The Language of Secrets

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “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.”

  “And why is that?” Ashkouri asked, the handsome face shadowy and dim, the hands tense at his sides, ready to strike.

  “Didn’t you know?” Rachel asked, all innocence. “Grace just told me. It’s a meeting place for the Dixon City Bloods. Grace said they’re a gang. I don’t want my brother getting mixed up with a gang. He’s young, you know? Artists can be impressionable.” She tried a nervous grin. “No pun intended.”

  Ashkouri considered this. Rachel couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. She hurried on.

  “I thought Mark might end up coming later on. And I didn’t want to stay that late.” She forced a yawn. “It’s exhausting looking after him. I’m sure you feel the same about Din and Grace.” She goggled up at him, her wide eyes credulous. “Isn’t that why you came tonight? A hip-hop club doesn’t seem like your natural element.”

  She massaged the ache at the back of her neck, something she didn’t have to feign. Her muscles were strained and tense.

  “Of course,” Ashkouri said smoothly. “As long as they reside at the mosque, they are my responsibility. You are right about young people. They require a great deal of care.”

  Right now Rachel was the one who needed care. She shivered in the cold.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m freezing out here. I should get going before my car stalls. It was nice to see you again.”

  Ashkouri reached out and placed a gloved hand against her car door. Gently. With just a hint of threat.

  “One more thing,” he said. “I understand you’re to join us when we head up to Algonquin.”

  Terror leaked through the back of Rachel’s brain. She blew on her fingers, making rapid calculations. The only way Ashkouri could have known that was by talking to Grace. A fact Rachel needed to acknowledge at once.

  “Grace invited me,” she said, sounding awkward. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “You don’t seem to like the cold all that much,” Ashkouri pointed out, watching her.

  “I love to skate,” Rachel managed. “I prom
ised Grace I’d teach her. And the others too, if they want.”

  “That was kind of you. I’m sure that Grace appreciated your offer.”

  “It’s nothing. Oh wait, I just thought of something.” She hadn’t, but she figured it was a good opportunity to push back against Ashkouri’s vague threats. “Is this some kind of memorial for your friend? I wouldn’t want to intrude upon a private ceremony.”

  Her smile weakened on her face, until it was just the approximation of a smile.

  Ashkouri didn’t answer at first. He moved away from Rachel’s car, preoccupied. He would be considering whether to allow Rachel to come to the park or not, and what excuse to give if he refused. In the end, he deferred to Grace’s wishes.

  “Of course you may come. We may decide to observe a ceremony for Mohsin at the campsite. Another well-wisher is always welcome.”

  He waited until Rachel had started her car.

  Rachel gave him a jaunty thumbs-up, relieved beyond measure to be inside her car, though she hadn’t dared to lock the doors while Ashkouri stood beside her rolled-down window.

  But she did just that as soon as she drove away, keeping sight of him in her rearview mirror.

  He’d given her his blessing to come to the winter camp.

  Why?

  Either he was so arrogant he thought there was nothing she could do to impede his plans—or he’d bought into her gullible-rube routine.

  She knew it wasn’t the latter.

  Ashkouri had been poised to attack throughout the entire conversation; he hadn’t once relaxed his guard.

  Whether he realized she was a police officer or not, he must have decided that any threat she posed to him would be more easily dealt with in the remote environs of the park.

  Which meant there was no way she should be going to Algonquin on her own.

  * * *

  “Rachel, what is it? What’s happened?”

  The concern in Khattak’s voice meant that she hadn’t quite managed to conceal her reaction to being cornered by Ashkouri.

  Her hands were clammy on the steering wheel.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “You called me three times. I heard your message. I’m sorry, I was dealing with Dar.”

  He listened as Rachel filled him in, careful to gloss over her fear.

  “How soon will you be home?”

  She told him.

  “I’ll meet you there. We need to go over this again, if it’s not too late.”

  The acrid taste of fear was still in Rachel’s mouth. After her encounter with Ashkouri, Khattak’s company would be welcome. By the time he left, she’d be able to sleep.

  * * *

  Half-haunted by Ashkouri, Rachel tucked her gun into her bag, keeping her cell phone and her keys in her hand. She glanced over her shoulder more than once. She wasn’t good at picking up a tail, if there was one.

  She pictured Ashkouri on his cell phone, giving orders to Jamshed Ali.

  Watch her. She’s not who she says she is.

  She knew it might have been paranoia on her part.

  Were it not for the fact that Mohsin Dar was dead. And he’d been a lot more skilled at undercover work than Rachel was.

  When she looked back over her past few meetings with the members of Ashkouri’s group, she realized she’d been stupid. She’d been forcing things, pushing them too fast. As a result, she’d shown up in places she wasn’t expected to be one too many times.

  The story she had peddled to Ashkouri about the club was ludicrous.

  First the mosque, then Ruksh Khattak’s house, then the club? He wasn’t a fool. If he wanted her at Algonquin, it was because he’d decided to act. To protect himself and his plot. Two days before the new year. Two days before the attack.

  She pulled a cold can of Cherry Coke from her refrigerator and drank it in several long gulps. She slumped against the fridge. Her clothes had been damp with sweat, and reeking of smoke from the club. She’d changed into yoga pants and a fleece pullover. Though she still needed a shower, she felt better, if only marginally.

  At the thought, she remembered another use of the same word.

  Marginal notes on the book of defeat.

  Where had she seen that? What did it mean?

  She let her thoughts roam over the minutiae of the case, feeling herself slip into a comfortable, trancelike state.

  It came to her, the lyrics of Din Abdi’s rap.

  O homeland/O heartache/There is no retreat.

  O homeland/This heartache/ends in defeat.

  Wasn’t that it? Or was she thinking of something else? Ashkouri again.

  She was padding to her sofa on bare feet when the intercom sounded. She buzzed Khattak in, then unlocked her door. She called to him from the plushy depths of her sofa.

  “It’s open.”

  “That’s not sensible, Rachel. Especially not after what’s just happened.”

  He entered carrying a large paper bag.

  “You haven’t eaten, I hope.”

  She held up the half-empty can of Cherry Coke.

  “Nutrition comes first,” she joked.

  Khattak set the bag down on the coffee table, examined Rachel’s face.

  She sat up, discomfited.

  “What?”

  “You’re as white as a sheet. What happened with Ashkouri? I knew you hadn’t told me everything on the phone.”

  Rachel eyed him. He looked rather ragged himself.

  “I’m not the only one. What happened with Dar?”

  She set about getting plates and glasses and forks, as Khattak summarized his meeting with Dar. And with Vicky D’Souza. From the kitchen, she saw his expression in the mirror. It was a curious mixture of shame and satisfaction.

  “What gives?” she asked, helping herself to chapli kebabs and naan.

  Khattak passed her a small container of red chutney, the spice level of which she expected to be devilish. The kebabs were spicy enough on their own.

  “I’ll tell you after.”

  They shared a contented silence as they ate, emptying the bag of its contents.

  “Dessert?” she asked him, after a time.

  “Tea if you have it. I need to stay awake.”

  She made it for him, helping herself to a bowl of ice cream.

  “In this weather?” he asked, scandalized.

  “I need something to douse the flames of those kebabs.”

  Khattak sipped his tea, watching Rachel.

  She was lost in her thoughts, sucking on her chocolate-coated spoon.

  When he thought she was ready, he asked her, “So what do we have, Rachel?”

  She told him about the Dixon City Bloods, and Din’s performance on the stage.

  “Two things. How did Ashkouri get the Bloods off Din’s back? And what in God’s name was Din rapping about? Did you check the video?”

  “I did. I sent it to Ciprian Coale and Laine. If there’s some overlap between the people at the club and the second cell, they’ll know. I can only speculate about the first of your questions.”

  Rachel savored her mint chocolate chip ice cream. “Go ahead, then.”

  “You say some kind of signal passed between one of the Bloods and Ashkouri. Did you get it on your phone?”

  “No. I was afraid Ashkouri would see me.”

  “What did the gang member look like?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “White? Black? Arab?”

  “I think he was Somali.”

  Khattak took a moment to think this over.

  “It’s tenuous, especially when INSET still hasn’t determined how the two cells communicate, but if the gang member was of Somali background—if he was a Somali Muslim, he might be plugged in to Ashkouri’s network. The plot might be something he respects, something he considers bigger than the Bloods. And that’s why the gang backed off.”

  “Do you think Ashkouri would be so careless?”

  “I don’t know that he would need to be careless. There
’s a lot of talk all the time about grievances and justice—nearly all of it bluster. The Bloods wouldn’t have to be in on the execution of the plot to support the idea of taking revenge.”

  “A bloody kind of revenge,” Rachel observed.

  “War is bloody. These people think they’re fighting a war.”

  And with that sentence, it was clear that he’d resolved his duality. What he believed in was a clear line, glowing and unambiguous.

  Rachel missed the significance of it.

  “You’re right. It’s tenuous.” She turned her attention to the second point. “What about the rap or the spoken word or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Play it again.”

  They listened to the recording on Rachel’s phone.

  When it was over, Rachel asked, “Why is INSET letting this play out so close to launch? What if something goes wrong? What if there’s something they haven’t seen? ‘You don’t know what’s loaded up and waiting on the tarmac.’ What is waiting on the tarmac, sir? Isn’t INSET taking a terrible risk? I hope to God they’ve neutralized the bomb plot.”

  She expounded her theory about the meaning of the succeeding lyrics—downfall, New Year’s rain. Khattak shook his head.

  “No. I think missiles are a stretch. Wishful thinking on their part more than anything else. It would be impossible to get that kind of weaponry into their hands. And Coale wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “Maybe it was too easy,” Rachel speculated. “Maybe Ashkouri was playing Mohsin Dar all along. Drawing him away from the real plot. And that’s why he ended up dead in the woods.”

  “I wish we knew. I wish Coale would let us into the operation, enough to know what we’re dealing with here. We could rule a lot of things out.”

  “He hasn’t said anything about the video?”

  “Not yet.”

  Rachel mentally crossed her fingers before she asked her next question.

  “Did you try Laine?”

  Khattak’s reply was noncommittal. “I asked. She didn’t answer.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Khattak took their dishes to the kitchen. He made himself a second cup of Earl Grey tea. He searched in Rachel’s well-organized cupboards and found chamomile. He made a cup of this for Rachel and set it down before her on the coffee table, ignoring her token protest that tea and ice cream didn’t mix.