Which wasn't exactly what the boy had said, but Khattak left it.

“What were the two of you doing out in the woods so late?”

Now Dinaase grinned.

“What do you think? Just how old are you, man? We didn't need a chaperone. We didn't need Paula Policewoman watching our every move.”

“How did Grace know where to meet you?”

“I whispered it to her at the campfire. Over dinner.”

“Did you see Mohsin in the woods? Either of you?”

“We didn't.” The boy's smile widened. “We weren't looking for anybody, you know?” A thought occurred to him. His mood shifted in its wake. “Grace is a good girl, you understand? That stuff on the outside, that doesn't mean anything. She's a good girl.”

“And what does it mean to be a good girl?” Khattak asked, keeping his tone circumspect and civil. “Why would I think she isn't a good girl?”

The boy's eyes met his.

“You know, right? You're one of us, you said.”

Khattak hadn't said that, but he knew what the boy was getting at.

“So you're saying that your—adventures in the woods didn't go beyond a certain point.”

The big-toothed smile was back.

“It was freezing out there, man. You think we're crazy? And besides, with those piercings? It's like being stabbed by icicles.”

Khattak fought back a grin. There was something genuinely candid and funny about Din Abdi's style of expression.

He covered the same ground he'd gone over with Jamshed. Din's whereabouts and Grace's, at the time the gunshots were heard. Their reaction, their movements. It matched Jamshed's account of events down to the last detail. Which in itself was suspicious.

“Tell me something, Dinaase. Do you have any idea what might have happened to Mohsin's cell phone?”

The boy looked confused. “No. Why?”

This time Khattak believed him.

“And the gun? Do you know anything about the gun that was used to kill Mohsin Dar?”

The boy's eyes flickered. “No,” he said again. “Nothing, man.”

Khattak couldn't tell if that was the truth. But it gave him the idea for a new line of inquiry. He nodded at Dinaase, indicating the boy could go.

“Would you ask Mr. Ashkouri if he'll join me now?”

Din shuffled to the door, the kaffiyeh trailing down his back.

“Didn't you know?” he asked. “He already left.”

 

13

Rachel pretended not to notice Khattak as he made his announcement. It wasn't all that difficult. She was genuinely fascinated by Paula Kyriakou's actions. Like Rachel, Paula paid scant attention to Khattak. Her entire attention—in fact her whole body and spirit—seemed attuned not to the graces of an almighty deity, but rather to the prosaic consideration of a distinctly earthbound male.

Before the prayer, other things had kept Paula busy. Rachel had tied her own headscarf this afternoon, choosing a pattern of red and pink stripes—a bit showy, but all that had come to hand in the midst of her unpacking. Paula's eyes had made the pilgrimage to the top of Rachel's skull. Unable to find fault, she had turned away without speaking. Secretly, Rachel was pleased. Paula was thoroughly unencumbered by the need to put others at ease.

She witnessed as much again as the women's prayer row formed.

Women of all ages shuffled together, laughing a little and talking, complaining about the weather or commenting on the brevity of the
khutbah
and the opportunity it afforded to avoid the rush hour. They were grateful to the imam for being a practical, sensible man.

The atmosphere was easy and good-humored. Rachel found herself enjoying it, nodding at a few young women her own age. They smiled in turn.

And then Paula came around and paced the length of the line, disapproval sketched in every inch of her stout figure. She shoved some of the women forward, pulled others a step or two back, her fierce scowl framed by the constriction of her headscarf.

“Keep the line straight,” she growled. “Don't forget the etiquette of prayer in the useless drama of the earthly life.
Duniya
versus piety. It shouldn't be a contest.”

When some of the women glared at Paula in turn, she pointed out, “Your quarrel is not with me. It's with your Creator.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows, which were quite as heavy as Paula's.

“You're new,” Paula struck out at her. “When you enter a house of prayer, you must leave your other preoccupations behind. Otherwise, why bother to come?”

“Not for the sense of community,” said one of the others. The women near her laughed.

Paula fired back. “
Shaitan
laughs the loudest, sisters. Don't forget where you are.”

“Give it a rest, would you, Paula?”

Rachel turned at the sound of the voice. It belonged to Rukshanda Khattak. She'd slipped in late, and was at the opposite end of the prayer row from Rachel. She wore a long emerald sweater over a thick wool skirt, with an artful headscarf that draped over her clothing. The scarf was secured by two jewel-green pins tilted against her lovely face. Unlike Paula, Ruksh's scarf was a fashion accessory, worn with a casual flair that Paula could never hope to emulate.

And maybe there was a cruelty in that.

Or maybe, Rachel thought, Ruksh had dressed as she had for Hassan Ashkouri.

Ruksh chose a spot beside Paula, who stood with a military stiffness. She laid a warm hand on the receptionist's shoulder.

“Relax,” Ruksh said. “The Friday gathering is about community. It's meant to be joyful.”