Among the Ruins

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “I won’t do that to you again.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “It’s you and me, Ray, yeah? You and me against the rest of the world.”

  It was something she’d taught Zach to say under their father’s roof. She gave him a crooked smile.

  “You and me against the rest of the world. That’s good, you remember that.”

  He opened the door for her, grabbing her suitcase in one hand.

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” he promised. “You need to learn to worry a little less.”

  * * *

  In the heated interior of Nate’s superb Aston Martin, Rachel felt the tension in her body dissipate. She was more afraid of her parents’ negative influence than she was of agents of the Iranian regime—what did that tell her? She loved her father, she loved her mother. She understood their weaknesses much better than she’d done as a child. A decade of police work had taught her compassion. It had taught her to empathize even when harm was done to her.

  She loved Zach more than any other person in the world, and he was back now. Her breathing slowed. He was back and safe in her home. She had to remember that.

  She gave Nate a sideways glance.

  He looked cool and competent at the wheel. He smelled like cinnamon and comfort, his straw-colored hair soft and rumpled. She fought the impulse to reach out and touch it.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “I need you to do me a favor.”

  His eyes brushed her face.

  “Anything, Rachel. What is it?”

  She fetched her lawyer’s business card from the interior of her purse and placed it near the gearshift.

  “If anything should happen to me, I need you to look out for Zach. Help him with things, help him make arrangements.”

  “Are you thinking of what happened to Zahra?”

  Like Sehr, he’d tried to discourage her from going. But once she’d spoken about her role as Esa’s partner, he’d done everything he could to assist her. She’d chosen not to speak of Larijani’s threat, afraid to lose his support, but she knew someone had to stand by Zach, in case things turned out badly.

  Rachel waited until he’d negotiated the exit to Pearson airport.

  “I don’t want him to suffer what Max Najafi is suffering. Just let things be, I’m okay with that. Tell him I said so, and tell him—” Her voice choked again. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, why her emotions were so scaldingly near the surface.

  Nate moved one hand to cover hers, the warmth of his hand surprising her. She clung to it. There’d been so few people in her life to offer help.

  “Of course I will, Rachel. Nothing’s going to happen, but if it does, you have my word I’ll keep an eye on Zachary.” He made his voice light. “I’ve had a lot of experience minding young people—I’ve managed to keep Audrey in one piece.”

  This was something they had in common. The role of standing in for absent or incapable parents. She flashed him a look of gratitude. They didn’t know each other well enough for her to have asked him for something so onerous or so personal to her. But who else was there who would help her brother, if she and Khattak were tracked down by Larijani?

  And maybe she wasn’t being honest with herself. Maybe there was more to her feelings for Nate than she was willing to own up to.

  The trip, her mother, Zach, the case—it was making her crazy. She needed to get some of her worry and frustration out on the ice. Instead, she was about to spend fourteen hours on a flight to a new country, where if she was to believe news reports, fundamentalist Ayatollahs and bloodthirsty bomb-makers lurked behind every tree. Luckily, she’d done plenty of research on Iran, her interest stimulated by the photographs Khattak had sent her of his travels.

  She’d spend part of the flight analyzing the case and the rest of it asleep, refreshing herself for the adventure that awaited. She realized she was still holding Nate’s hand. Her cheeks burned. She made a show of pulling her notebook from her purse.

  “You’re making a list of things for me to do while you’re gone, aren’t you?” he said in a deadpan voice.

  “Ha,” she said. “One of these days I’ll have to deputize you.”

  But she thanked him with genuine gratitude when he dropped her at the terminal. He’d wanted to come in, Rachel had refused. There was something in Nate’s eyes she wasn’t used to seeing in a man’s eyes, and she didn’t know if she was ready to respond. He was attractive, talented, and famous. That wasn’t anything she needed to be mixed up in.

  He tried to speak, she cut him off before he could.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for being a friend.”

  She gave him a cheery wave and marched off with her bags.

  51

  Interrogation

  “You’ll never get out of here alive. Everyone has forgotten you, no one knows where you are. You’ll die in this cell alone.” “No beating today?” “Why torture a condemned man? Your execution has been announced.” “So somewhere, someone will know. They’ll know all about me, they’ll be working for my release.” I say this as if I’ve scored a point over Hogsbreath. He has the last word, anyway. “No one will know until long after you’re dead.”

  52

  Rachel proceeded through customs and her baggage check without incident. She was welcomed at the gate by the leader of her private tour group, a woman named Samira Zand, who seemed surprised at Rachel’s minimal luggage. As a matter of course, she straightened Rachel’s long coat and fiddled with her head scarf.

  “You must be tired,” she said with a pleasing lilt. “Let me take you to your hotel.”

  Rachel was booked at the Hotel Shah Nameh, an arrangement made beforehand between Nate and Khattak. As she was rushed through the airport, four other tourists were collected. A Danish couple in their sixties, and two unrelated British travelers, both with narrow frames and a tendency to make barbed remarks, even about things that pleased them.

  Rachel’s head was pounding from the flight, her mouth tasted sour, she needed a shower and a nap. Her impressions of the journey to the hotel were a blur: a busy, modern terminal with the requisite degree of chaos for those collecting arriving passengers, busy highways packed with traffic underlined by disharmonic sound. A muddy blue sky, through whose hazy filter, the craggy outline of the Alborz Mountains could be glimpsed. And a stunningly modern metropolis hurtling toward the future.

  Noise and smoke and the unwanted overtures of her fellow travelers combined to make Rachel’s head throb to the point of bursting. She was an unseasoned traveler, not given to complaint, but neither had she been ready for her journey. For half the flight, she’d worried over Nate and Zachary. For the second half, she’d conjured up nightmare scenarios for herself of gulags and dungeons—scenarios that seemed preposterous in the bright light of day and the friendly welcome of the Iranians she encountered.

  “Here.” Simon, one of the British travelers with a pair of china-blue eyes and an impressively posh accent, offered Rachel a bottle of water. “You’re looking rather pale. It’s easy to get dehydrated on these long flights. You need to compensate for it.”

  She sipped from the bottle gratefully, breaking out some aspirin to accompany it. She felt sorry for her fellow travelers. The first four days of their itinerary had been commandeered by Nate’s extra generous donation to the tour guide. They were headed south to Shiraz first, and then in an equanimity-destroying turn, all the way north to the Caspian Sea. She supposed Khattak would find a way to tag along as he’d determined the itinerary.

  An hour later, refreshed by a catnap and a shower, she made her way to the restaurant on the third floor, where she’d arranged to meet Khattak. She stepped from the hotel’s corridors into an enchanting garden teeming with Persian blues: the courtyard was lined with glazed tiles forming geometric patterns of delicate nuance and detail. A series of fountains surrounded by palms burbled in the center of the courtyard, and all along the perimeter, bistro-style tables with garden chairs were stationed beside sterling
samovars. She could smell the fresh bloom of gardenias and honeysuckle. Hibiscus plants in pink and scarlet flamed throughout the court.

  When her eye fell on Khattak, she couldn’t mask her delight. He came forward to greet her—for the briefest moment, she thought he would hug her. Instead, he reached for her hand, squeezed it, and let it go.

  “Rachel,” he murmured. “Thank you for coming.”

  She’d forgotten how much she liked his voice, how much she’d missed hearing it in person. He looked well, better than she’d seen him in the aftermath of their last investigation, gaunt and hollow-eyed and sorrowful. The weeks in Iran had done him good. His face had filled out, his eyes were no longer smudged by shadows, but more than that, she recognized something familiar. Khattak was on the hunt. And it brought out his finest qualities.

  A strange sensation settled in Rachel’s stomach. A moment later she recognized it as happiness. It was good to be in Khattak’s company, good to begin their familiar rites together.

  They caught each other up on details over a long, late lunch. Rachel had no problem having a meal with Khattak and then dining again with her tour group an hour later. Her stomach was empty, and she wanted to try everything on the menu. Toronto had no shortage of excellent Persian restaurants; it was something else to sample the cuisine in its native setting.

  “First stop: Shiraz,” she told him at the end of their meal. “Overnight train, I’m afraid, so tomorrow’s a wasted day.”

  Khattak leaned back in his chair, crisp and cool in his navy shirt and slacks, and very much occupied by the question of Zahra’s death.

  “Not necessarily,” he said. “You’ll see some of the sights of Tehran during the day, and in the evening, I’ll join your train. I have a name and address for the jeweler in Shiraz. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay with your group until the afternoon stop on their itinerary, but I think you’ll find it worthwhile. After 2:00 P.M., slip away from the group and meet me here.” He passed a slip of paper to her. “Call a taxi. We should be done in time for you to re-join your group for dinner.”

  Rachel eyed him thoughtfully. When Khattak had left for Iran, he’d been bleakly unforgiving of himself for the way events had unfolded in the woods of Algonquin. Added to this weight was his estranged relationship with his sister, a front on which there’d been little progress. Together with his suspension, Khattak had been at odds with himself: directionless and burdened by remorse.

  Khattak in Tehran was the boss she remembered: sharp-witted, clear-eyed, focused on the task ahead, with a well-structured picture of the end goal, more confident and determined than she’d seen him in weeks. She found herself grinning at him over a tiny glass of tea so whimsical, she felt as though she’d joined the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Khattak noticed. He smiled back at her.

  “You can order Nescafé here. Or Turkish coffee, if you prefer.”

  Holding her cup, Rachel wangled a dainty finger at him.

  “Perish the thought,” she said. “I like to blend in with the locals.”

  At five foot nine with her ruddy cheeks and athletic physique, this was somewhat unlikely. Khattak laughed, and she joined in. She asked him what he would be doing while she occupied herself with her tour group. He told her his plan to review the photographs she’d sent back to him, to see if he could find something he’d overlooked.

  “Great,” she said. “Meet me in the dining car on the train. We can talk over anything you find.” She glanced over at the well-dressed couples meeting in the courtyard. “Any tips for me? What to do, what not to do or say?”

  Khattak thought this over.

  “Ask a lot of tourism questions. But don’t mention anything to do with the government or the prison. And don’t mention human rights.”

  He didn’t need to tell her not to bring up Zahra.

  “I’m not sure where they’re taking you tomorrow, but if there’s any flexibility to your itinerary, suggest they take you to the National Jewelry Museum. You should see the Darya-e Nur for yourself. You’ve been on its trail longer than I have, and you know its history better.”

  He passed her the museum catalog he’d kept in his pocket.

  “Good nighttime reading. Get some rest, the next few days will be busy.”

  * * *

  At night, in the privacy of his room, Khattak had time to reflect on why he’d allowed Rachel to come to Iran. Her presence wasn’t necessary—he could have taken the trip to Shiraz on his own, met with the jeweler, made a last push to find out Zahra’s fate and reclaim her body without exposing Rachel to a man like Larijani.

  But he recognized Rachel as a competent and able officer, she’d proven her skills on numerous occasions—she had the right to make her own choices about the risks she took, and with Rachel at his side, the odds had changed in his favor.

  And at a fundamental level, he admitted, in addition to her skills, Rachel’s presence alleviated his sense of loneliness. He enjoyed her company and her openhearted take on their work.

  Unaware his face had softened into a smile, Khattak called up the photographs of Evin on a laptop he’d borrowed from the hotel. The newspaper clippings were spread out on the desk beside him. He scrutinized the photographs one by one, dividing them into grids and using the zoom function to examine each of the faces in the pictures.

  He did this several times to no effect.

  A room service waiter brought him fresh coffee.

  The voice of a downcast Persian musician wafted through his open window, a late breeze stirring the hair that had grown past his collar. He went into the washroom to bathe his face with cold water, changing into his nightclothes. He took the time to pray.

  Refreshed, he began again, shifting between two sets of images.

  Ten minutes later, he had it.

  He scanned the newspaper images for further details.

  The information he sought was missing.

  * * *

  Twenty-four hours later, he and Rachel were sitting across from each other in the dining car of the overnight train to Shiraz. Rachel had regaled him with her adventures of the day, providing a lively account of her fellow tourists. The Danish gentleman had taken a fancy to Rachel, crowding her personal space. She’d taken refuge behind one of the Brits, an able foil to the Dane.

  “Simon Graves is quite nice, really. He seconded my request to be diverted to the museum. And he gave me cover.” She smirked over a bowl of lemon sorbet. “I guess the Danes like ’em strapping and tall. Funny, that. His wife is a bit of a thing.”

  “And? What did you think of the museum?”

  Esa was biding his time, his discovery hot on his tongue. He wanted to hear Rachel’s account first.

  “I thought Park’s replicas were mind-blowing—but Holy Christ in heaven! I goggled at that throne for a good twenty minutes.” She shook her head back and forth. “I saw it in the book, but when you’re standing before it, you can’t believe there’s that much treasure in the world. I’d love to get my hands on the Shahi Sword.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The Darya-e Nur, the Nur-el Ain.” She shook her head again, disbelieving. “Why aren’t the crown jewels better known to the rest of the world? Nice setting, too, by the way. One of those chandeliers could pay off the rest of my mortgage.” She dumped her silver spoon into her empty dish. “The Darya-e Nur,” she said reflectively. “I tried your trick with the camera, I couldn’t see an inscription. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t there, on the underside of one of the facets.” She flashed a grin at Khattak. “But I’ll tell you this: one of those lions is definitely missing a ruby. Amazing they got away with it, but I suspect that’s because the stone is almost invisibly tiny. You’d have to know about the substitution to even register the fact that a ruby is missing.”

  Khattak’s jaw eased. It was a relief to hear his suspicions confirmed.

  “I think it’s more likely that a substitution is unthinkable. No one could have dreamt that Radan would plot such a theft, so no one bothered
to look.” Mulling it over, he added, “Then there’s the fact that the stone was only ever under Radan’s care. No one would have dared to question his authority—not with the power he holds.”

  Rachel smiled at the heavily mustachioed waiter who came to clear their plates, hoping he hadn’t caught Radan’s name. She found the implications of Khattak’s statement terrifying.

  “Then we’d better get to the bottom of this quickly. Did you find anything else, sir?”

  Esa had printed a copy of the photograph that had captured his attention. Together with the newspaper account of the private exhibit, he passed it across the table. Outside the windows of the dining car, the sky was a lapis blue, stars streaking across its surface. The train hummed along on its tracks, an underground rumble through the dark.

  Rachel compared the two photographs.

  “Not seeing it, sir. You’ll have to tell me.”

  Khattak pointed at a face in the crowd at Evin. It was one of the men with sad, weathered faces. He drew an imaginary line to the face of one of the delegates at the exhibit.

  “There’s no listing of their names,” he explained. “But isn’t that the same man?”

  In the first photograph, the man was dressed in shabby clothes, his hands looked rough and worn, his beard was grizzled along his heavy jaw. In the photograph at the exhibit, his face was smooth, his curling hair combed back, he was dressed in an expensive suit, and he had the bearing of a man of importance. There was a sty in his left eye. It was also there in the photograph at Evin.

  “It’s the same man,” Rachel concluded. “Do we know who he is?”

  “He blends into his surroundings, wherever he happens to be. A mourning father at Evin, a high-ranking delegate at the exhibit.”

  “So what are we saying? Barsam Radan arranged the exhibit to enable the theft of the Darya-e Nur? The unknown man was there to collect it? It doesn’t explain his appearance at Evin the day Zahra was arrested.”

  “Is it possible Zahra went to Evin to meet him?”

  Rachel placed one photograph over the other. “Then why was Radan there? We don’t have the answer to that. We need to find out who this man is. Who can you ask?”