The Language of Secrets (16 page)

Paula shrugged off her hand, her face tight with anger.

“You think you know everything,” she told Ruksh.

Ruksh's answer was mild. “I know there's no prize awarded for perfection of the rituals. You don't have anything to prove, Paula. When you've been with us a little longer, you'll see there's no one way.”

Humiliated, Paula replied, “It's people like you who cause
fitna
. Just ask Hassan.”

Ruksh said nothing else. Her face was eloquent on the subject of the pity she felt for Paula. Rachel looked away. The entire encounter made her uncomfortable. Ruksh might not be as sharp-edged as Rachel had first assumed, but there was a troubling element of condescension in the way she had spoken to Paula.

Khattak had been thoughtful when he'd explained the loaded meaning of the term
fitna
. Rachel wondered which context applied here: temptation, trial, civil strife, or disunity? It was a heavy charge to toss around.

She watched Hassan Ashkouri join the men. His lambent eyes sought out Ruksh, instead of the other way around. And such a look. So might an angel of the pit cast his spell.

When Khattak read out his list of names at the conclusion of the prayer, it was Ruksh who stiffened with displeasure.

She didn't want her brother here, didn't want to acknowledge him as her brother. But she still hadn't singled out Rachel for her attention. Or guessed aloud at Rachel's identity.

“Come with me,” Paula urged her.

Rachel followed Paula up to the upstairs landing. Here she found the unassembled pieces of a series of cubicle boards.

“What's this for?” she asked.

“Brother Jamshed isn't happy with Grace. He doesn't like the way she hangs over the balcony. He thinks she comes here to flirt with Dinaase. He thinks her interest isn't sincere.”

Paula said this with a certain primness that Rachel found comical. For hadn't Paula also pushed her way to the balcony, in hopes of glimpsing Ashkouri?

“You won't be able to see the imam. You can barely hear the call to prayer as it is.”

Paula busied herself with sliding the first flank of the partition into its allotted place. The cubicle board was heavy. After watching her struggle for a moment, Rachel stepped in to help.

“Don't worry about that,” Paula said. “We've only been using the tape recorder out of respect for Mohsin. He always gave the
adhaan
here. In a few days, they'll find someone else.”

Rachel smiled at the idea. A tape recorder was such an antiquated device. Everyone used cell phones now. It reminded Rachel of the Royal Canadian Legion dinners her father had taken her and Zachary to when she was small. The scratchy sound system had refused to deliver the sense of the Legion brothers' speeches. She and Zach had plugged their ears with their knuckles at its screechy whistle, making faces at each other.

“What did you think of him?” Paula asked.

Rachel knew she meant Khattak, but she needed to dig at Paula's composure a little.

“You mean Hassan Ashkouri? His halaqa was fascinating. He's a deep thinker, isn't he?”

Paula slotted another piece of the partition into place. She used so much force that the board slammed against Rachel's hand. Rachel dropped her side of the board, snatching her hand away. It was her good hand. The hand that maneuvered her hockey stick.

“Good God, that hurts!”

She shook the hand back and forth, hoping to outpace the pain.

True to form, Paula offered neither apology nor empathy. She clucked her tongue.

“You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain. Not over something so minor.”

Rachel grimaced. She'd have to ice the hand when she got home. For now she wondered if Paula had done it on purpose. To change the subject from Hassan Ashkouri.

But then Paula met her question head-on, her tone contemplative.

“He
is
a deep thinker; it's good that you caught that. Most people don't. You were lucky to be invited. It's usually a very select group of people that are allowed to attend the halaqa.”

Rachel blew on her hand, trying to keep her mind off the pain.

“I noticed it was just you and Grace, from the women. Aren't the other women allowed to attend? I mean, how does Hassan choose? How did I get so lucky?” Rachel pretended modesty. “I know I didn't do anything to earn the invitation. I just stumbled onto this place.”

Paula's sniff was disdainful.

“Hassan likes converts.” She forgot to use the word “revert” this time, caught up in the story she wanted to tell. And the fact that she had an attentive audience. “I think he appreciates the depth of our commitment. Most people are lucky enough to have faith handed to them on a platter. We're not. We have to struggle our way toward it. That makes it more meaningful to us.”

She tugged at her scarf, looking for someone on the other side of the balcony.

“Not like Ruksh, who just takes what she's been given for granted.”

Rachel understood Paula's bitterness. Paula longed for the attention of a man who probably wouldn't think twice of her. Who would use her as a pawn in his game. What's more, Paula's rival was beautiful, successful, glamorous. Ruksh could meet Hassan on the plain of a common heritage, sharing a natural sympathy of thought. Paula was giving it her best, crying out for Hassan's notice, and Rachel felt sorry for her, a pity that hit a little too close to home. How many times had Rachel been passed over, ignored, dismissed as unappealing? Fascinated by a man whose eyes held no spark for her? Too many to count.

And Paula was doing nothing to help herself—the censorious tone, the all-encompassing gown, the suffocating scarf. She had chosen to focus on her spiritual appeal, rather than the usual bag of feminine tricks—shiny hair, classy makeup, chic outfits.

Held up to the mirror of Rukshanda Khattak, Paula didn't stand a chance.

Which made Paula lucky, so lucky to have escaped the coils of Hassan Ashkouri.

Unless she was involved in the plot.

Something else puzzled Rachel. Paula didn't seem to have been disregarded completely. She had claimed that Mohsin had pestered her, following her around, clamoring for her attention. But why? Dar was a married man; Paula was interested in someone else. Nothing in the INSET file addressed the issue of Mohsin pursuing her, and if he had, why? To take up an extramarital affair in the midst of a razor-edge undercover assignment would have been an appalling risk.

Dar seemed like he had been a risk taker all his life.

But never a foolish one.

Then why?

*   *   *

She and Paula finished assembling the cubicle boards into a stand-alone partition that blocked the view of the hall below and the light that leaked through slats in the blinds. The upper landing was now a closed-off, dismal space. Rachel felt her spirits sag. This was not a place she would come to for encouragement, if she had been one of the faithful.

She wondered what the other women would make of it: Paula asserting herself once again, once too often, the partition an unwelcome intrusion.

But Jamshed Ali had requested that the partition be set up in the women's gallery. And he had arranged for the delivery of the cubicle boards in very short order.

Why? Because Jamshed was suspicious of Rachel? And wanted to curtail her access to the mosque? If that was true, this was a bizarre method of going about it. Rachel could explore the upstairs or downstairs of the house whenever she wanted to, whenever she had a moment alone. The only thing the partition prevented was a full view of the men's prayer space.

And why would Jamshed Ali want that?

 

14

Esa tried to catch his sister in the parking lot, but she was determined to leave before he could accost her. Her car sped out of the lot, her face turned away, the better to avoid him. He made his way around the pond, headed to the library, where he'd asked Rachel to meet him.

He'd finished with Zakaria and Sami, neither of whom had added anything that differed from Jamshed Ali's account. Both claimed to have been together inside their cabin when the gunshots had sounded through the woods. Both seemed to view his presence at the mosque with a sense of bemusement, like children at play in a make-believe war.

Not for the first time, he cursed Ashkouri for his role in radicalizing the others.

It was time to call Coale, tell him what he'd learned, and see if Coale would share anything in exchange. A charming street sign denoted Library Lane. He passed under the library's sloping green roof to the reading room at the back, where a series of windows looked out over the pond. His call to Coale went through just as a hand caught at his sleeve. He muted the sound, turning to find Alia Dar at his elbow.

She looked ill, her eyes sunken in her face, her cheeks pinched. She was shivering under her parka, her hands fidgety in her pockets.

“Did you follow me here?” he asked her.

She seemed lost, aimless, with little to say.

“I wanted to talk to Ruksh, but she left before I could catch her.”

“You didn't need to come to Nur to speak to Ruksh.”

“I wanted to see.”

The words trembled on her lips. Her eyes searched Khattak's face, but whatever answers she was looking for couldn't be found in his unsmiling countenance. He wondered if she had mistaken him as someone who could comfort her.

“See what?” he asked with a frown. “Or did you come here to meet someone?”

“I wanted to see what they'd have to say about Mohsin. It was nothing.” Tears formed in her eyes. “They didn't say anything. They don't remember him at all. Nobody misses him.”

“That isn't quite true. Your father-in-law misses him. His friends miss him. Ruksh and I—we miss him.”

Alia stared at him with a flicker of curiosity.

“How?” she asked. “You hadn't seen him in so long.”

Caught by a theme, Khattak murmured a half-remembered line of poetry at her.

“It's Muharrem again. And I don't see any sign of God.”

The Kashmiri poet Agha Shahid Ali had retreated to poetry to express his sorrow at his mother's death. As the poet did so often, he invoked Muharrem, the month of mourning, to give resonance to his suffering. And Khattak had found it a comfort in his own grief at the passing of his wife.

Alia didn't understand, and he felt foolish having said it.

It didn't matter. She wasn't thinking of him at this moment.

Her thoughts were with Mohsin.

And perhaps with Paula, as well.

Something he needed to keep in mind.

*   *   *

He texted Rachel to meet him instead at the Unionville Arms, a local pub. He doubted other members of the congregation would find their way there after the Friday prayer. He found a seat in the dim interior, buried at the back. He was the only customer. A bored young waiter brought him a cup of black coffee. He ordered hot chocolate for Rachel, and felt he'd made the right choice as he watched his partner make her way to the back of the pub, brushing snow from her shoulders. Her complexion was glowing. It was no secret that Rachel loved winter, the heavier the snowfall the better.

“Can't believe anyone showed up today,” she said in greeting. She took a quick gulp of the chocolate, scalding her throat. “Good call, sir. Hits the right spot.”

They ordered a late lunch of hot, hearty food, catching up as they ate.

“Your sister's not going to give me away, right? Otherwise, I just blew the whole thing.”

Khattak apologized at once. “I didn't know she would be there today.”

The hot chocolate bubbled in Rachel's mouth. She snorted. “You sound surprised. No one in my family ever tells me what they're doing or where they're going to be.”

And was pleased she'd said it, when Khattak shot her a look of gratitude.

“Despite what she says to my face, I don't think Ruksh will sabotage our work.”

“But it's dangerous, right, sir? Your sister doesn't have any experience in this. Suppose Ashkouri asks her about me, flat out? She may not know how to lie. And if Ashkouri figures out what she knows—” Rachel stabbed at the air with a French fry. “You need to get her out of this.”

“I'm trying, Rachel.” He looked rueful. “The women of my family don't spend a great deal of time listening to my advice.”

“What's she like, your sister?”

Khattak took a long, slow sip of his coffee.

“Smart, funny, kind, impatient. And ‘headstrong' doesn't begin to cover it. She has a sense that she's invincible.”

“Maybe life hasn't taught her otherwise,” Rachel said.

“Yet.”

Rachel nodded. She knew what invincibility felt like, at least when it came to her work. She had confidence in herself when it came to two things: her skills as a detective, and her force-of-nature presence on the ice. Her personal life was another matter—a mess of chaotic events that she was seldom prepared for, including the ups and downs of her interactions with her brother. So if anything would teach Ruksh caution, it would be the outcome of this case. When Ashkouri and his associates were arrested on terrorism charges and sent to prison for life.

She thought of Paula and Grace, sadness sinking into her bones.

“What about the women, sir? You think they're part of this?”

Khattak called for the bill.

“You tell me,” he said, studying Rachel. The winter weather had served her well. Her eyes were bright and clear, her skin radiant with good health. The hair she usually wore in a ponytail had fallen around her face, providing a little cover for her ears, a look that suited her.

Rachel paused over her plate of quesadillas and French fries. Her healthy appetite was something else Khattak liked about her.

“I'd like to think not, but I don't see how it could be otherwise. INSET says they were at Algonquin to train, right? For the Nakba attack. So if that's true, how would the others hide that from the women? Especially if weapons were involved.
Were
weapons involved?”