A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  He sensed the curiosity behind Isabelle’s scrutiny.

  “Surely a call to the dean of Université Marchand is all it would take to shut down a student-run program?” She gave a light shrug of her shoulders. “I wouldn’t think that many people listen to it anyway.”

  Khattak felt the same frustration that Lemaire had expressed earlier. “We can’t shut down a program that responds to the concerns of the Muslim community while allowing Richard free rein to go on stoking conspiracies.” He rubbed his hand along his beard. “We need to stop whoever is leaking inside information to the press—and to Richard, specifically.”

  He crossed to the other side of the desk and sank into a chair. Isabelle had personalized her office. Beside her monitor was a framed photograph of a group of young people he thought might be her nephews and nieces. She kept her desk and office as neat and orderly as she kept her person—damping down her good looks with a minimum of makeup, her hair pulled back in a knot. Her charcoal blouse served to emphasize her pallor. When she caught him studying her, he quickly looked away.

  They sat for a few moments in companionable silence, each preoccupied by the next task, the next thing to be done to tighten the sphere of the investigation, so that it wasn’t derailed by the national reaction to the tragedy at the mosque. Or by those who were playing politics.

  He decided on his next move, then asked her, “Isn’t there any way you can convince the premier to shut these protests down?”

  She sighed deeply, folding her hands on the desk. The nails were painted an unobtrusive rose. The tiny lines of worry at the corner of her eyes reflected the same set of tensions that had been weighing on Khattak.

  She answered him with a question of her own.

  “Do you think you could convince the Muslim community to hold off on public prayer? Could you stop Alizah Siddiqui from airing her program tomorrow?”

  Her questions were not accusations. They reflected the weariness of someone who had to serve as the public face of tragedy without having the authority to determine a more compassionate response.

  Answering his thoughts, she said, “I can make suggestions, of course, as events unfold. But though I may have the premier’s ear, so do many others.” Her gaze flicked over Esa with a warning. “Others whose words carry more weight than mine.” Unburdening herself, she added, “They need a telegenic face for the cameras. They’re not all that interested in the rest.”

  It wasn’t offered as a complaint, yet Esa recognized the note of resignation. He’d heard it from many of his female colleagues, frustrated by unnecessary obstacles or by the difficulty they’d faced being treated with respect by the men who stood in their way. Where they should have had responsible, fair-minded partners, they’d had to learn total self-reliance.

  “Do you regret giving up your career as a defense attorney?”

  It was a question he’d still not had the nerve to put to Sehr, knowing he was the cause of Sehr’s change in career.

  Her face relaxed at the question, at the sympathy behind it.

  “It was challenging in a different way, but I certainly had a great deal more freedom.”

  He studied the now-infamous photograph on the wall—Isabelle and Christian Lemaire in company with the mayor, awarding the key to the city to Richard.

  “You’re thinking it was a mistake,” she said. “Probably you think this is where it began.”

  “I’m more curious as to what you think.”

  She gave him a long, level look.

  “Maybe there is a deeper game than you’ve been made aware of.”

  Despite his fatigue, and the persistent headache caused by his concussion, Esa was suddenly alert. “You’re saying it’s all deliberate? You’ve been casting a lure, waiting to see who it attracts?”

  She didn’t answer, simply watching him. Whatever calculations she was making, she was too skilled to betray them. She must have been formidable in the courtroom.

  “A dangerous game,” he went on. “As it led to all of this. And now there’s no action we can take because our hands are tied.” He said it with an edge to his voice, stifled by their lack of progress.

  He told her quickly about the midnight vigil in the woods and the potential for another confrontation. There was still a killer on the loose—and Amadou and Alizah had only raised their profiles as targets.

  “If you need officers at the vigil, that is within Inspector Lemaire’s purview.”

  Esa wasn’t put off.

  “It’s within mine. So there will be a quiet police presence and the officers at the vigil will be under my direct command.”

  Her shoulders tensed at the words. “The vigil is just a small gathering—though I’ll wait until it’s over before I head back to Montreal.” In a completely human gesture, she rested her head in her hands. “Just in case anything goes wrong—I’d like to help those who are suffering this loss. The premier will have to wait.”

  He must have shown his surprise at this admission of concern, because she frowned and sat back in her chair, shutting off her laptop in the process.

  “You don’t think me capable of empathy for what these families have suffered?”

  “It isn’t that. I know you have a job to do. I also know it can’t be easy to do it.” He wondered if he should try to say something more personal. “None of us have had a chance to reflect upon this tragedy, have we?”

  The stern lines of her face softened.

  “Any emotion I choose to express is seized on as a sign of weakness, whereas the prime minister is celebrated for his tears.”

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle.”

  “Why? You, at least, have spoken to me with respect.” Her expression lightened. “A little angry sometimes, non? But then, I have also been angry at you.”

  He was astonished when she reached across the desk to briefly clasp his hand.

  “We didn’t make this mess. But we are the ones who will have to clean it up. I’m willing to act on your suggestions.”

  Khattak didn’t think twice. He told her about his private meeting with the families, and he asked her to invite Diana Shehadeh to speak at the press conference she had scheduled for the morning, as a gesture of goodwill and a means of restoring trust.

  They discussed the fact that the woman in the abaya who had been injured during the confrontation at the church had scarcely merited a mention next to the drama played out between Alizah and Maxime.

  “Ah, God. What a world. You have my word that tomorrow’s conference will not echo the disaster of the others.” She made a small moue of distaste, unaware that it pursed her lips in a smoothly seductive gesture. “We can no longer afford to speak without betraying our humanity.”

  Esa smiled at her, encouraged.

  “No,” he agreed. “Perhaps that’s the one thing we can’t be faulted for.”

  When Lemaire popped his head in the door to check on how they were getting along, he was greeted by an atmosphere of collegial respect.

  Muttering under his breath, he said, “The only good thing to have come out of this.” He waved at them to continue and disappeared. Khattak ran over a few more points with Isabelle before excusing himself.

  55

  On his way out the door, the phone in the inside pocket of his jacket rang. It was a new phone Gaffney had given him. He palmed it, checking the incoming message with only half his attention. He was looking for Rachel. Réjeanne Beaudoin had invited them both to the vigil, waiting for his reaction with mocking self-assurance. When he’d demurred, citing the pressures of the investigation, a spark of amusement had warmed her eyes.

  I thought you wanted to solve this, she’d said. You might find something at the vigil that you’ve been chasing your tail to find.

  He’d given his usual stiff warning. Mademoiselle Beaudoin, if you know something of relevance to this investigation, you have a duty to speak.

  She’d smiled more widely, displaying a piercing on her tongue. Brushing off his warning, she’d said s
omething that reminded him of his conversation with Isabelle.

  Isn’t it time you gentlemen listened to a woman for once?

  And as he had with Père Étienne, he wondered what Réjeanne might know.

  A shock thrilled through him as he made sense of the message that had just appeared on his phone.

  Going to the vigil, Inspector? With all those officers present, you won’t see the forest for the trees.

  He looked back at the door he’d just closed. The place where he’d reviewed his plans for the officers in attendance at the vigil. The first time he’d done so out loud. The door to Lemaire’s office, occupied by Isabelle Clément—the two most senior individuals associated with INSET. Which meant it was more than a leak. To have overheard that conversation in Christian Lemaire’s office as it had occurred meant that someone had set up surveillance on Lemaire.

  * * *

  He called Gaffney over, and Constable Benoit trailed behind him like an eager and hopeful puppy. Gaffney sent Benoit out to gather the equipment that would allow him to carry out a sweep. Privately, once Isabelle had left. When they were alone, he told Khattak, “You might as well hang on to the phone. It won’t make any difference how many times you switch it out as long as you hold on to the same number. Unless you’d rather change it?”

  Esa shook his head. There was a value to receiving the texts—no matter how careful the sender of the messages was, each new message betrayed their familiarity with some aspect of the operation. In time, they were bound to make a mistake.

  He’d speak to the profiler next. The messages might assist her in creating the profile. He knew she’d been given one of the offices, but they hadn’t yet crossed paths.

  He was working out a plan in his mind. He’d share it with Lemaire alone. They finally had something they could use to flush out whoever was leaking inside information. Gaffney had already conducted three spot checks on team computers and cell phones; none had turned up anything incriminating.

  They weren’t dealing with an amateur. Whoever the leak was, he or she was a trained and capable team member who up until now had been several steps ahead.

  Gaff reclaimed his attention with a short summary of his conclusions. “The leak and any possible surveillance may not be connected to the messages you’ve been sent. Even if they are, it’s unlikely they have anything to do with the shooting. Right now, we still don’t know what we’re dealing with. Or who.”

  “What about the Wolf Allegiance? Has anything broken online?”

  Gaff coughed loudly as another officer approached. At the hard look in Gaff’s blue eyes, the officer sidestepped and doubled back.

  “Plenty,” he told Khattak. “All in response to that photograph in the news. They’ve been piling on Thibault, telling him to step aside. It sounds like an insurrection. He’s responded by doubling down with some commentary about the girl. Do you want to see a sample?”

  “Give me the gist of it.”

  “Rape threats, death threats, run-of-the-mill stuff for these guys.”

  Esa exhaled sharply. He should have assigned Rachel to the sole duty of Alizah’s protection. He was impelled by a new sense of urgency—of something transpiring just beyond his grasp—connected to his brief kidnapping and assault? He couldn’t be sure. But he could read Gaffney’s apprehension.

  “That’s not why you brought this up.”

  “Some new stuff, too. Threats of an acid attack. And someone who very specifically promised to finish the work of the shooter.”

  Benoit approached with an eager smile and a large black bag in his hand. Gaffney waved him off, ignoring his crestfallen response.

  “His online name is broadswordben. He says the shooter missed the target the first time around.”

  “Alizah?” Khattak asked with a sharp spike of concern.

  Gaffney nodded. “Not just Alizah,” he warned.

  “Then who?”

  “If broadswordben is to be believed, the target was Amadou Duchon.”

  * * *

  Khattak’s eyes sought out Rachel, who was at another desk with Lemaire. He made a quick decision as she took the call.

  “Send a transcript of that chat log to Rachel’s phone. If the Wolf Allegiance was behind the attack on the mosque, we need to put this on alert. We need to reach Amadou and Alizah before the Allegiance makes good on its threats.”

  He read the telltale hesitation in Gaffney’s eyes.

  “What else?”

  The INSET team was on rotation. As new officers crowded into the station, Gaffney ducked into one of the unused offices with Khattak. He brought up the chat log on his phone.

  “Something else you should see. Two things, really.”

  He showed Khattak the photograph that hadn’t made the front pages of the main news outlets but was being bandied about between members of the Allegiance with derisive references to the woman whose face was covered in blood from the attack.

  It was an utterly callous response to human suffering and pain.

  Khattak focused his thoughts until his response was coldly analytical.

  “Track them down,” he told Gaffney. “There’s enough for an incitement charge here.” Gaffney nodded, scrolling farther through the chat.

  “There may be more to this than we thought. I’ve been looking at more than the Allegiance, trying to get the mood of the town from various blogs and online sites. You need to look at threats against Duchon specifically.”

  Khattak was impatient. Amadou had told him this himself already. Amadou’s rejection of Émilie had stoked the fires of racial hatred, a scenario in which Amadou couldn’t win. He would be targeted as much for rejecting Émilie as he would have been for becoming involved.

  But that wasn’t what Gaffney showed him.

  His hands slick with sweat, Khattak passed the phone back to Gaff.

  “They’re saying the mosque attack was an operational failure?”

  Gaffney nodded.

  “What background do you have on Amadou Duchon? Did they target him for reasons beyond the obvious?”

  Gaff jerked his head at Rachel, busy at her own desk, scowling as she sorted through a stack of papers.

  “Rachel’s going through it now.”

  56

  WOLF ALLEGIANCE CHAT ROOM

  [Translated from the French]

  SUBJECT: BLACK DOG

  CLOSED GROUP

  BROADSWORDBEN: TIMING WAS OFF.

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: MISSED THE TARGET.

  BROADSWORDBEN: TARGET BLACK DOG.

  DEATHMETALSTRIKE: EVERYTHING ELSE GRAVY.

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: MISSED MAX’S BITCH.

  BROADSWORDBEN: STILL TIME. GAGNON’S LIEUTENANTS IN PLAY.

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: SHOULDN’T HAVE DOUBLE-CROSSED THEM.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: WTF YOU TALKING ABOUT?

  BROADSWORDBEN: DUCHON DICKFACE CROSSED GAGNON. SCRAMBLED UP HERE TO LAY LOW … WE LET GAGNON KNOW.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: GAGNON’S FUCKING DEAD.

  BROADSWORDBEN: GANG NEVER FORGETS. NEXT THEY HIT YOUR GIRL.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: THEY NEED TO FUCKING KEEP AWAY.

  BROADSWORDBEN: CAN’T PROTECT ALIZAH ON YOUR KNEES.

  YOU NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: WHO HAS THE HIT OUT ON DUCHON?

  BROADSWORDBEN: I’M NOT TELLING YOU SHIT.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: IS THERE A HIT ON ALIZAH?

  BROADSWORDBEN: FUCK OFF.

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: FUCK OFF.

  DEATHMETALSTRIKE: FUCK OFF AND DIE.

  57

  Rachel was still busy with Lemaire, so Esa switched course, making an effort to find the profiler—Dr. Sandston. One of Lemaire’s officers directed him to the office at the back. As he moved through the cubicles and subgroups, he noticed conversations trailing off as he passed.

  He ignored them, tapping on Dr. Sandston’s door. She called to him to come in, but he stopped short when he saw Sehr seated at another desk in the room making notes on a legal pad, her laptop open b
efore her. When she looked up at him, a smile of such sweetness broke over her face that for a moment he couldn’t remember why he’d come.

  He introduced himself to Dr. Sandston before saying to Sehr, “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

  She answered his unasked question by showing him what she was working on.

  “I’ll have something for you on Amadou’s background soon. Did you want privacy for your conversation?”

  Troubled, Khattak wasn’t certain how to answer. Someone senior must have authorized Sehr’s access. If he pushed her out of the investigation, as he very much wanted to, he might alienate her with what she would view as condescension. If he didn’t, their personal relationship might compromise it in some way. He was aware of Dr. Sandston’s appraisal of their interaction and wondered what judgments she might be forming. Though he hadn’t seen them yet, Rachel had told him about the photographs.

  Hesitating, he deferred to Dr. Sandston. She invited them both to join her at her desk. She was making a clinical evaluation of his fitness for work, he thought, giving nothing away herself. Rachel had spoken highly of her insights. It reminded him that both he and Rachel had urged that a profiler join the team at the first opportunity, whereas Christian Lemaire had held back, setting back the progress of their time-sensitive investigation, a hindering that almost seemed deliberate.

  Khattak realized that he was taking Lemaire at his word—if his ranks had been infiltrated by white supremacists, Lemaire was limiting the number of people who had access to inside knowledge.

  He gave her his own summary of events and asked Sandston to share her conclusions.

  With that same appraising look, she said, “We’re not talking about a single profile here, Inspector Khattak.”

  “Please call me Esa.”

  She didn’t make a similar offer in exchange; perhaps, like Rachel and Isabelle, she’d learned the necessity of asserting her credentials. Then again, he had no intention of calling this cool, incisive woman anything other than Dr. Sandston.