Khattak didn’t know what to make of this. There was no formal relationship between the governments of Canada and Iran. Canada had closed its embassy in Iran in 2012, expelling Iranian diplomats from its own territory at the same time. There wasn’t even a pretense at consular relations between the countries. Aware of this, Khattak cut to the heart of the matter.
“The Iranians must have a file on you, then.”
“Perhaps.” She made a harried gesture with her hands. “What does it matter? I’m in a position to do favors for certain people and to withhold favors from others, which makes me useful. Especially now that there’s been an election in Canada. With the new government, who knows how things might change?”
Khattak suspected Touka Swan knew quite well whether relations between Canada and Iran were about to change with the election of a new prime minister.
“Ms. Swan—”
“Touka,” she interrupted. “You’re here on holiday, I understand that. And you were clever about getting your tourist visa, so you’ve managed to keep yourself out of the spotlight.”
It was Khattak’s turn to interrupt.
“I’m on leave,” he said. “I’ve no interest in whatever you’ve come to speak to me about.”
“But you know Zahra Sobhani.”
Touka Swan came to a halt above one of the arches. She studied the sofreh spread out on the banks.
“Maybe I should get into buying and selling sofreh,” she mused.
“Ms. Swan—”
“Inspector Khattak,” she said firmly. “You are not at liberty to refuse your duty. It would be nothing for me to drop a word in the ears of the wrong people and bring your visit to this country to an end. I don’t like making threats, but I expect you to hear me out.”
Khattak leaned against the railing. The women he was idly tracking had reached the far end of the bridge. They were talking to a serious young man with an air of grievance who was in the business of renting out tour bikes. Esa thought they would ride to the other side of the Zayanderud River and disappear from his view. Instead, they wheeled the bikes in his direction. The sad-eyed woman had exchanged her chador for a manteaux and head scarf. As she rode past him, its tail whipped over her shoulders, the white cloth bordered by a band of swallows. It was whimsical and pretty, at odds with his impression of the woman’s magnetic eyes.
“I know Zahra Sobhani by reputation only,” he said at last. “We’ve never met.”
Sobhani was a well-known Canadian filmmaker. Her documentary on Iran’s 2009 election had swept the awards season, winning accolades for its originality, a story told without commentary or subtitles, the music written by Zahra’s son, the musician Max Najafi, acclaimed in his own right.
The documentary was called A Requiem for Hope. Khattak had seen it at the Toronto International Film Festival and had attended the discussion with mother and son that had followed. Zahra Sobhani had struck him as a fiercely capable woman, bold and unafraid, burning with unresolved questions. Her son had spoken about his music. When pressed to comment on the politics of the film, Max Najafi had said simply, “Iran is the music, that’s all I have to say.”
Khattak had been impressed by the somber mood of a young man gifted with exceptional talent, a man without the need for words. The next time he’d viewed the film, he’d understood a little better. The film was personal to Max, the music intimate, reflective—sorrowful.
It had penetrated Esa’s defenses, making him think of that dark night in the woods.
And other things he wished to forget.
A gun in his hand. The sound of a body thudding against the ice.
He felt its echo in Esfahan, so far away from home.
He looked at Touka Swan and knew she had come to tell him Zahra Sobhani was dead.
About the Author
Author photograph © Athif Khan
AUSMA ZEHANAT KHAN holds a Ph.D. in International Human Rights Law and is a former adjunct law professor. She was Editor-in-Chief of Muslim Girl magazine, the first magazine targeted to young Muslim women. A British-born Canadian, Khan now lives in Colorado with her husband.
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Also by Ausma Khan
The Language of Secrets
The Unquiet Dead
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
PART ONE: OTTAWA
1
2
PART TWO: SARAJEVO
1
2
3
AMONG THE RUINS Excerpt
1
2
3
About the Author
Also by Ausma Khan
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A DEATH IN SARAJEVO. Copyright © 2017 by Ausma Zehanat Khan. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Jacket Photograph: City Landscape © Stas Ponomarencko/Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-250-12634-4 (e-book)
First Edition: January 2017
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A Death in Sarajevo Page 6