Rachel had female friends, but she wasn’t versed in the art of sharing personal confidences. Mostly, her friends were a rough-and-tumble group of women like herself, who talked about sports and their jobs. Rachel had only recently begun to mention her brother, Zachary. And that was because Zach had asked to move in with her, and she didn’t want her friends to think she was keeping him a secret.
“The boss doesn’t talk about himself,” she responded. Then because that sounded like she didn’t care either way, she added, “I wouldn’t know how to ask him something personal.”
“So he doesn’t mention me.”
Rachel shook her head, raindrops finding their way from her ponytail to the side of her neck. She shivered at the touch.
“He was upset at himself for dragging you into our last case.”
Sehr’s face softened. She was really very lovely, Rachel thought. Intelligent and sophisticated, the kind of woman who would have no trouble attracting attention if she wanted it. And if she didn’t want it, was that because she was tied up in knots over Khattak? Rachel felt a pang as she asked herself the question. If a woman as intriguing as Sehr couldn’t interest him—she shut the thought down, not liking where it was headed. She caught sight of Nate at the counter, watching them both with an air of anxiety, shrinking inside his ridiculous jacket.
Rachel found herself flushing. She’d never meant to give the impression that Khattak was more to her than a friend.
“We were friends,” Sehr said. “Samina and I. Really close friends.” She was speaking of Khattak’s wife. “I introduced them. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t, but it wouldn’t have made any difference.” Her eyes glanced away from Rachel’s. “He never thought of me in that way, and now I just remind him of her death. I can’t make him see me in any other light.” She sighed. “I did try, and I don’t regret it—what I regret is the way things are now.”
Nate joined them again, bearing a tray of coffee.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Rachel wasn’t sure if she or Nate felt more awkward at this moment.
“He went to Iran to distance himself from me.”
* * *
The whole thing was tangled and unpleasant. And as much as she missed Khattak, Rachel wanted to think about the case, she didn’t want to play the role of Sehr’s confidante.
She glared at Nate.
Get me out of this, the glare said.
To oblige her, he re-directed the conversation.
“So there’s nothing we can do for Max Najafi?”
Sehr stirred sugar into her coffee, thinking.
“You’d need someone on your side, someone highly placed who could put pressure on the Iranians—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, a director at CSIS, maybe someone at the RCMP.”
Rachel set down her coffee cup with a thump, sloshing dark liquid onto the table.
Nate looked at her in horror.
They’d thought of the same name.
The RCMP’s Outreach Coordinator, Laine Stoicheva.
* * *
“Don’t do it,” Rachel said in the car. Laine had turned Nathan’s life inside out.
They were driving down the expressway, headed to the Film Reference Library on King Street. The rain and the lake ran together, a turbulent gray on the periphery of Rachel’s vision. The lake was her comfort, her home, the boundary of all she knew and loved, pleasing to her in every season. Her wipers flew across the windshield.
“You have plenty of other contacts, she’s not that highly placed, she’s going to mess with your head, and she’ll probably mess with what we’re trying to do while she’s at it.”
“She might know something about the letters,” Nate said, his face turned to the lake.
“Why would she? She’s no Iran expert. Didn’t Max tell us—the whole thing is fifty years old, we’re probably grasping at straws and all because we’re trying to figure out what Zahra was up to before she was killed.”
Nate studied her, his fingers drumming against the passenger door. It was a nervous gesture that gave him away.
“Isn’t that how you normally pursue a murder investigation? By tracing the victim’s last movements?”
“That’s not what’s happening here. Zahra was a political dissident. Those kinds of politics get you killed.”
“Look at what Sehr just told us,” he said reasonably. “She doesn’t think Zahra went to Iran to make a documentary. It would have been next to impossible.”
Words stuck in Rachel’s throat. She was thinking of Khattak’s safety, but she was also thinking of the compulsions that had driven Zahra.
“You’re proving my point. Dangerous things get you killed.”
“You’re missing mine. Zahra may not have been killed for political reasons.”
Rachel eased the car off the expressway and into the city traffic. She found a parking garage near the base of the Toronto International Film Festival, a location that inhabited a city block, home to the Film Reference Library’s collection. They were back in the rain before she answered Nate.
“We might find coronation footage here, we might not. But think about it. The coronation, the letters—they’re political events. No matter how you slice this case, the answer comes up the same. It just happens that recent politics make for a more plausible explanation of Zahra’s death than anything else.”
She used her Maple Leafs umbrella to cover them both. Fleet-footed, they dodged passersby on their way up the street. Rachel paused to admire the lighted entrance of the Bell Lightbox. This was the right place for steel and glass, in the midst of the city’s skyscrapers and under the shadow of the CN Tower. Only once had Rachel’s father, police superintendent Don Getty, taken Rachel and Zach up to the observation deck, watching his children dart about, daring each other to skip across the glass floor. The afternoon had been ruined when Zach had slipped, falling onto his elbows. He’d looked at Rachel in delight.
“Come check this out, Ray! It’s much scarier if you lie down on the floor.”
Don Getty had been embarrassed by Zach’s antics. He’d yanked Zach back onto his feet, shoving the boy into the lineup for the elevator.
“We just got here, Da!” Zach had cried in protest.
Don Getty’s right hand had gripped Zach’s shoulder from the back. Rachel had quickly moved between them.
“We’re ready to go, right, Zach? We’ve had enough. I’m getting kind of hungry anyway.”
She had latched her father’s arm around her own shoulders, maneuvering Zach out of Don Getty’s way.
She thought of that moment whenever she looked at the tower, of the fear and dread it evoked in her memory. Though Zach had been sullen on the car ride home, Rachel had kept up a steady flow of chatter, knowing what was coming the minute they crossed the threshold.
“Rachel?” Nate’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Let’s at least check it out. Let’s find out what interested Zahra in the coronation.”
He led the way to the reference desk, Rachel at his heels.
Jeremy Engstrom, the librarian, was a man in his sixties, trim and bright-eyed, with a convivial manner as he recognized Nathan Clare. They chatted amiably about common interests and mutual friends, Engstrom delighted to inform Nate that films based on Nate’s books were available at the library. He urged Nate to consider the possibility of a reading and film screening. Nate’s answer was modest and pleased. He didn’t like to be in the public eye, he’d told Rachel. But with Canada’s shifting political identity, he sensed he needed to be. The discourse was civil on the surface. The recent election had caused old antagonisms to re-surface: anti-immigrant, anti-refugee, disdainful of the claims of indigenous peoples, lurching toward a politics of fear. Everything Nate’s father had stood against from his earliest days on the national stage.
Rachel liked this side of Nate, liked his quiet conviction. She had the feeling he could change things without raising his voice or shaking a fist, his courtesy a means as well as an end.
“We’re wondering how far back your archives go. We’re looking for footage of the coronation of Reza Pahlavi in 1968. Do you have news archives? Or documentaries, perhaps?”
Engstrom looked surprised.
“You’re the third person this year to ask me that question.”
Rachel perked up.
“Who were the other two?”
Engstrom shuffled behind his desk. He brought his computer screen to life with a few taps of his fingers.
“One was the filmmaker Zahra Sobhani.” He looked grave. “I’m sure you’ve heard the sad news.” His eyes scanned the screen. “Is that why you’re here? It’s why that reporter came, Vicky D’Souza. They both wanted to see the coronation, neither explained why.” He shrugged. “I gave them the same answer. You can access the best documentary on YouTube. It’s made by the BBC, there’s no need to borrow the library’s copy. There are also, I should point out, numerous amateur videos of the coronation on the same website.”
Nate looked thoughtful.
“Then why did Zahra come to you? Even a basic search on the Internet would have told her as much.”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Not precisely, that is. Ms. Sobhani said she’d viewed the footage available through public sources and was looking for something else, something the BBC didn’t have. Footage of the Shah’s arrival at the coronation. I told the same thing to the reporter.”
Nate leaned his elbows on the reference desk.
“There’s no footage of his arrival? Did you check?”
Engstrom swiveled the screen of his computer around. It listed the date and title of the BBC film, along with the film credits.
“I have to admit, my interest was piqued. I watched it myself. I also viewed the videos online. Ms. Sobhani was right. You can watch the entire coronation except for the Shah’s arrival. I found it curious but not particularly interesting.”
Rachel had the sense Nate and Jeremy Engstrom could happily chat about film all day, if she didn’t bring them back to the matter at hand.
“So you couldn’t help her. She must have been disappointed.”
Pursing his lips, Engstrom tapped at his computer again.
“I didn’t say that. I said we didn’t have anything else. I did a database search for Ms. Sobhani. There’s an older film at the reference library on Yonge Street. I told her to try there, though I couldn’t guarantee she would find what she wanted.”
“The film’s name?”
Engstrom wrote it on a piece of paper. He passed it to Nate with an arch smile.
“It’s somewhat florid, I’m afraid. It’s called The Lion of Persia. I suppose it’s meant as an homage to the Shah.”
“Did you tell Vicky D’Souza the same thing?”
“I did. She went directly to Yonge Street from here. I’m afraid you’re out of luck. The library closes at five.”
It was just after 5:00 P.M.
Rachel nodded at the screen.
“Is the documentary checked out?”
Engstrom frowned. “Yes. And it’s long overdue. I can’t tell you which patron has it.”
If the film was overdue, Rachel didn’t think Vicky D’Souza had borrowed it. Perhaps it was still in Zahra’s possession. But not in Toronto, or Najafi would have told them as much. Maybe she could try to buy the film online, or request it through an inter-library loan. But she didn’t know what she was looking for, even if she found footage of the Shah’s arrival.
She had another thought.
“Mr. Engstrom, did Ms. Sobhani happen to mention she was looking for some letters?”
Engstrom’s eyes gleamed.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” he said. “No, she didn’t. Vicky D’Souza asked me that as well. Do tell me about the letters.”
Rachel didn’t think that was wise.
“I’m afraid I don’t know myself. But thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”
She noticed his wistful expression as they left.
Not for the first time she reflected on people’s ability to lose sight of human tragedy when presented with a puzzle to solve. She didn’t judge Engstrom for it. Compartmentalizing was a necessary element of police work. And a librarian’s job frequently involved a similar hunt for clues. She had the feeling Engstrom was good at his job, and he’d clearly taken a shine to Nate. He could be a valuable asset in the future. She went back to the desk, thanked him with more gusto, and passed her card to him.
Nate was at her heels.
He spoke to Engstrom over her shoulder, his warm breath brushing her neck, chasing a tiny shiver down her spine.
“Jeremy, this library has screening rooms, doesn’t it? I know you’re closing soon, but do you think we could stay a bit longer?”
The librarian was happy to oblige. To do a favor for Nathan Clare was to shore up the influence that was key to building the library’s reputation. What a story he would have to share with the library’s board of trustees.
“Of course. Were you thinking of viewing something in particular?”
Nate’s fingers dug into Rachel’s shoulder, conveying his sense of excitement.
“Would you be kind enough to show us the coronation video?”
To Rachel, he said, “Let’s ask Vicky D’Souza to join us here.” He lowered his voice. “And maybe it’s time for another call to Esa.”
17
The Prison Yard
They’ve taken my clothes, I’m in for another beating. My eyes and face are swollen, four of my teeth are gone. But none of my bones are broken, that’s on today’s agenda. It’s cold outside, below freezing. A brute of a guard chains me to the wall. “This is what we do to foreigners,” he says. No point in debating the ethics of citizenship with a man who’s holding a club. My kidneys won’t survive the philosophy. But that’s it, he goes away. He turns the lights in the courtyard off. And I realize. I might be beaten to death, or I might freeze to death by morning. My lips are blue, my skin becomes chilled, but in the courtyard, I see the sky.
18
I know you don’t want to trust me, I don’t give my name, I don’t say who I am—what reason do you have to trust me? This is how the regime turns us against each other, how it turns our green feathers yellow. They tell us we’re enemies, we’re the ones who made the mistake that sabotaged the country. Or perhaps, as with the election, they never learned to count—it’s true, they didn’t count the green birds of June, they didn’t measure the span of our wings.
Another of their ironies: they offered their support to the people of Egypt, the people who brought a demagogue to his knees. But our tyrant builds a fortress, speaks his mind—reigns supreme.
I would never betray you to them.
Touka says you won’t betray us either.
So open your eyes, Inspector Khattak.
Read the writing on the wall.
19
Taraneh was waiting for him at the entrance to the dovecote. A thin strip of dawn wrapped the tower in a layer of gauze, subfusing its outline in a lusterless gold. Khattak had hoped to visit one of Esfahan’s burj-e kabuthars, or pigeon houses, before his departure from Iran. The Hezar Jarib was the largest of a group, centered in Mardavij Square, its bulbous tower shaded by elms.
The square was quiet as Khattak followed Taraneh inside, the caretaker nowhere to be seen. Khattak noticed the smell. The interior was honeycombed with pigeon roosts, the dovecote musty with the scent of dried guano, neither pleasant nor overpowering. Khattak shaded his eyes, looking up at a circular gallery.
Light filtered through the opening of the tower, a coral glow upon the arches that framed the gallery, eight in all. From the angle below, they loomed up like tombstones.
Khattak thought he saw a shadow cross the gallery.
“Over here.”
It was Taraneh’s voice, light and mischievous.
Khattak felt a sudden spurt of ang
er. The circumstances of Zahra’s murder were too grave for him to indulge in the careless games of youth. He didn’t know these people, he didn’t trust them. He’d had a restless night’s sleep worrying about the flash drive and letters in the courtyard. Just before catching his taxi to Mardavij Square, he’d checked on the items. And was stunned to discover a new letter had joined the others behind the brick.
Someone was watching him, but if it was the smoking man, he’d have taken the letters and the drive, just as he’d taken Khattak’s disposable phone.
Khattak asked the taxi to drop him several blocks away from the square, and he walked the rest of the distance on foot, stopping first at an Internet café. A message let him know Nate wanted him to call, but didn’t tell him why.
He was beginning to think it would be an excellent idea to publicize his friendship with Nathan Clare. He bought another phone at a store several doors down from the Internet café and slipped it into a pouch he was wearing on a string around his neck. The drive was in the pouch, along with his passport.
He had no idea if any of these gestures were sufficient, or if he was chasing phantoms.
The letters were disturbing. He recognized something in them, a snatch of memory, a code he could decipher if the memory returned.
Taraneh claimed to know nothing about the letters.
And there was a gravity to the tone of the letters that didn’t fit with his impression of Taraneh, which was possibly a blind.
He looked up through honeycombed roosts that glinted like coins of fire. The lonely coo of a pigeon echoed from the top. A spiral staircase led him to the gallery, the air sallow and cool. He inhaled the scent of gypsum and lime. A stripe of gold dazzled his vision. When it cleared, he saw shadows materialize in the tombstone arches that faced him.
Taraneh, Nasreen, and two young men.
He glanced involuntarily at the staircase.
“Don’t be afraid, Inspector Khattak, we’re on the same side. Why do you think we gave you the drive?”
The young man in the center spoke to Khattak in fluent English, with the faint overlay of a Persian accent. In the waxy light that filtered through the dovecote, his face was pale and smooth, his eyes wide-set and clever. He wore a Sonic Youth T-shirt and a pair of strategically ripped black jeans. When he raised his hand to his springy hair, Khattak caught sight of a band on his wrist. A plastic green band, the magic bracelet.
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