The Unquiet Dead (24 page)

“How long had Drayton been receiving the letters?”

Rachel spit out her hair. “Why? What does that matter?”

“We have to ask ourselves: why now? If the letters had been arriving for some time—months, even years, what precipitated Drayton's fall at this time? Was there a precipitating event? That's what we need to know.”

“He's only lived on the Bluffs for two years, we know that much.”

“Assuming that he'd been receiving the letters for the whole of that time, what does that tell us?”

“I'm not sure.” An idea began to form in her mind as the significance of the dates stamped itself into her awareness

“Sir, there were two precipitating events, if you think about it.” She knew he would only accept the first. She offered them both anyway. “One, the wedding was on the horizon. Drayton was about to marry Melanie Blessant, transferring himself and his money into her hands.”

“Go on.”

“Two, the museum's about to open. He wanted in. The board may have wanted his money, but they had no intention of renaming the project in his honor. Or of allowing him a greater say in directing the museum.”

“Melanie marries Drayton, she gets the money. Drayton dies, Melanie gets the money. In one scenario, Dennis Blessant is off the hook but has to wrangle over his girls. In the other, Melanie no longer wants the girls.”

“You're thinking the
father
is a likelier suspect?” Why wasn't he looking at the museum?

“I'm not saying that.” His tone was patient. “I'm simply running through all possibilities. I've no doubt at all that Drayton was Dra
ž
en Krstić. There are multiple scenarios here, but we can't ignore the letters. Whoever wrote them had a motive strong enough to have seen to Drayton's death.” Rachel hesitated before she said softly, “I'm glad you see that, sir, because there's something else.”

When he raised his eyebrows at her, she told him about the lilies.

 

23.

Verily God will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.

This driving around in the middle of the day was tiring, but at least the city traffic wasn't terrible. They were back at Drayton's garden. Khattak stood under the maple tree. The heads of the yellow lilies sagged toward him on their stalks. He brushed them lightly with his fingertips.

“I know what these are. Do you have your camera?”

She produced a small digital camera from her blazer pocket. He snapped several photos.

“If Drayton was as upset as the Osmonds claim, there's an excellent reason for it.”

“He didn't like yellow?”

“This is the Bosnian lily, a native plant. It was a symbol on Bosnia's flag at the time of its independence from Yugoslavia. The coat of arms that bore the original fleur-de-lis is a much older symbol. It represents the arms of the Kotromanić family, who ruled Bosnia during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.”

“So someone planted these to upset Drayton. To remind him of the war.”

“And his role in it. Did the Osmonds say when the flowers first appeared?”

“No. Drayton thought Harry had planted them, but Aldo showed him the sketch for the landscape design. He said they'd never plant lilies in such deep shade.”

“Drayton believed them?”

“That's what they said. Plus, they consulted with Drayton over every plant in the garden. They'd hardly throw in something as a surprise.”

“You said the younger brother suffers from mental illness. Violent?”

“I don't know. Aldo Osmond was definitely not receptive to the idea of me questioning him. Harry's easily upset, but he seemed harmless to me.”

“So what do we have? The letters, the lilies, the tattoo, the gun.”

“He's Krstić,” Rachel said. “I don't doubt it either.”

“We need to pay another visit to the
Dzamija
.”

“You're planning to tell the imam?”

“I'm hoping there's something more he can tell us.”

“You don't expect him to stay quiet, do you.”

It wasn't a question. It was an observation that troubled Khattak at a personal level.

“I don't know that I could in his shoes. After what he's been through. Dra
ž
en Krstić, here? Living a peaceful, successful life? I don't know that I could stomach it.”

“He's a spiritual man.”

“He watched his friends and mentors murdered in Manja
č
a. I don't know how spiritual anyone feels after such a thing.”

“I don't know what faith has to say in answer to that,” she said, after a moment.

“I've struggled with it, but I don't either.”

*   *   *

She decided to forego any mention of lunch, caught by Khattak's somber mood. They drove to the mosque in silence, through back roads that bypassed the traffic building on the highways. She palmed a Mars bar from her bag and made quick work of it.

“I've another if you want,” she mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate.

“I need to feed you better. Or at least let you take a lunch break once in a while.”

“That place at the marina was good.”

“This is your neighborhood. What's here?”

“Popeye's Chicken? Spadina Garden? What are you in the mood for?”

“Those are a little out of the way. I have to drive to Ottawa tonight.”

An awkward silence fell. Rachel wasn't slow to understand the reason for it. “If I lived on my own, I'd invite you over and whip something up for us.” It wasn't that she couldn't cook. She just didn't like to.

“I'd like to meet your father one day.”

That was Khattak. Clear and direct to a fault. He'd seen her discomfort, pinpointed its source, and spoken to its root. She cleared her throat, her skin suddenly clammy.

“It might not be the experience you're hoping for, sir.”

“I don't think it will be as bad as you fear, Rachel. I've worked with some obdurate individuals at INSET.”

She choked on her last bite of chocolate. “You know a little about my da, then.”

He slid the car into an empty spot in the mosque's parking lot and gave her a friendly glance.

“Don Getty's reputation precedes him everywhere. He's enormously popular.”

Except in his own home, she thought. Aloud she said, “That's good to know. Maybe another time, then. We're here now.”

But there would never be another time. She would make sure of it.

*   *   *

This time they were directed to the slightly shaggy lawn behind the mosque where Imam Muharrem strolled back and forth beneath an avenue of mulberries. He was dressed more casually today, a thin white sweater adding warmth to his robes.

A group of children scampered over the lawn in search of a soccer ball, their ages ranging from five to fifteen. Their playful laughter filled the air, as a particularly determined little girl kicked at the older boys' knees. Rachel smiled. Any girl who fought the odds, convinced that she could win, reminded her of herself.

Although the imam's welcome was warm, a wariness darkened his eyes. “You are back, my friends. With news I hope.”

Khattak ran through the information they had gathered so far, giving the imam time to absorb it. His gaze brooded over the children at play, following the progress of the soccer ball.

“He has the tattoo?”

“He has it, but I caution you that it was a common symbol among the paramilitaries.”

“Krstić was not a paramilitary. He was Chief of Security of the Drina Corps. He was General Radislav Krstić's direct subordinate. You know what they say about Lieutenant Colonel Krstić, don't you?”

“I'm afraid I don't,” Khattak said.

“I've spoken with some of the survivors since your last visit. I've asked about this man. They told me the same thing: Krstić was everywhere during the murders. He arranged the logistics, he oversaw the executions.”

Khattak waited. “Yes, I'm sorry. I did know that.”

“Then perhaps you will tell me what you are waiting for. There should be an announcement to the community, to the country. There must be an accounting of what Krstić was doing in this country. How he arrived here.”

“I promise you that all those things will be arranged once Krstić's identity is confirmed. We cannot confirm it through physical evidence—we simply don't have any. We're following his paper trail, his money. I can assure you of one thing, though: he did not come into this country as Dra
ž
en Krstić. He was already Christopher Drayton when he arrived here.”

The imam came to a halt near the shaded entrance to the back of the mosque. A few of the older children had opted out of their game to watch him. He waved them off with a faded smile.

“He fooled your government, this means.”

“I think he fooled a lot of people, sir.” Rachel tugged on the lapels of her blazer. “I doubt that anyone who knew him then would recognize him now.”

“Should we not test this? We can arrange for people who saw him in Srebrenica to identify him. Not just from our neighborhood but from many cities in America: St. Louis, Chicago, Des Moines. We can set this matter to rest.”

Khattak hesitated, his movements ill at ease. “I'm afraid that wouldn't settle it, sir. Given the amount of time that's elapsed. They would say that memory alone cannot be trusted.”

The imam's lips tightened. “And when memory is all we have? They took everything else. Our papers, our homes, our cities, our loved ones. They even robbed the dead of their teeth.”

His words made Rachel think of a line she had read in the letters.

They stripped us of everything. There was no kindness, no decency.

She wondered what Khattak could possibly say to alleviate the other man's anger.

“You insult us, Inspector. The truth is terrible enough. We have no reason to manufacture lies about the horrors my people suffered.”

“I know that, believe me I do. I'm not saying that identification wouldn't help. I'm saying we must follow every possible lead until we are certain of Krstić's identity beyond a doubt. Wouldn't you prefer it that way?”

The little girl kicked the ball straight at the imam. He caught it with a deft movement and tossed it back to her, his face grave.

“It would give many people peace to know that Krstić is dead.”

“For that peace to be real, they would need to know that Drayton really was Krstić. All I'm asking you for is a little more time. I'm heading to the Department of Justice this afternoon. I should be able to tell you much more once I've had that meeting.”

Imam Muharrem studied him.

“So you will be the truth-bearer, Inspector Esa. You will tell your masters what they do not wish to hear, insist to them on the truth of what you've learned. And they will say to you, Inspector, ‘How can you trust the memory of these Bosnians? A people too weak to save themselves. We owe them nothing. Let us preserve our silence.'”

“Imam Muharrem—”

“Can you deny it? Was Srebrenica not the worst hour of so many Western governments?”

“The Canadian battalion wasn't in Srebrenica in 1995, sir. And while they were there, they lived on combat rations as an act of solidarity with your people.” Rachel had done her research but she didn't know what made her say this; perhaps a flicker of deep-seated shame.

The imam took her up on it. “The Canadian battalion was evacuated at the insistence of your government. Unlike my people, who could not be evacuated and were left behind to be murdered. I'm afraid a ration of two beers a day is not my definition of solidarity, Sergeant. We experienced the same pressures as your commander in Srebrenica, but we did not share his relief from it.” He shook his head. “Canbat or Dutchbat, it would have made no difference. The outcome would have been the same. What does it matter to the mothers of Srebrenica if entire governments resign? Will that bring back the dead?”

“Sir—”

“You do what you must, Inspector. I will do the same.” He saw their expressions and added, “I do not mean that as a threat. I will wait to see what your government does. I think this will make you unpopular, Inspector Esa. If you expose your government, you may not reach the heights you were otherwise destined for. Your Community Policing may fail before it has a chance to begin.”

Khattak slid his hands into his trouser pockets, the gesture unforced. “Please let me worry about that, Imam Muharrem. We cannot possibly fail you twice.”

*   *   *

It was a kind thing to say, Rachel supposed, words that reassured the imam but did nothing to dispel her own anxiety. She couldn't quash the feeling that Khattak was far more invested in the outcome of this case than he was prepared to concede. If he'd been brave enough to join a student humanitarian mission, his conscience should be clear. Why did he bear the burdens of Bosnia so personally?

She admitted she didn't know what a person who subscribed to the same faith might feel. The bonds of religious solidarity? A call to action? A sense of failure? Guilt? Shame? How far did the bonds of this dimension of identity extend? What did faith demand in this instance? Maybe Khattak's recollections of a city under siege were what drove him repeatedly to the golden idyll of Andalusia, to Mink Norman and her museum.

Her steps heavy, she trudged behind Khattak through the narrow passageway that led to the mosque's front door. Both sides of the hall were lined with group photographs that depicted community activities. Cookouts, picnics, basketball tournaments, children's races. A few were the solemnly arranged groups of board members and clerical advisory committees, identified by name but not by date. One of these dominated the others in a massive black frame cropped by a velvet mat. Six men in poses of varying seriousness were gathered before the mosque's
mihrab
. One was a man she recognized.