The Language of Secrets

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “Did you do this?” Khattak asked.

  Din muttered under his breath. Here to represent us? No fucking way. To Khattak he said, “I didn’t. No way you’ll believe me, but I didn’t.”

  “If it proves to be true that you had nothing to do with Mohsin’s death, I’d have no reason to disbelieve you. So help me prove it. Where were you when you heard the gunshots?”

  “Out. In the woods.”

  “By yourself?”

  Din slumped down in his chair. He slid his fingers between the loops of his chain, manacling his knuckles.

  “I already told you,” he said, sulking. “I was with Gracie.”

  Which wasn’t exactly what the boy had said, but Khattak left it.

  “What were the two of you doing out in the woods so late?”

  Now Dinaase grinned.

  “What do you think? Just how old are you, man? We didn’t need a chaperone. We didn’t need Paula Policewoman watching our every move.”

  “How did Grace know where to meet you?”

  “I whispered it to her at the campfire. Over dinner.”

  “Did you see Mohsin in the woods? Either of you?”

  “We didn’t.” The boy’s smile widened. “We weren’t looking for anybody, you know?” A thought occurred to him. His mood shifted in its wake. “Grace is a good girl, you understand? That stuff on the outside, that doesn’t mean anything. She’s a good girl.”

  “And what does it mean to be a good girl?” Khattak asked, keeping his tone circumspect and civil. “Why would I think she isn’t a good girl?”

  The boy’s eyes met his.

  “You know, right? You’re one of us, you said.”

  Khattak hadn’t said that, but he knew what the boy was getting at.

  “So you’re saying that your—adventures in the woods didn’t go beyond a certain point.”

  The big-toothed smile was back.

  “It was freezing out there, man. You think we’re crazy? And besides, with those piercings? It’s like being stabbed by icicles.”

  Khattak fought back a grin. There was something genuinely candid and funny about Din Abdi’s style of expression.

  He covered the same ground he’d gone over with Jamshed. Din’s whereabouts and Grace’s, at the time the gunshots were heard. Their reaction, their movements. It matched Jamshed’s account of events down to the last detail. Which in itself was suspicious.

  “Tell me something, Dinaase. Do you have any idea what might have happened to Mohsin’s cell phone?”

  The boy looked confused. “No. Why?”

  This time Khattak believed him.

  “And the gun? Do you know anything about the gun that was used to kill Mohsin Dar?”

  The boy’s eyes flickered. “No,” he said again. “Nothing, man.”

  Khattak couldn’t tell if that was the truth. But it gave him the idea for a new line of inquiry. He nodded at Dinaase, indicating the boy could go.

  “Would you ask Mr. Ashkouri if he’ll join me now?”

  Din shuffled to the door, the kaffiyeh trailing down his back.

  “Didn’t you know?” he asked. “He already left.”

  13

  Rachel pretended not to notice Khattak as he made his announcement. It wasn’t all that difficult. She was genuinely fascinated by Paula Kyriakou’s actions. Like Rachel, Paula paid scant attention to Khattak. Her entire attention—in fact her whole body and spirit—seemed attuned not to the graces of an almighty deity, but rather to the prosaic consideration of a distinctly earthbound male.

  Before the prayer, other things had kept Paula busy. Rachel had tied her own headscarf this afternoon, choosing a pattern of red and pink stripes—a bit showy, but all that had come to hand in the midst of her unpacking. Paula’s eyes had made the pilgrimage to the top of Rachel’s skull. Unable to find fault, she had turned away without speaking. Secretly, Rachel was pleased. Paula was thoroughly unencumbered by the need to put others at ease.

  She witnessed as much again as the women’s prayer row formed.

  Women of all ages shuffled together, laughing a little and talking, complaining about the weather or commenting on the brevity of the khutbah and the opportunity it afforded to avoid the rush hour. They were grateful to the imam for being a practical, sensible man.

  The atmosphere was easy and good-humored. Rachel found herself enjoying it, nodding at a few young women her own age. They smiled in turn.

  And then Paula came around and paced the length of the line, disapproval sketched in every inch of her stout figure. She shoved some of the women forward, pulled others a step or two back, her fierce scowl framed by the constriction of her headscarf.

  “Keep the line straight,” she growled. “Don’t forget the etiquette of prayer in the useless drama of the earthly life. Duniya versus piety. It shouldn’t be a contest.”

  When some of the women glared at Paula in turn, she pointed out, “Your quarrel is not with me. It’s with your Creator.”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows, which were quite as heavy as Paula’s.

  “You’re new,” Paula struck out at her. “When you enter a house of prayer, you must leave your other preoccupations behind. Otherwise, why bother to come?”

  “Not for the sense of community,” said one of the others. The women near her laughed.

  Paula fired back. “Shaitan laughs the loudest, sisters. Don’t forget where you are.”

  “Give it a rest, would you, Paula?”

  Rachel turned at the sound of the voice. It belonged to Rukshanda Khattak. She’d slipped in late, and was at the opposite end of the prayer row from Rachel. She wore a long emerald sweater over a thick wool skirt, with an artful headscarf that draped over her clothing. The scarf was secured by two jewel-green pins tilted against her lovely face. Unlike Paula, Ruksh’s scarf was a fashion accessory, worn with a casual flair that Paula could never hope to emulate.

  And maybe there was a cruelty in that.

  Or maybe, Rachel thought, Ruksh had dressed as she had for Hassan Ashkouri.

  Ruksh chose a spot beside Paula, who stood with a military stiffness. She laid a warm hand on the receptionist’s shoulder.

  “Relax,” Ruksh said. “The Friday gathering is about community. It’s meant to be joyful.”

  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 ov
er 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.”