The Language of Secrets (28 page)

Spittle gathered in the corners of Dar's mouth.

“You expect me to protect those bastards? My son was an idiot to fall for their rubbish. His big beard and phony religious language, his wife with her stupid pieties and homespun headscarf—is that what my son had to look forward to in life? Did you think I would let that pass? They took him, they corrupted him, they killed him. And now they have to pay for it.”

“I'm afraid you have it wrong,” Khattak said softly. He waited until he had Dar's full attention. The older man watched Esa with hatred in his face.

“Tell him, Alia. Mohsin wasn't at the Nur mosque because he'd fallen under the spell of extremists, which is how you refer to all mosque-attending Muslims. He was there because of a woman, a woman Alia knows about.”

Alia's eyes were wide and blank. She crushed the long tail of her headscarf in her hands.

“No,” she whispered. “That's not true.”

“Isn't that why you drove up north to the park?”

“I didn't.” Her reddened eyes beseeched him. “You know that I didn't.”

Dar interrupted them. “What is all this? What the hell are you talking about, Khattak? Alia, tell me at once.”

Vicky D'Souza approached them. A glance from Khattak sent her away again.

“I don't know. I don't know what he means, Baba.”

“What about the fact that Mohsin didn't want you at the mosque? What about the fact that he insisted you wear the niqab? What about the fact that Paula Kyriakou is much stricter than you in her observance of dress code?” The questions landed in Alia's face like small grenades. In the face of her hurt and confusion, Khattak was relentless. “And what about the fact that you were so jealous of Paula Kyriakou that you were spying on your own husband? You drove to the camp that night to confront him about his affair.”

Alia floundered, the backs of her knees knocking against the club chair. She mouthed at the two of them soundlessly, her breath coming in little gasps. She stumbled to the elevators.

A knot in his chest, Khattak said nothing to stop her. Now he simply waited.

Dar's knees buckled. He collapsed into his chair. Khattak took Alia's seat and turned it to face Dar.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying you have it wrong. You were planning to give this interview for one reason only, and it has nothing to do with bringing Mohsin's killer to justice. I've listened to your show. I'm well aware that denunciation is your platform. You're not troubled by the need to provide evidence of your claims—your pseudo-outrage is a law unto itself. But if you do that in this case, you'll find that the tables will be very quickly turned. This has nothing to do with the efficacy of CPS.” Khattak's voice was level, calm. “It has everything to do with Mohsin and his wife. And it will turn out to be just another ugly domestic squabble, with nothing grand or impressive about it. You'll end up looking like a fool; your enemies will go to town.”

He let Andy Dar think about this for several long moments.

“Mohsin will be a hypocrite who couldn't stay true to his terrorist calling. An Abu Nidal or Mohammed Atta getting drunk at a strip club.”

“My son never touched alcohol.” Dar looked shattered at the thought of it. “Don't you dare say that about him.”

Khattak shrugged. There was always that line that even the person most distant from his faith was unwilling to cross.

“You didn't know that he was unfaithful to his wife, did you? Who knows what else will come to light when you start spinning your wheels? It won't stop with you. Every journalist in the country will be at the Nur mosque, digging around. Do you know where Mohsin spent his nights? Are you prepared for what they might find?”

“This is some kind of trap.” A flicker of rebellion crossed Dar's face. “You think you're clever enough to silence me, that I won't choose to sabotage my son's reputation.”

And Khattak wondered at a man who didn't mind painting his son as an extremist, but who drew the line at adultery.

“Don't take my word for it, talk to your daughter-in-law. Why do you think she went running from here? Because she knows it's true.”

“You don't have any proof.”

Khattak withdrew the copy of Alia Dar's speeding ticket from his breast pocket.

“Take a look at where she was when she got that ticket, and the time of night.”

Dar read the ticket in silence. His well-preserved face began to sag.

“The woman's name is Paula Kyriakou. She's a recent convert your son was courting. That's why he was at Nur. And it's why he didn't take Alia to Algonquin. What you do with this information is up to you.”

He reached across and took the ticket from Dar's nerveless hands.

He didn't know if his stratagem had worked. He only knew that it was the worst thing he had ever done in the name of a greater good: betraying a woman who thought of him as a friend, and putting her in Dar's power.

Dar looked up, his eyes empty of emotion.

“Did Alia kill my son?”

“She says not. Have you ever seen her with a firearm?”

“No,” Dar whispered. For a man who gave every indication of despising his daughter-in-law, he seemed gutted by Khattak's revelations. “I haven't. She loved Mohsin. I would have said she worshipped my son, if the stupid girl didn't find that blasphemous.”

“We haven't concluded our investigation, so I can't answer your question, not yet.” He gestured at the row of television screens. “You need to give me more time. If it's not Alia, I need a clear field at Nur. I can't have you muddying the ground.”

He checked his watch. The interview was due to begin in five minutes. Just out of earshot, Vicky D'Souza hovered, her young face anxious.

“What have you decided?” he pressed Dar. “What are you going to do?”

Dar lifted his chin. “You don't intimidate me. You don't frighten me. And you won't silence me. I'll do exactly what I planned to do.”

Khattak nodded. It was what he had expected from the beginning.

“Then I'll ask your hosts for a chance at rebuttal. And I'll explain the line of inquiry that we've been pursuing.”

“That's blackmail,” Dar hissed. “You disgust me, Khattak. Look at the depths you're prepared to sink to to protect your manufactured career. And in any case, I think you're bluffing.”

Khattak's eyes were diamond-hard.

“Try me and see,” he said. “Because I don't think you understand me at all. I've never given a damn about what you have to say about Community Policing. I think your rhetoric is dangerous and deceitful, and that it does a huge disservice to the community you purport to represent, but that's not within my purview, nor is it my primary concern. What I want is justice for Mohsin. And I'll do anything I have to to get it. I'm just surprised you don't share my commitment.”

“Don't you dare say that about me. Don't you ever suggest that I didn't love my son.”

Dar rose from his chair, his movements quiet and dignified.

The anger in his face was replaced by a much more human sorrow.

Khattak looked away.

He had let things go too far. And he understood that whatever Dar thought of him from this point on would be something he deserved.

*   *   *

He watched the interview from Vicky D'Souza's station, the young reporter eyeing him with a mixture of wonder and speculation behind the frames of her glasses.

When Dar had finished, she said, “You killed it. I don't know how you did it, but somehow you killed the story.” She flicked a hand at the set that Dar had just vacated. “I don't know what that was, except a lot more of Andy Dar's bluster. He didn't target you like he said he would. He took the story in a totally different direction. Why? What do you have on him?”

“I don't have anything, Ms. D'Souza. That's not how Community Policing works.”

She chewed on the tip of her pen. “Uh-huh, so you say. You made his daughter-in-law skedaddle from here in tears. And you shut up a man I've never known to keep quiet. He spent the better part of the interview asking the public to do what they could to help. He didn't mention you, he didn't mention the mosque.”

“Maybe there's nothing to mention. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm running late.”

“Uh-huh,” Vicky said again. “I'm young, not stupid.” She fiddled in one of her desk drawers. “Hang on, would you? Here, take this.” Khattak looked down at the card she pressed into his hand. “It's my business card. It's got all my numbers. I don't know what's going on yet, but chances are pretty good that I'll find out.” She stared at him through her owlish glasses. “And when that happens, you might find yourself in need of a friend.”

Khattak turned the question around on her, leaning down to meet her on her ground. She eased away from him, startled by the proximity.

“I appreciate your tenacity, Ms. D'Souza. But if you get in the way of my investigation, you might be the one who ends up needing a friend.”

She brightened at once, as if they were playing a rather enjoyable game. “Are you threatening me, Inspector? Because I've never been threatened before.” She made the words sound flirtatious.

Khattak sighed. “Ms. D'Souza—”

“Vicky,” she interposed, with a wicked little smile.

“Vicky, then. I'm not threatening you, I didn't threaten Mr. Dar. Threatening the public isn't an occupation of mine. Nor is it my main consideration.”

“Oh no? What is, then?”

Khattak's fatigue showed in his face.

“Only that a good man is dead.”

*   *   *

When he'd left the newsroom, Vicky D'Souza scribbled the words in her notebook.

 

23

Rachel shook off Ashkouri's grip. It was dark on the side street, the naked branches of the trees silvered by the icy light of the moon. But Rachel was cold from the inside. Her gun was locked in the glove compartment. She was relatively confident that she could take Ashkouri down without it—a step she wouldn't take if there was any chance of salvaging the INSET operation.

She slid out of his grasp, plastering a breezy smile on her face.

“Did I forget something in the club?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Or did Grace change her mind? I'd be happy to give her a lift—I hate driving at night by myself.”

“You said you live in Unionville. Near the mosque. Where, precisely?”

Rachel had her answer ready.

“Not quite in Unionville. Closer to Middlefield. Not too far from Pacific Mall.” She gabbled on, trying to distract him.

She referred to the dumbfounding reproduction of the Hong Kong shopping district that served as the anchor of the new Chinatown, north of the city. Busloads of passengers came from all around the country, as well as from across the border, to shop and dine at Pacific Mall. Its overcrowded parking lot was a nightmare to negotiate.

“And yet you chose to come all the way down here, in these conditions.”

“We've seen worse, right? Like the blizzard the other day? If no one drove because of bad weather, this city would be a ghost town. Plus, I was meeting my brother.”

“Yes, your brother. You didn't say why he didn't come.”

“He got held up by some friends so he made another plan. I was supposed to grab him from Union Station. Then he said he'd find his way to the club on his own.”

Ashkouri didn't advance upon Rachel. Nor did he free up an avenue of retreat, his body pressed disturbingly close to hers.

“Gori. Your brother recommended it to you? An unusual choice, isn't it?”

“My goodness, no. Mark is an artist. You know the kind of stuff they get up to. He's really into hip-hop, just like Din. That's why I happened to have so many cassettes. He likes to mix his own stuff. Would you like to see a picture of him?”

With the agility that came from her police training, Rachel twisted away from Ashkouri and lunged for her bag. Much though she wanted it, she left her phone where it was. Ashkouri might yank it from her grip. And then he'd see Khattak's name and number.

She rummaged in the bag for a photograph of her brother.

“Here. This is Mark.”

Eagerly, she pressed the photograph into Ashkouri's unresisting hands.

He studied the picture.

Rachel's brother, Zachary, was at the center of a group of friends, rangy and relaxed in their midst. His hair was long and shaggy; his brown eyes were lined with black eyeliner. He was dressed in the hipster uniform of skinny jeans, narrow tie, and fitted shirt under a casual blazer. And there was some indefinable element that made his style uniquely Zach. He looked like a more graceful version of Rachel.

“He's a bit younger than me,” Rachel said, settling into her role of overeager big sister. “But he's cool if we hang out. Most of the time, anyway. I have to admit, I was disappointed when he didn't show. It wasn't a completely wasted trip, though. It was nice to see Grace; she's such a sweet kid.”

Ashkouri returned the photograph to Rachel.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw that she had scrawled Zachary's name across the back. Thank God Ashkouri hadn't turned it over. She stuffed it into her purse with clumsy fingers.

Ashkouri still hadn't moved.

“Not many people see that,” he said. “Given the tattoo and the hair.”

“The tattoo's for Din, right? I get the impression that they're a pair of lovebirds.”

She talked on about this for several more minutes, waiting to see if Ashkouri's suspicion would abate. It didn't. When she was done, he repeated his original question.

“Who were you speaking to on the phone? You said it was urgent.”

There were both aware of the current of nervousness that ran beneath Rachel's lighthearted commentary.

“Aren't you the nosy one?” she chided. She pretended to take his question as a sign of concern. “I'm not one of the kids at the mosque—you don't need to watch over me. I was leaving a message for my brother. I was going to tell him that I don't think the club is a good hangout spot for him.”