‘Audrey would in fact be the best person to speak with you about this case.’
‘We’ll be speaking with her soon. But we do need to see his family here.’
Suha brushed past him to search out a file on the dining table. She sorted through several before finding the one she wanted. She gave it to Khattak, who flipped it open to find a picture of the same young man, his eyes bright and searching in the photograph, his face otherwise somber. He was wearing a thin black sweater and blue jeans, the same outfit he’d been killed in. Khattak scanned the file, waiting for Suha’s answer.
‘I kept the file here because I was trying to schedule an interview with his contacts.’
‘You haven’t been to see them?’
Suha shook her head. ‘I’ve tried several times. They keep canceling the appointment. I actually brought the file home so I could call to reschedule.’
Khattak was paging through the file she’d given him, oblivious to the worry on her face. He paused at a handwritten page signed with a familiar flourish. It was Audrey’s signature.
‘What does this list of numbers mean?’ He’d taken a good look at the files. Each had a six-digit number attached, prefixed by the letter G. The numbers on the handwritten list followed a different protocol. ‘Are these Sanctuary cases?’
Their heads bent together over the list.
Rachel watched their inadvertent closeness with a sensation that bewildered her. She’d had these feelings before – during their investigation into Christopher Drayton’s murder, and more recently when she’d joined Khattak in Iran. Was she jealous? Of anyone who encroached upon Khattak’s attention? Or was she jealous of any woman she suspected him of being attracted to, no matter how scant the evidence?
She felt dismayed at the thought. She needed to sort herself out before her confusion cast a pall over their partnership. He didn’t seem to suffer from similar reservations, quick to encourage her with Nate.
Suha ran her finger down the page in the folder, her sleeve brushing Khattak’s arm.
For a hijab-wearing woman, she wasn’t preoccupied with maintaining her distance, Rachel thought sourly.
‘No, you’re right,’ Suha said. ‘That’s not our numbering system.’ She tapped one of the stacks. ‘You see the “G” designation?’
Khattak nodded.
‘Once a case goes to the central processing office in Winnipeg, it gets a case number. G-246891, for example. Then it takes a few months to get to a visa office – though with current delays, that processing time is closer to a year. The numbers you’re seeing on this list – they’re a different tracking system. They must be numbers Woman to Woman assigns internally. I’m not sure how their system works, or what their numbers mean.’
The numbers were written in numerical order, but with gaps between them.
215 216 220 227 235 248 601
The number 601 was circled. Khattak looked up. Easy enough to check with Nate. And with Shukri Danner once they reached the island.
‘What number was Sami al-Nuri assigned? I don’t see it here.’ Suha took the file from him.
‘There’s no G-number here. That means you didn’t file this application.’
‘I’ve told you – it would be futile to do so on its face. But if we were able to turn the application into a reunion case, it would have been a different story. That’s why reaching the family was so important.’
Khattak closed the file. He nodded at Rachel to indicate they were done.
‘We’ll contact the family ourselves. I’d appreciate if you would hold off on reaching out to them, until you hear from me.’
A wry twist to her lips, Suha braced her hands on the dining table. ‘I have plenty to keep me occupied. As long as you let me know what happens.’
But Rachel knew they wouldn’t be handing back Sami’s file.
9
Mississauga, Canada
They waited in the car for an hour before knocking on the door of the Fakhri family’s home, at the address gleaned from the file. In the car, Esa told Rachel a little about his relationship with Audrey, how he’d viewed her as a third sister, who was just as likely to get into trouble as Ruksh, and even more likely to beg to be bailed out of it without facing the consequences.
‘She had a crush on you once,’ Rachel reminded him.
He smiled. That had been so long ago now: he was proud of how Ruksh and Audrey had turned out, proud of the contribution each was making in her own way. The thought of Audrey in danger – lost, frightened, threatened somehow – was an urgent knot of worry that he could only resolve by seeking answers.
He waited for the Fakhris’ car to pull into the driveway of the drab two-story town house in a busy part of Mississauga. It hadn’t taken them long to get to the west end; he’d driven with more speed than care, certain that the Fakhri family was an integral part of the puzzle.
There wasn’t much information in the file. Declan had unearthed a few more details: the Fakhri family had been in the country for just over a year. They had landed status, the official term for which was ‘permanent residents.’ They hadn’t yet met the residency requirement for full citizenship. Since they’d landed in Canada, they hadn’t traveled. Khattak had asked Declan to check if the family had visited Greece. They hadn’t even crossed the US border.
The Fakhris were not well-off. The father worked at a local grocer’s, the mother stayed home with a small child. Further details were not available.
Ahmed Fakhri was carrying groceries in his arms. Esa and Rachel caught up with him on his doorstep. Esa introduced them, holding up his police ID, and, after a moment’s consideration, offering a quiet salaam.
He noted Fakhri’s reaction with a swift pang of conscience. The other man wasn’t well. He was gaunt, his frame delicate; the bags in his arms seemed to bear their weight down on his wrists. He had a pronounced cough, and though he was young, his face was haggard and his hair was sparse and gray. Esa’s salaam did nothing to reassure him.
He swallowed twice before he unlocked his front door, calling out to his wife in Arabic. There were footsteps, a child’s cry, the sound of someone fleeing up the stairs.
Fakhri dropped the grocery bags on a small plastic table in the kitchen. He ushered them into a cramped room where a toddler was playing with a toy inside a playpen. Everything inside the apartment was tidy. A few children’s books were piled in a box in one corner next to the playpen. There was a television and a single couch. And in an opposite corner on a narrow baker’s rack, a collection of ornaments and photographs.
Fakhri gestured for them to take the couch. He remained standing in front of the playpen, his body blocking their view of the child, a curly-headed girl who called for her father’s attention.
Esa shifted his position so that Rachel was closer to the rack. He remained on his feet, his eyes on Fakhri. The man hadn’t spoken except to call to his wife. There was no mistaking the fear in his eyes; underlying it was another emotion Esa couldn’t decipher.
In slow and careful English, Esa explained why they’d come. He opened the folder to show the man the photograph, but Fakhri held up his hands to ward off Esa’s approach.
‘No, no. I don’t want it.’
His hands gripped the playpen’s rail. His skin had turned a ghastly color, his legs were visibly trembling. Before Esa could react, the man fell down with a thump. The little girl began to cry. The man didn’t speak, making gasping movements with his mouth.
Rachel called up the stairs to the woman who’d fled. As Khattak helped the man to the couch, Rachel fetched him a glass of water. Khattak held it as the man drank. His hands were trembling too much for him to take hold of it.
The child’s wails increased. Rachel strode over to collect her from the playpen, raising her high in her arms. She found a tissue in her pocket and wiped the child’s wet face, cooing at her without
missing a beat.
The woman – Fakhri’s wife? – came flying down the stairs, her pale face outraged.
‘Don’t you touch my child!’ Then she saw her husband, trying to speak but unable to.
Esa could see the struggle in her face. The child had quieted down, taking a liking to Rachel. Her curly head was tucked into Rachel’s neck. At a nod from Esa, Rachel disappeared into the kitchen.
The woman rounded on Khattak.
‘Get away from him. I’ll call the police.’ She snatched the glass from his hand.
Khattak gave her a little room, holding up his hands in a placatory gesture, easing away from the couch. He let her speak to her husband. She gave Fakhri the glass. Her voice as she comforted him was gentle, a stark contrast to the way she had snapped at Esa, the endearments she used in Arabic expressed with exquisite tenderness. Khattak studied her. From the photograph he’d seen of the family, she was a hijab-wearing woman, but as she crouched before her husband her head was bare, her hair tumbling over her sweater. They were young, the woman in her mid-twenties, the man no more than thirty.
Khattak waited until the atmosphere had calmed before he asked if they wanted a doctor. He held up his police ID and called Rachel back, introducing her as his partner.
The sight of his ID stopped the woman from saying whatever she’d meant to say next. As threatened as she felt, she wouldn’t call the police. Curiously, neither Ahmed Fakhri nor his wife asked to take the child. Fakhri watched the child tucked up in Rachel’s arms, his body freely sweating. His wife clung to his hand with a grip that looked as if it might snap his delicate bones. Neither said a word.
There was a chair at the back of the room; Esa hooked it closer with his arm. He sat down facing the Fakhris. He’d called Rachel back in because he didn’t want anything about his presence to frighten Fakhri’s wife. Rachel indulged the child with nonsense-speak that had no effect on the couple – they didn’t relax, they didn’t look away from his face.
He began again, this time addressing himself to Fakhri’s wife. ‘We haven’t come here to harm you. You haven’t done anything wrong, you aren’t being arrested. We’re simply wondering about this young man who was seeking to come to Canada.’
He showed them the photograph from the file. ‘His name was Sami al-Nuri. Was he a relative of yours?’
The woman exchanged a quick glance with her husband. He raised a hand to speak, she captured it in her own to stop him. She turned to Khattak with a glare.
‘You may talk to me. I’m his wife, Dania.’
She straightened her back, caught Khattak’s eyes on her hair, and tilted her head. She wasn’t embarrassed to be without her head scarf; her glance at him was scornful.
Khattak repeated his introductions and described the reason for their visit. Like her husband, she didn’t look at the photograph. Her answer was clearly evasive.
‘We don’t know him.’
Khattak’s reply was mild. ‘He listed you as possible sponsors on his request for asylum in Canada.’
Dania Fakhri tensed. ‘I’ve said we don’t know him. I don’t know why he said we would be his sponsors.’ Her English was fluent, unbroken, very faintly accented.
Stymied by this, he asked, ‘Where in Syria are you from?’
The child in Rachel’s arms had discovered her mother’s presence and let out a shout, demanding to be transferred. Still, neither parent asked for the child. Rachel set her down in her playpen, wiggling a toy and making animal noises. Distracted, the little girl settled in to play.
Khattak kept his attention on Dania Fakhri’s face.
Her lips were so dry she had trouble forming words. But when Rachel set down the child, the tension in her body eased. She shifted her posture to shield her husband from his gaze. Something about his presence was terrifying to Ahmed Fakhri, yet he could see Dania’s natural instinct was defiance.
‘It doesn’t matter where we’re from. We don’t know this boy.’
Khattak persisted. Sooner or later, they would have to tell him something.
‘I understand your husband was a teacher. What subject did he teach?’
A painful wheeze issued from Fakhri’s lips. Dania Fakhri flicked a glance at Rachel, playing with her child. She asked her husband to take the child upstairs.
His hands were trembling so much that Khattak asked Rachel to help him. He didn’t want the child to be hurt as a result of Fakhri’s obvious distress. It would also give Rachel an excuse to take a look around.
When they were alone, Dania Fakhri turned on him.
‘We don’t have to tell you,’ she flared. ‘We don’t have to tell you anything.’
‘But that sounds like you have something to hide,’ Khattak said reasonably. ‘When all we want to know is who this boy is to you – can you confirm his name is Sami al-Nuri?’
Dania Fakhri paused for a heartbeat before she gave him a quick, jerky nod. She had made up her mind to something, fighting back her fear.
‘My husband taught geography. Maybe this boy was my husband’s student and used his name.’
‘Was?’
Did Dania Fakhri know the boy was dead?
Now Dania looked frightened. ‘Yes. In Douma, near Damascus,’ she supplied, and something about the nervous way she offered additional, unsolicited information, as if to stave off anything else he might ask for, made Khattak experience a sense of distaste and a sharp dissatisfaction with himself.
The feeling deepened when Dania Fakhri’s demeanor changed. Her tone became appeasing. She held his gaze with her own, softening her manner.
‘My husband isn’t involved in politics. I hope you will believe me.’ She left her mouth parted after she spoke the words.
Khattak looked away.
‘Mrs Fakhri,’ he said. ‘Something has happened to this boy. That’s why we’re asking about him. That’s all we want – a little information.’
He’d said the wrong thing. She flushed deeply. Her hand went up to her hair, miming a habit she must have had of tucking it away in the presence of a man who was not her relative.
‘What’s happened to him?’ she asked. ‘This boy you speak of – Sami al-Nuri – he’s dead?’ He couldn’t quantify her expression: were her dark eyes anxious or wretched with pain? ‘And you know this – you know this for certain?’
She came closer, placed a pleading, promising hand on his arm, a gesture he knew was unthinkable for her. He didn’t touch her. He took a step back, releasing himself, raising his voice so Rachel could hear.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Sami al-Nuri is dead. He was killed on the island of Lesvos. Did you know he was on the island? Did he contact you to ask for your help?’
She took the photograph from his hand.
There was something subtle and immutable in her face. That stark communication of fear was gone, to be replaced by what? Agony?
Or a sense of reprieve?
She met his eyes and spoke with the ring of truth. ‘This boy, he didn’t contact us. He wasn’t our family, I don’t know why he used our name. He looks so young, I’m sorry he’s dead.’
‘So there’s nothing you can tell me, nothing you know about Lesvos.’
‘We didn’t come through Lesvos.’ She said the words with a strange emphasis. He wondered if it was pride.
‘What was your route, if not through the Greek islands?’
‘We flew from Lebanon. We applied from a camp in Lebanon.’
It had the air of recital to it.
‘Did you leave family behind in Syria?’
She looked at him as if she couldn’t believe he’d asked her such a question. In her blazing defiance, she was beautiful.
She picked up the card he’d given her husband and crumpled it with contempt. ‘We came with nothing but ourselves. We left the whole world behind.’
Ther
e was nothing to be gained by pressing her. She brushed past him to the stairs, meeting her husband as he came down. They spoke to each other in Arabic, then Dania Fakhri ran up the stairs to see to her child.
Rachel joined Esa at the door. Fakhri followed them outside. When Rachel had gone ahead, Fakhri tugged at Khattak’s arm, bringing him to a standstill. Khattak apologized for bothering his family. Fakhri was oblivious to these courtesies. He leaned in closer to Khattak and whispered, ‘Is it that you want money? I can get you money, if you give me another day.’
Esa was overcome by remorse. How could he have let Fakhri arrive at such a conclusion?
He offered a gentle, conciliatory phrase in Arabic, one of a handful he knew, trying to find a way to connect. The words offered little comfort, so Khattak tried another tack. ‘You’re in no danger from us. We’re police officers; we’re here to protect you, Mr Fakhri.’
The man shook his head. Something Esa had said had driven the hope from his eyes.
‘I can’t pay for protection, I don’t have any money. My wife, my child, they need it. I can give you something else – something that you want.’
A sob in his voice, he offered, ‘I can give you names. I can give you all of their names.’
Rachel could see how angry Khattak was from the pulse that beat at his temple. His hands were clenched on the steering wheel. He didn’t swear, he didn’t say anything, he wasn’t angry at Ahmed Fakhri, or what he’d failed to tell them. He was furious with himself.
Not knowing what to ask, she said, ‘Sir?’
‘Community Policing,’ he said, in as bitter a tone as she’d heard from him. ‘I couldn’t have been more callous if I tried. We should have gotten background. We have no idea what this family has been through. We made this man think we were no different than the men who work for Assad. He was terrorized. I’m the one who terrorized him. And his wife.’ Now he did curse at himself. ‘God knows what she must have thought, what she’s already been through.’ He glanced over at Rachel. ‘I wish you hadn’t left the room.’
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