A Death in Sarajevo

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Esa had taken his mother’s hand and kissed her cheek.

  “Don’t say that, Ami. Forgiveness is all we have in this life. It’s what makes us whole.”

  Esa’s eyes flicked away from Ciprian Coale, who’d been called to speak about his professional relationship with Khattak and about Khattak’s insubordination at Algonquin. Looking around the parliamentary chambers, Esa caught sight of Rachel sitting with his old friend, Nathan Clare, a well-known public figure. Nate gave him an encouraging smile and a wink.

  The gesture warmed Esa—Nate’s presence would win him a few allies, softening the perception of Khattak as an outsider whose motives were likely suspect.

  “Inspector Khattak.”

  Manning’s sharp reprimand interrupted his wandering thoughts. Coale brushed past Esa, and took a seat in the gallery to watch the outcome of proceedings.

  “I’m sorry,” Esa said. “I missed the question.”

  “Would you agree with Inspector Coale’s assessment of your performance?”

  Khattak wondered again how the inquiry had managed to proceed from Drayton’s fall from the Bluffs to a classified anti-terrorism investigation. His counsel, a quietly astute man named Ian Fleet, objected, but Manning persisted, his blue eyes as sharp as his voice.

  “I’m trying to determine whether there’s a pattern of misuse of your authority at Community Policing. You discovered Christopher Drayton was a fugitive from justice, but we still don’t know on whose authority you began your search. It seems reasonable to presume there’s a pattern of disregard for following protocol, as though you write your own rules at Community Policing.”

  Esa’s counsel moved to answer, but Esa waved him aside.

  “It’s my understanding that conclusions will be drawn after this hearing is concluded—when you’ve had a chance to hear from all parties.”

  Manning sat back in his chair. He and the other six members of the commission were seated on a raised platform, each with a bottle of water and a microphone before him or her, just as there was a microphone placed in front of Khattak. The commission of inquiry consisted of five men and one woman, none of whom was a person of color, and none with a background in either community policing or counter-terrorism. This was meant to ensure impartiality, but it felt to Khattak like a cutting off of common ground. And unlike Manning’s question, this wasn’t an assumption on his part—it was born of the long experience of too often being the only person of color in a gathering of senior members of law enforcement, parliament, or the press. It had even been suggested to Esa that he would be better served by a lawyer named Ian Fleet than by his friend Faisal Aziz, who’d been Esa’s first choice as his legal counsel.

  He’d followed the advice knowing that things were changing but slowly. Lately, he’d learned a new term: code-switching. As a Muslim man of color, he was honest enough to ask himself if he adjusted his behavior or language depending on the circumstances and the people he found himself among. He cleared his throat and spoke, keeping his voice pleasant and balanced.

  “I’ve answered the question of authorization several times during the course of this hearing. With regard to the Drayton investigation, the subject of this inquiry”—he underlined the word—“both Sergeant Getty and I have testified that the investigation was authorized by the Chief War Crimes Historian at the Department of Justice, the late Tom Paley.”

  “But Sergeant Getty never spoke to Mr. Paley directly, isn’t that true?”

  Both Esa and Rachel had admitted this to be the case.

  “And we have no independent corroboration of your story from any other member of the Department of Justice.”

  Manning’s choice of words made Esa sit back in his chair. Ian Fleet’s head came up.

  It wasn’t a story. But without Tom’s verification, how could Esa prove that?

  “I’m not sure why you think I’d open an investigation into a man I’d never heard of without a request from Justice.”

  He could tell from Ian’s reaction he’d said exactly the wrong thing. A gleam of interest appeared in Manning’s eyes. From the far side of the gallery, Ciprian Coale leaned forward, his fingers clasped over his knees. Esa had just given Manning the opening he needed.

  “Let’s answer that, shall we? Inspector Khattak, have you ever been to any of the republics of the former Yugoslavia? Have you been to Sarajevo, for example?”

  Esa’s face froze. What was the relevance of such a question?

  “Yes,” he answered. “I’ve been to Sarajevo.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Once during the war as a student, once in the years afterward. I’m afraid I don’t see the relevance of your question.”

  “It’s about to become very clear. Inspector Khattak, did you have reason to know Drazen Krstic before you opened your investigation into the death of Christopher Drayton?”

  “Do you mean personally? Of course not.”

  “Are you quite certain of that?”

  Esa couldn’t begin to guess where this was headed.

  “Had I ever met Drazen Krstic, I can assure you I wouldn’t have forgotten him.”

  “Ah.” It was Manning’s turn to sit back in his seat. He shifted the papers in front of him, and for the first time Khattak realized Manning was following a prearranged script. A script someone had handed him.

  “Do you have close ties with the Bosnian community in Toronto, Inspector Khattak?”

  Khattak frowned. “I do. That’s part of my mandate at Community Policing.”

  “Yes, of course.” The concession wasn’t a friendly one. Manning pressed ahead. “So you opened this investigation, yet ultimately, despite discovering Drayton’s true identity, you found no one accountable for his fall from the Bluffs.”

  Khattak paused. “That’s correct. We had no evidence to substantiate a case.”

  “A curious choice of words, Inspector. Did you suspect someone in the Bosnian community, even if you couldn’t substantiate a case?”

  Khattak was under oath. Now he understood why the questions had been framed as they had, just as he knew he couldn’t lie.

  “I had my suspicions but I lacked confirmation.”

  “And who did you suspect?”

  Khattak raised his head. He studied Manning. From his peripheral vision, he caught Coale’s sardonic smile, and the cold satisfaction on his one-time rival’s face. He looked over at Martine Killiam who regarded him gravely.

  “It would be gravely irresponsible to name an innocent member of the public, let alone a genocide survivor. This is an open hearing. I can’t see the merit of doing so.”

  “Can’t you?” Manning whispered something to one of his aides. “The reason I ask these questions, Inspector Khattak, is because I wonder if there’s an issue of collusion.”

  “That’s an outrageous accusation!”

  The interruption come from Rachel, who’d leapt to her feet and whose face was now an angry, red color. Her brown eyes snapped with sparks. “We did everything we could to find out the truth about Drayton—if anyone’s to blame here, it’s the Department of Justice. You’ve heard from the survivors—you know that’s the truth.”

  Manning shifted his attention to Rachel. His eyes narrowed, he asked her, “Do I need to call someone to escort you from these hearings, Sergeant Getty? Because we’ve already heard your testimony—you haven’t been recalled to speak.”

  Rachel ignored Nate, who was tugging on her hand.

  “This is an inquiry into how Christopher Drayton was able to find refuge in Canada without having his true identity uncovered. It is not an inquiry into Inspector Khattak’s loyalties.”

  She sank down into her chair with a furious scowl, drumming her fingertips on the arm of her chair.

  “Your loyalties are very clear, at any rate,” Manning said. He turned back to Khattak. “Of course I can’t force you to speak if you choose not to, Inspector. But I will weigh your refusal to answer against the rest of your testimony.”


  Esa’s lawyer intervened with a rather conspicuous sigh.

  “This inquiry is beginning to seem terribly inappropriate. Establishing Community Policing was the Department of Justice’s idea. They’re the ones who recruited Inspector Khattak to his post. Tell me something—if you had Tom Paley’s notes, would you have convened this hearing? Would you be pressuring my client in this frankly distasteful manner?”

  Khattak saw the trap, even if Manning didn’t.

  Manning made a quick, dismissive gesture of his hand and answered candidly. “If Tom Paley authorized the investigation, we would know the government did everything possible to ascertain Drayton’s identity. And naturally, we would express our gratitude to Inspector Khattak for his efforts in that direction. But there’s also the matter of the anti-terrorism investigation. We can’t disregard Inspector Coale’s evidence.”

  Martine Killiam wrote something on a piece of paper and gave the note to an aide, who carried it across the room to Peter Manning. Manning read it to himself, nodding with an air of abstraction. He crumpled the piece of paper and stuffed it in his pocket. He seemed to have lost his momentum.

  “Your objections are noted,” he said to Ian Fleet. “That’s enough for today. We’ll convene again in the morning and pick up where we left off. You’re here for the foreseeable future, Inspector Khattak?”

  Esa nodded. He could hardly be anywhere else.

  He thanked Ian Fleet who muttered, “I wish you’d let me do all the talking,” then found his way over to Rachel and Nate.

  “You really don’t need to be here,” he said to Nate with a smile, ignoring Rachel’s outburst for the moment.

  “I do,” Nate rejoined. “Clare and Khattak.”

  “Khattak and Clare,” Esa answered.

  Rachel grinned. “Is that a clubhouse thing or can anybody join?”

  Nate smiled down at her lazily. “An all-boys’ club, Rachel.”

  “Our school,” Esa added. “So what did you think?” he asked them.

  Rachel rubbed her hands together. “I’d really love to know what was on that piece of paper. It completely shut Manning down.”

  Nate looked at her, surprised.

  “Oh, that’s very easy, Rachel.”

  “It is?”

  “Esa Khattak is an essential national security asset. Hands off my investigation.” He grinned at his friend. “Does that sound about right?”

  Esa shrugged, following his friends out into the bright glare of the day, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. The parliamentary chambers weren’t stuffy but he’d still felt confined in his chair.

  “Possibly. Manning keeps moving a little too close to that line.”

  “Close to it?” Rachel was taken aback. “He’s stomping all over it. This is the Drayton inquiry, not the Algonquin woods inquiry.”

  “The Superintendent will handle it, Rachel. You’re worrying for nothing.” He shot a quick glance at her. Moving her a little away from Nate, he asked, “Is your father—”

  Rachel swallowed. “He’s gone. I’m sorry about that, sir.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m sure he couldn’t have said anything worse than what I’ve already heard from Ruksh.”

  Khattak’s face reflected his concern for Rachel.

  Nate ambled over to them, shamelessly eavesdropping. “Ruksh will get over it. Audrey will help her settle—they’ve always seen each other through their storms.”

  One of the consequences of Esa and Nate being such close friends was that their younger sisters were equally close.

  “Audrey’s trying to interest Ruksh in a refugee project she’s taken on.”

  “That’s exactly what she needs,” Esa agreed. “Ruksh needs to be taken out of herself. As a physician, there’s a lot she could be doing to help.”

  By talking of other things, they left the tension and hostility of the hearing behind, walking along the locks to find the route down to the canal. Another long-lasting winter in Ottawa, with a single morning brightened by the tentative warmth of the sun. The canal was now thronged by skaters whose cheerful scarves and toques bobbed along its surface.

  Rachel pulled at Nate’s arm. “Join me for an afternoon skate?”

  “That would be like a giraffe trying to keep company with a swan. I’m not the most elegant skater.”

  Rachel looked him over, glad his levity was lightening Khattak’s mood. Though Nathan Clare was very tall and somewhat awkward, she’d never thought of him as graceless. She smiled a secret smile to herself: She doubted herself plenty, but she never doubted herself on the ice.

  When Khattak arrived at the morning session, he was surprised to find Ian Fleet already present, smiling a complacent, contented smile. He was holding in his hands a blue folder stamped with the logo of the Department of Justice, and his mood was expansive and friendly.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to Esa. “This will all be over in a moment.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  But before Ian could answer, they were asked to take their seats.

  When Peter Manning called the inquiry to order, Esa was surprised to see the other man’s face marked by a distinctive pallor. He avoided Khattak’s eyes, and in his hands he held a file similar to the one Ian Fleet had showed Esa. He cleared his throat, testing his microphone.

  Fleet rose to his feet and suavely interrupted Peter Manning.

  “I see you received the file.”

  “Ah—yes.”

  “And all the appended notes? Tom Paley’s complete records—the letters from survivors, for example?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve had a chance to review Mr. Paley’s records?”

  Manning cleared his throat again. Lost for words, he nodded.

  “And what have you concluded, sir?” Ian pretended to glance down at his notepad. “I do have you on record.”

  Manning braced himself, leaning closer to the microphone.

  “Inspector Khattak.” He searched for Rachel as well. “Sergeant Getty. This commission thanks you both for your testimony. And it owes a tremendous debt of gratitude to the members of the Bosnian community who appeared here to share their stories about Drayton. The Department of Justice has now made it clear to us that the investigation into Drayton’s death was in fact authorized by them, and that Inspector Khattak’s unit did exactly as it was asked to do, following each lead. We will confer further with Justice and there will be a press conference later this afternoon at which Inspector Khattak is welcome to make his own statement on behalf of Community Policing. As far as we are concerned, this inquiry is closed. Our report will be issued in a matter of weeks.” He found the resolve to look Esa in the eye. “Please accept our apologies.”

  “And Algonquin?” Esa asked, too stunned by the mysterious reappearance of Tom Paley’s case file to say more about Drayton. The fate of his stewardship of Community Policing was still uncertain. “Is that matter closed as well?”

  Manning seemed to search the room for a sign of Martine Killiam. When he didn’t find her, he answered with more confidence.

  “The commission is satisfied by testimony given at the in camera proceedings. The rest remains between the Minister of Justice and yourself. This inquiry has no further comment.”

  It was too soon to celebrate, though Esa felt a tremendous burden slipping from his shoulders. How could Tom Paley’s file have turned up at such an opportune moment, the very moment when he’d felt the proceedings would turn against him—his rank stripped away, his unit dismantled. It was a mystery he’d have to solve at another time: Ian had only been able to tell him the file had been messengered along with a typewritten note assuring him a second copy was with Manning, while the existence of both copies had been made known to the head of the commission. The file couldn’t be disappeared a second time.

  The first person Esa looked to was Rachel, who was beaming at him with as much pride as if she’d said aloud to Manning, “I never doubted Inspector Khattak for a second.”
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  “Where did that file come from, sir?” she asked when they were alone.

  “I wish I knew. It’s looking like we have more allies than I thought.”

  “The Superintendent, maybe.”

  But Esa couldn’t see how Martine Killiam’s influence could have extended that far.

  His thoughts moved ahead, he was free to go, free to put himself at his friend Skender’s disposal—free to solve a puzzle mentioned only in passing. Free to think about this mystery that centered on Amira, and to wander the streets of Sarajevo at will. He would be well away from his sister’s anger, and from the load of blame he’d shouldered for too long.

  Sarajevo after the war.

  He would soon be there.

  PART TWO: SARAJEVO

  1

  Dressed in his overcoat, his cashmere scarf, and his gloves, Esa waited for Skender in the sanctuary of the old Jewish synagogue of Sarajevo. It was known locally as the Il kal vzeju or the Old Temple, and even in the winter its narrow garden in the midst of the old stone walls offered a promise of peace. The giant trees that shaded the sanctuary in summer were bare of their leaves now and drowsing under the weight of a late snowfall, the sky behind them a pastel, pearlescent gray. If Esa walked the narrow alleys between the synagogue and the war-damaged buildings that surrounded it, he could see the white shaft of a minaret whose upper spire was clothed in a green that appeared black, beneath a dull steel slender crescent. A ten-minute walk from the synagogue was the Sacred Heart Cathedral, the center of Catholic worship in the city.

  Sarajevo—a meeting place of cultures, a crossroads of history.

  He seated himself on a wooden bench near a heavy black door framed by a roof of Spanish tiles. Bunches of greenery sprouted from the cupola, fighting their way free of the snow. A museum, a temple, and now a site re-dedicated to worship and community, the Sephardic synagogue had known more than its share of devastation and destruction. Built by the descendants of Jews fleeing the Spanish Reconquista, the synagogue had suffered two major fires in its history before the greater despoliation caused by the Second World War. Then the synagogue had been looted and used as a detention center before Sarajevo’s Jewish population had been deported to concentration camps. During the Bosnian war of the early 1990s, the synagogue had been damaged again by shelling.