“Do you have a photograph to show me?” she asked.
Khattak removed it from the folder, but before handing it to Linh, he offered a warning.
“This is in strictest confidence. The young man’s name is Sami al-Nuri. This is a photograph of his body, you might find it a little … unsettling.”
Linh accepted that without comment. She took her time examining the photograph, and when she returned it to Khattak, there was a hint of perception in her face.
“You know him,” Khattak said. He edged forward in his seat.
Linh opened a drawer of her desk and fished out a small, white card from its interior. This she passed to Khattak. Rachel pressed closer to him to read it: it was the contact information for Suha Obeidi.
“I recognize the face, I don’t recognize the name. I’m not sure what name his case would have been processed under.”
She entered the name into her computer, frowning at the results.
“No, we don’t have a record of Sami. If he does have a relative in Canada, it won’t be under that name. Do you have any other information you can share with me? Something that would help me track him down?”
Rachel’s thoughts leapt to Nate’s e-mails. Sami al-Nuri had been mentioned only once in the e-mails Nate had shared. But what if Audrey had used a different family name in the e-mails Nate had deleted? She needed a moment with Khattak to discuss this. And to ask about consent.
He missed her signal, focused on Linh’s response.
“But you do recognize the face.”
Linh ran a finger over the photograph. “He may have been part of a reunion case, but I can’t say why I think so. I’m just as likely to be wrong.” She considered her screen. “I wouldn’t know how to search, and I’m sorry, thousands of profiles cross my desk. You’d do much better to speak to Suha.”
Rachel glanced back at the group of volunteers. “But she’s not here today, is that right? Is she out sick, do you know?”
The other woman pressed her lips together. Rachel had the feeling she was treading on difficult ground.
“She asked for some personal time. She’s worked all hours in the past few months, so of course she deserved a little time off.”
Rachel studied her brightly. That didn’t sound like the phrasing of someone who considered herself a co-chair, or an equal partner in an enterprise. It sounded very much like a boss speaking of an employee. Though Khattak didn’t throw his weight around in their particular arrangement, he’d picked up on it, too.
“Ms. Obeidi reported to you? Her work hours weren’t discretionary, then.” He smiled his devastating smile. It had no effect on Linh, whose eyes had become opaque. Rachel guessed she was arranging her answer in her mind, deciding how much to tell them.
“We’ve had some bumps along the way. No one would deny this is life-changing work, rewarding in its own right. But there have been some staffing and oversight issues.” Her tone became dry. “You may have read about it in the papers.”
A light came on in Rachel’s head. Sanctuary Syria, of course.
The organization had come in for some unfavorable press early on. The problems had arisen because board members of the organization had interfered with day-to-day operations, hindering Linh’s independence and efficiency as director. Later, several of the board members had resigned.
Sanctuary Syria had set out to do its work in the tradition of Operation Lifeline, the 1970s campaign on behalf of the Vietnamese. Linh Pham’s professional life had been dedicated to supporting and enhancing Canadian refugee policy—the organization couldn’t have asked for a better candidate to coordinate Canada’s response to the Syrian crisis. Once new board members had been elected, she’d been left to do her work in peace.
Rachel wondered how Suha Obeidi might fit within this picture. If she was a co-chair, how did the organization’s reporting structure work? Khattak was right to ask.
“Originally, we were co-chairs. But when the new broom came in to sweep out the old, it was decided the organization should have a single administrative head, and I was chosen for the post. To her credit, Suha doesn’t get up hung up on these issues. She’s entirely focused on the work.” She nodded at the card she’d given Khattak. “You can reach her on her cell phone. She should be able to tell you what you want to know. And if you leave me your contact information, if I come across anything related to your inquiry, I’ll give you a call.”
“Thank you.” Khattak passed her his card. She read it and looked at him quickly.
“Your name seems familiar. You’re not related to—”
“Angeza Khattak? She’s my mother. You handled a private sponsorship for her group last year.”
But Linh Pham was shaking her head. “I was going to say Ruksh Khattak, but yes, of course I remember your mother.”
“Ruksh?” Khattak’s voice acquired an edge. “She’s my sister. Was she here? She wasn’t involved in my mother’s sponsorship efforts, as far as I know.”
Linh slipped Khattak’s card into a drawer. “She consults with us, on occasion.”
“In what capacity?” Rachel asked.
She questioned why a specialist in epidemiology would be needed at Sanctuary Syria. Perhaps because refugees were required to have clear medical results before they could enter Canada, unless they were given dispensation by the government.
Linh was swift to enlighten them. “She was recommended as a consultant by Audrey Clare. I don’t know if you know the name, but Audrey runs an NGO called Woman to Woman. They’re one of our funding partners. When we were struggling to meet the prime minister’s resettlement deadline, Woman to Woman was invaluable in helping us fast-track cases.”
She clapped her hands together in sudden recognition. “The photograph. I know where I’ve seen that young man before. I’ve seen his picture in a case file referred to us by Audrey.”
Rachel tried to prevent her excitement from showing. They now had a solid link. She glanced over at Khattak.
“And Ruksh?” he asked again, distracted. “What role does my sister play?”
Linh’s calm expression broadened into a smile. “The Khattaks are quite a family. Your mother is responsible for growing our list of private sponsors. And your sister runs a clinic on the weekends for our new arrivals. She’s formed a network of volunteers—doctors, dentists, much-needed specialists like OB-GYNS, and psychologists—”
“Psychologists?” Rachel broke in.
“We’ve resettled Syrians from nearly every part of the country. Aleppo, Daraa, Ghouta … the things they’ve seen or experienced … how can I describe them? They’re war-traumatized. And war isn’t the only trauma they’ve had to face on their journey.”
Khattak’s hands unclenched from the arms of his chair, a small gesture Rachel noticed. The relationship between Khattak and his sister had not warmed up over time. He’d been so preoccupied by the mention of Ruksh that he’d passed no comment on a subject that would normally engage his interest. And, from what she knew of him, his sympathy.
“I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Inspector. Ruksh has been an inspiration.”
Rachel tried to make light of it.
“I live with my brother and I never know what he’s up to.” She tried out a grin, noting the tension in Khattak’s face. “At least your sister is a credit to you. I’m not as confident of Zach.”
In fact, the reverse was true. Ruksh had caused Khattak an insupportable amount of distress over the past year, whereas Rachel had never been happier than to have her brother at home again. Of course, she wouldn’t say that to Khattak. She was trying to lift his spirits.
“I’ve been out of the country recently,” Khattak answered. “How long has Ruksh been working with you?”
Linh Pham paused to consider. “Not that long. She first came to see us when we began operations, but in the middle she had her exams and couldn’t devote her time. For the past three months, she’s been operating the clinic on Fridays and Saturdays.”
&n
bsp; Rachel had a pretty good idea of what might have distracted Khattak’s sister—it wasn’t her exams. Ruksh had been inextricably involved in a case Rachel and Esa had worked the past winter. Some would even say implicated.
It was strange Khattak hadn’t known about his sister’s work. If Ruksh wasn’t speaking to him, his mother or his sister Misbah surely would have raised the subject, if only to grant him peace of mind.
Rachel tried to redirect the conversation. Linh Pham had given them two excellent leads. Anything else was a bonus, though she could appreciate that Khattak would need to talk to Ruksh about whether Audrey had mentioned Sami or Agent Bertin. An unpalatable thought struck her.
There was bound to have been copious contact between Ruksh and Audrey Clare—via phone or e-mail or text. It wouldn’t be enough to ask Ruksh to tell them what she knew; they’d have to see the correspondence for themselves. And if Rachel’s past encounters with Khattak’s intractable sister were anything to go by, Ruksh wouldn’t be inclined to help, even if they were able to convince her of their need.
Her mind boggled at the thought of Khattak having to subpoena documents from his own sister. But he’d been through worse; perhaps this wouldn’t even register.
She stole a glance at his sensitive face. He’d crossed one long leg over the other and was looking down at the hands he’d folded over his knee. His thick, dark lashes fanned his cheek. She couldn’t read his expression, but the faint wrinkling of his forehead told her he’d thought of something she’d missed.
He thanked Linh Pham for her time. When he and Rachel were at the door, he turned back and asked the question he’d seemed to be weighing.
“Do you have the address of the clinic, by any chance?”
Linh Pham showed her surprise, her dimples disappearing as she compressed her lips.
“Inspector, the clinic’s open now. I’m sure you’ll find Ruksh there.” There was a pitying note in her voice. “I believe it’s the address of your father’s former practice.”
* * *
There was silence in the car as they left the lakeshore to drive toward the city’s more affluent neighborhoods. They weren’t heading back to their offices, but Rachel wasn’t about to ask Khattak any questions. He would tell her what he wanted her to do when he was ready.
She slipped a hand into her handbag and closed her fingers around a packet of Sesame Snaps. She debated with herself for a moment. The interior of Khattak’s car was spotless; Sesame Snaps were sticky and known to crumble. With a reluctant sigh, she dropped them back in her purse.
She caught the quirk of Khattak’s smile from the corner of her eyes.
“Go ahead, Rachel. We’ll break for lunch soon, but there’s no need for you to suffer. You don’t do your best work on an empty stomach.”
It was Rachel’s turn to grin, a sense of relief behind it. This was an overture she was happy to take up. She made a show of opening the packet.
“You just don’t remember,” she said mournfully. “Breakfast, lunch, three meals a day. You’re a bit of a tyrant, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”
“It seems more like six meals with you, Rachel.”
The teasing note was back in his voice so Rachel offered him a Snap.
“You must be kidding.” His black-gloved hands were on the steering wheel. “If I didn’t respect your basic human rights, I wouldn’t be letting you eat in my car.”
“Noted.” Rachel made quick work of her snack. She found a tissue in her purse to wipe her hands on. “I’m still a bit sticky, sir.”
“Then don’t touch anything.”
At the bantering note in his voice, Rachel felt utterly happy. This was what she loved about her work. She had a partner who didn’t take his moods out on her.
The car made steady progress along Avenue Road. They turned off and passed the campus of Upper Canada College, where Khattak had gone to school. Its gently groomed four-square lawns lay under a mantle of snow, as perfectly edged as a postcard. The reddish brick of its Georgian façade had received a similar dusting; the graceful hands of the clock were etched in black against the snow.
“Spring,” Rachel said. “I think the good Lord mislaid his magic wand.”
“It will come, Rachel. This is the mildest weather we’ve seen for some time. And I didn’t know your deity was a sorcerer.”
“Hey, whatever works.” Rachel judged the time was right to question Khattak. “So we’re heading up to your father’s practice? We’re not paying a call on Suha Obeidi?”
Khattak turned down another street toward a small complex at the end of a road lined with maples. A bit of green, Rachel observed. Tiny shoots coming to life, taking their chances that winter had ended. The parking lot in front of the complex was half full, three young men loitering outside its doors, one smoking a cigarette.
On one end of the complex was a pharmacy, on the other a women’s spa and a small eatery called the Istanbul Café. Sandwiched between these was an upscale bakery and a bookshop with a whimsical display.
The largest section of the complex was in the center, its rounded entrance constructed of thick, bluish-green glass. There was no sign above the façade, but a makeshift banner bore the logo W2W Clinic. It was printed in a green that matched the glass.
Khattak pulled up in the parking lot of the complex. He studied the banner before he answered Rachel’s question.
“I know I said that you should interview Ruksh, but given what we’ve just learned, I think it’s best if I talk to her. Perhaps in this environment she won’t be quite as obstructive. You could order us some lunch. And set up that meeting with Suha Obeidi.”
They turned to face each other in the car. At the close proximity, Rachel was struck by Khattak’s unequivocal attraction. But unlike most women, she wasn’t itching to get closer by penetrating his reserve on matters related to his family. He’d been open about the troubles he’d had with Ruksh, a close regard she cherished. So much so that she sometimes asked his advice about Zach. But she didn’t know exactly where the line was.
Carefully, she said, “You don’t want me as backup?”
She was thinking of the disaster at Algonquin. She looked him straight in the eye.
The way he looked at her in return made her blush. Khattak had the uncanny ability to read her thoughts; she didn’t want him to at this moment.
With just as much care, he answered, “If you don’t mind, Rachel, I’d like to do this alone.”
There was a hint of vulnerability to the curve of his mouth; Rachel gave in at once. To break the solemnity of the mood, she rubbed her sticky hands together and pulled on her toque.
She opened the car door and tossed over her shoulder, “You trust me to order your food?”
Khattak’s answer was stunningly sweet.
“I’d trust you with anything, Rachel. You know I already have.”
7
Toronto, Canada
Esa walked through the glass doors with a strong sense of nostalgia. His mother owned the building, but she had closed his father’s practice after his father had died. Esa hadn’t crossed its threshold in years. He saw from a framed register on the wall that the building had been leased to several new practitioners, none of whom were connected with his father’s old practice. At the bottom, the words “Woman to Woman Walk-in Clinic” had been added to the register in white letters.
The reception area was spacious. Leather button-down couches had been added to the waiting area, and across a gleaming quartz floor, several curly-headed boys were absorbed in a game of building blocks in the children’s play area.
Khattak took in the changes: expensive but characterless prints on the wall, a raised glass countertop that gave the receptionist privacy. An artfully arranged coffee table hosted a selection of miniature pastries—it struck a homespun note in contrast to the quartz and white glass.
One of the boys darted from the play area to help himself to a pastry. He wiped his hands on a napkin before returning to pl
ay. He flashed Esa a naughty smile as he picked up a colorful block. Esa returned the smile with one of his own.
The office manager was a comfortable woman with a welcoming manner and a pair of lively blue eyes. She might have been in her sixties but her silky-smooth, rose-pink complexion made it impossible to tell. She spoke with a mild Scottish brogue that softly rolled her Rs.
“And who might you be, my handsome stranger? Not a regular patient, I wouldn’t forget a face like yours, though come to think of it…” She frowned as if she were trying to place him.
Khattak produced his ID. “I’m not a patient. I’m here to see Ruksh Khattak.”
The receptionist clicked her tongue, her eyes refusing to stray from his face. “That would be Doctor Khattak, you mean. Do you have an appointment?”
Khattak leaned his elbows on the glass counter. He placed his ID on her desk. She immediately lowered her voice.
“Police? And you’re here, why? Is it about them?” She tipped her head at the group of boys who were building a structure with their blocks. A frosty note tinged her voice. “They’re good boys, they’re no trouble. Neither are the parents. I’ll not have anyone say otherwise.”
Khattak took an immediate liking to her. Her streak of protectiveness would benefit the newcomers. So many doors had closed on them. In his father’s clinic, one had opened.
“My name is Esa Khattak. I’d like to see my sister, if she’s not busy with a patient.”
The woman sat back in surprise. This time she clicked her tongue at herself.
“You’re alike as two peas in a pod, I don’t know why I didn’t see it. Though I must say neither one of you resembles the little one.”
“Do you mean Misbah? Is she here, too?”
The receptionist introduced herself as Holliday Baines. “A ridiculous name, I know, the good Lord bless my parents, but they always said that having me in their lives … I was a late arrival, you know … was something akin to a miracle, and so why shouldn’t they celebrate it like a holiday … though Heaven knows a late baby is no picnic, but there you are, and here I am.” She paused before launching herself into an answer to his question. “Missy’s in here all the time, babysitting, cleaning up, talking to the mothers … she’s very good with the mothers, especially the ones who don’t speak English.” She broke off this flow to glance at Khattak’s ID. “My dear Inspector Khattak, here I am rattling on when you’ve come to see the doctor. I’ll ring her to let her know you’re here. She’s catching up on her paperwork.”
A Dangerous Crossing--A Novel Page 5