by Janet Brons
At this last statement, Mr. Trevino blanched and turned to Clarice. They exited the office together, leaving Mr. Nasarov and Irena alone together.
“For crying out loud,” said Clarice, who swore but rarely, “I saw him take the stuff; it was on him when we got him in the office. It’s open and shut.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Trevino, “but it’s not a lot of money, is it? Is it worth going to court for?” he asked, wiping his brow with a yellowing handkerchief.
“Did you see the price on that caviar? Anyway, we have to inform the police. We can’t just let this go when we have this much evidence.”
Trevino very much wanted to go home. His shift was almost over, he was hungry, and court cases were a nightmare. But Clarice was right. They had to inform the police.
Clarice went back in to the office, her boss trailing glumly behind her. Irena told the suspect in Russian that he had to stay put and that charges would probably be laid. He threw back his head, shaking back his straggly locks. “Okay,” he said proudly. Or, more precisely, he said “harosho,” although the look in his eyes indicated that things were anything but harasho.
He didn’t know why his friend and handler—another Chechen refugee claimant currently residing in Etobicoke—had told him to use the name of Rasul Nikolayevich Nasarov when he applied for refugee status in Canada; still, he followed the advice. His friend, with whom he had trained, seemed to know how these things operated. Now calling himself Rasul, he had been pleased to take his friend’s advice and to prove to his handlers that he had the mettle to be a good plant. But he had his own, more personal reasons for wanting to come to Canada, and his actions would prove that he was a trustworthy and devout jihadist.
Irena left the office of the Chief Loss Prevention Officer in much better spirits than when she had entered. She was told that she might be called back later in the evening to interpret for the police. Squaring her shoulders and looking very professional, Irena smiled at the Silver Fox and nodded. Just prior to closing the door behind her, Irena commented to Clarice that “he has a bit of a Chechen accent, you know.” Clarice didn’t know but took a mental note. Although she wasn’t altogether sure what “Chechen” meant.
Shortly thereafter, the shoplifter who spoke Russian with a Chechen accent found himself imprisoned in the main police station on Elgin Street. He was informed, via interpreter (not Irena from Cosmetics this time, but a professional from the Public Service), that the Russian Embassy would be informed of his predicament.
At this the suspect became infuriated. Even Police Constable Clarke understood the word nyet. The suspect repeated it several times most emphatically, followed by a torrent of incomprehensible words and a great many hand gestures. The interpreter turned to Clarke and explained that the suspect was not interested in any assistance from the embassy, that he was a Chechen and wanted nothing to do with the Russians.
Puzzled, Clarke asked of the interpreter, “Do we have a Chechen Embassy here?” which earned him a short lecture from the interpreter concerning the Chechen independence movement. Somewhat chastened but now better informed, Clarke contacted the RCMP liaison officer for the Russian Embassy, who immediately contacted Headquarters. The liaison officer also apprised the Russian Embassy duty officer of the events. The duty officer in turn phoned Cultural Attaché Stanislav Ivanov at his home on Island Park Drive. While Ivanov was not normally involved with consular work, it was well known at the embassy that he had taken a particular interest in the Daudova case and had stayed in contact with RCMP Inspector Liz Forsyth. It was natural that he should be informed about a Chechen running afoul of Canadian law.
Rasul Nikolayevich Nasarov still hadn’t returned to the motel. Liz and Ouellette had decided they had no choice but to leave the car running—it was much too cold to switch off the engine for more than a moment or two. Suddenly the radio crackled in the squad car. Headquarters was relaying a message from the RCMP officer in charge of liaison between the police and several embassies.
Liz was interested to learn that a “suspicious person who might be of interest to you” was being held at the Elgin Street station on a shoplifting charge. Puzzled, Liz said that yes, she wanted to see him. Perhaps this would be more productive than sitting outside the apartment of the elusive Rasul Nasarov.
Ouellette was keen to get to the station as quickly as possible and prepared to drive off with lights blazing and sirens blaring. Liz shook her head and told her enthusiastic sergeant that it was far too slippery to go speeding through the streets of the national capital region.
Such a guy thing, she thought with an inward smile.
The RCMP liaison officer told Liz and Ouellette that a suspect was being held on shoplifting charges, and that the man identified himself as Rasul Nasarov. They were ushered into a small interview room. Liz and Ouellette regarded with interest the figure seated bolt upright in an evidently uncomfortable plastic chair. Although not a large man, the alleged shoplifter was muscular and appeared physically powerful. He was extremely tense and rubbed his hands together continually; the very air around him seemed charged with electricity. Despite his apparent physical strength, he looked sickly. His skin gave an overall impression of greyness. His hair was straggly and he was unkempt. The man raised his bloodshot eyes and regarded Liz and Ouellette with a combination of fear and defiance.
So this, thought Liz, is why Rasul Nasarov didn’t return to his apartment this evening.
FIFTEEN
Canada
The man alleging to be Rasul Nikolayevich Nasarov did not want a lawyer. Nor did he want any assistance from the Russian Embassy. This was all made clear by the Public Service interpreter, who had accompanied Nasarov—or whatever his name was—during the evening’s adventures. The interpreter was having a marvellous time. This was far more interesting than interpreting for pre-scripted state visits or tedious business deliberations.
All the same, the interpreter was definitely earning his fee. Nasarov’s thoughts were disorganized and difficult to follow. His Chechen accent was extremely thick, making interpretation even more challenging.
Liz and Ouellette seated themselves opposite the shoplifter. Liz introduced herself and her sergeant, and the introductions were duly relayed by the interpreter. The man nodded to indicate he understood, briefly displaying bad teeth. Not a smile, thought Liz—it was something more akin to a snarl.
As it turned out, the suspect spoke English much better than these Canadian officials knew, but he was in such a state of nervous excitement that he couldn’t have found the correct English words at the moment anyway. He rubbed his hands continually, as though washing them or as though reassuring himself that he was, indeed, here. At any rate, he had nothing to say to these people.
The man knew he had made a big mistake in stealing from the store. How was he to know that that grey-haired bitch was some sort of security person? She had worn no uniform. He felt a flash of anger towards his friend in Etobicoke—surely he could have warned him about this sort of thing?
The detectives sat at the green table across from the shoplifter, the interpreter seated on one long side. The RCMP liaison officer and Ottawa police constable had retreated to watch events from behind the two-way mirror, in case their services should be required.
“Ask him his name,” said Liz, inclining her head towards the interpreter. She stared hard at the man, certain she had seen him before.
“Ya uje govoril vam. Rasul Nasarov.”
“I already told you,” was the interpretation, “Rasul Nasarov.”
“You’re staying at a motel in Gatineau, right?” Nasarov glanced up briefly at the interpreter when the question was asked, then nodded. How much do they know, anyway? he wondered.
“Do you admit to stealing merchandise earlier this evening?”
Nasarov shrugged and studied the upper right corner of the ceiling with some interest.
“If you hold Russian citizenship, the Russian Embassy can assist you.”
; “No,” said the interpreter rapidly, as the previously sullen Nasarov began speaking loudly and angrily, gesticulating with both hands. “I do not want the Russian Embassy. I am not Russian. I am Chechen. Ya nye hachu nikakoi pomoshchi ot Posolstva Russii! ”
“I am not Russian. I am Chechen,” reported the interpreter. “I don’t want any help from the Russian Embassy.”
Liz noted irrelevantly that the suspect’s nails were bitten down to the quick; some of the cuticles were bloody.
“They harass us, they kidnap and imprison us,” sneered Nasarov as the interpreter continued his rapid interpretation. “Help from them? No, no Russian Embassy. Nyet. No Russians. Posoltsva Nyet! ” He spat on the floor with contempt, then returned to silent mode, rubbing one hand atop the other.
“You do understand that you are being charged with a very serious offence?” asked Liz.
When the interpreter finished asking the question, Nasarov stared hard at Liz in a scornful and somehow menacing fashion. She took a quick breath.
Eyes still fixed on Liz, he replied, “Da.”
The interpreter said, “Yes.”
“You will need to remain in custody until you go to court. Do you have any family here?”
“Nyet.”
“No,” said the interpreter.
“Is there anyone you would like us to call?”
“Nyet.”
“No.”
Liz and Ouellette looked at each other and back to the silent Nasarov. He looked up at Liz scornfully, then cast his eyes downward to his hands. He was slightly surprised to see them rubbing themselves.
After a moment, Ouellette asked, “What are you doing in Ottawa?”
The man darted a quick look at the sergeant then looked down at the green table.
He muttered something that sounded very like “business.” The interpreter duly reported, “business.”
“Oh yes?” pursued Liz. “What kind of business?”
“Moi biznes,” retorted the man angrily.
“My business,” said the interpreter as Nasarov resumed his study of the table before him.
Liz glanced at Ouellette, then back at the man. If there’s a time to roll the dice, she thought, this is it. She drew a short breath and waited for the man’s dark eyes to meet hers.
Cultural Attaché Stanislav Ivanov placed the telephone slowly back into its cradle. The duty officer from the Russian Embassy had called to advise him that some Chechen had been picked up for shoplifting at a big Canadian department store—a historic chain and one that he frequented himself, reflected Ivanov. Good-quality clothing.
The man, who apparently spoke neither English nor French, was being held at the Elgin Street station. Ivanov knew where it was.
Damned Chechens, he thought. Causing enough trouble back in Russia and now creating havoc over here as well. The demonstrations, the murders, now some damned shoplifter.
He sat down, poured himself a short vodka, and lit a cigarette. He could go to the police station to see what was going on, although this was clearly a matter for the embassy’s consular section. Whatever these Chechens believed, they were still Russian citizens. Of course Ivanov had a special brief to keep an eye on the Chechen community in Canada. And they had certainly been keeping him busy enough.
Especially the stunning widow Madina. He knew he shouldn’t have started anything there, but really, how could he have resisted? His wife had left him years ago and a man had his needs. Anyway, part of his job was to keep apprised of developments in the Chechen community, and he was doing that, alright. Not that he had informed Moscow just how intimately he was following these developments.
The blue-eyed Chechen beauty had caught his eye immediately. It had been easy enough to find out where she lived, what her habits were, and then to stage a couple of casual encounters. Despite her demure nature and hatred of Russians in general, she had been flattered by the attentions of the handsome, charming diplomat and was relieved to have someone to speak with in a language she understood.
He’d never had a Chechen before. Of course he had told her they would marry.
Ivanov didn’t know if Canadian security was on to him or not. He didn’t really care. If they tried to blackmail him, he would just tell the ambassador and his handlers in Moscow that the affair was simply part of his effort to infiltrate the Chechen community in Canada. They had swallowed that sort of line before.
He tipped back the rest of the vodka, looking ruefully at the empty glass. He had been planning a quiet evening and was quickly concluding that this was, in fact, a consular matter. He could be briefed in the morning quickly enough. Ivanov picked up the phone and dialled the number of the embassy’s consular chief.
“So, Bula Sergeyevich,” inquired Liz politely, “I will ask you again, what brings you to Ottawa?”
The man calling himself Rasul Nasarov flinched.
Liz had explained her suspicions to Sergeant Ouellette earlier in the evening. Ouellette studied the man’s reaction closely. The Chechen’s face had turned even more ashen than before and perspiration was beading his upper lip.
“Rasul,” said the man quietly and with a slight tremor. “Menya zovut Rasul.”
“Rasul. My name is Rasul,” said the interpreter.
“No,” said Liz, leaning back calmly in her chair and shaking her head. “I don’t think so. I think that you are Bula Sergeyevich Gavrikov. The much-loved younger brother of Laila Daudova.” She held his gaze although he desperately wanted to look away. “As you know, Laila was murdered in front of the Russian Embassy while attending a demonstration. She believed the Russians had made you disappear. She wanted nothing more than to find you.”
“Russians,” said the man, followed by an expletive that the interpreter hadn’t heard before but guessed at “bastards.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Gavrikov,” continued Liz. Actually, he had answered it, she reflected. He hadn’t tried very hard to convince her that he was not, in fact, Laila Daudova’s missing brother.
“Why didn’t you come to Canada with Laila and Rasul? They waited for you until the last minute and then they had to leave. Where were you?”
Gavrikov glared at her. He was becoming angry. Who was this bitch to ask him where he was, what he was doing? Some minor official in a tin-pot country, he thought. Some little whore in uniform.
“No, I did not come with them to Canada,” he said through the interpreter. “At one time I wanted to come to the West. I was young. Then … then,” he snorted, “I learned what the West really is.”
Liz tilted her head in inquiry and watched him steadily.
Gavrikov continued. “A sham. A lie. Countries united only in their hatred of Islam. Western elites preach democracy and freedom. But their actions are full of hate. They are hypocrites. Murdering hypocrites.”
The Public Service interpreter was perspiring heavily now. It was difficult to simply interpret the language without reacting to the content of Bula’s speech. The interpreter focused as much as he could on finding the right words, correcting the syntax and searching for logic in what the man was saying. But it was difficult to find logic where there seemed to be none. He plunged ahead nonetheless, trying to convey the content of the rant to the detectives.
“Laila and Rasul seemed to like it here,” said Liz quietly, although her heart was racing. She struggled to keep her voice steady. “They were trying to make a new life for themselves.”
“Akh, da,” sneered Gavrikov in reply to the interpreter’s statement.
“Oh, yes.”
“So,” said Liz softly, “how did you find out this truth about the West? Where?”
Gavrikov said nothing but narrowed his eyes in disgust.
“These people who taught you this truth—did they live in Chechnya? Or did you learn about the West in another place?”
Gavrikov maintained his silence.
“You see,” said Liz. “I am very interested in the truth. I think it’s extremely importa
nt. I would be interested to learn who taught you about this. For instance,” she said, “I think you travelled out of Chechnya sometimes, didn’t you?” After a brief pause, she added, “At least that’s what Rasul told us.”
“Rasul!” exclaimed the man, abruptly breaking his silence, then growling something beneath his breath.
“Yes, Rasul. Speaking of Rasul,” Liz said, as though struck by a new idea, “tell me, can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill your sister Laila and her husband?”
Gavrikov suddenly and unexpectedly switched to English. Heavily accented but very correct English. The interpreter, who had been trying to keep his emotions under control for some minutes, found his brain doing what it was so well trained to do and began interpreting Gavrikov’s English into Russian before he realized what he was doing. He lapsed into silence, sweating heavily and wondering why the heat in this office had been set so high.
“The Russians, of course,” said Gavrikov sourly. “Of course the Russians. Laila was in front of their embassy, demonstrating. Of course they would want her dead. And her husband.”
“It must have been very painful for you to learn of their deaths,” said Liz sympathetically. “I think you were already in Canada at the time, weren’t you?” she asked.
“Painful,” said Gavrikov slowly, as though learning an unknown word. He gave a short laugh. “Painful? Why is it painful for adulterers and infidels to die?”
Liz inhaled quickly and felt, rather than saw, Ouellette flinch.
Trying to keep her voice level, Liz asked, “Adulterers? They were legally married in Canada.”
“In Canada !” He spat out the name of the country as though it were an epithet. “How long had they been together before they came to Canada? How long had they been here before they got married?