The Language of Secrets Read Online Free PDF

‘Let’s live together, brother. Let’s just live.’ In that big, booming voice of his, smiling that huge smile. He thought the members of the cell were crazy. He also thought they were dangerous. And he was right.”
    A nostalgic look came into Laine’s eyes. Khattak was familiar with it. It was directed at convincing him that Mohsin Dar was a person she had cared for, rather than used. That she had valued Mohsin, and now regretted his death. Khattak didn’t believe it.
    Coale cut in. “He’d won the confidence of a core group within a larger group, so much so that his reputation carried over to the second cell.”
    â€œHow many people are we talking about altogether?”
    â€œNearly two dozen. A lot of what you’d expect. Young kids, disaffected. But most without even that excuse.”
    â€œWho, specifically, are you looking at? No, wait.” Khattak held up a hand in disavowal before Coale could shoot him down. “Who should I be looking at?”
    Coale’s pen snapped against the desk with sudden force.
    â€œYou’ll be talking to Andy Dar. Nothing more, nothing less.”
    â€œIf I’m not seen to be investigating the scene, or at a minimum interviewing those who were with Dar’s son the night that he died, Dar won’t stay quiet for more than a day.”
    Laine intervened, sending Coale a look of entreaty.
    â€œHe’s right, Ciprian. He has to be seen to be doing something.”
    Justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done.
    Yet even Martine Killiam had hinted at the greater value ascribed to the façade of Khattak’s investigation than to the actual truth it might uncover. He felt a pang of sorrow for Mohsin Dar, of no further use, discarded in death.
    Coale interrupted his thoughts, his glance moving between Laine and Khattak, a brooding speculation in it.
    â€œLaine has been withdrawn from the mosque. You won’t be working with her at the scene, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    â€œIt should be evident by now that I have no wish to do so.”
    Laine turned her face away at the words. She pushed her hands against the edge of her seat, the long fingers clasping each other. Her unvarnished nails were clipped short, another departure from her normal feminine elegance.
    Without looking at Khattak, she said, “Tell him about Hassan Ashkouri. And the other members of the cell.”
    A pleased glint came into Coale’s eyes.
    â€œAshkouri is the ideologue, the ringleader. He’s of Iraqi background with Canadian citizenship, though he came here late enough to have had experience of the war, something he uses to considerable effect. He’s a frequent speaker at Nur mosque.”
    â€œWhat credentials does he have?”
    â€œDo these people need credentials? A few lines in Arabic are usually enough to win over a congregation. That and a bit of messianic charisma, and you have the makings of real trouble.”
    When Khattak didn’t respond to this, he went on, “Ashkouri was preparing to become an Islamic scholar. The war in Iraq curtailed his plans. He’s an engineer by training, financially quite successful.”
    â€œSo he’s not the imam.”
    â€œNo. Nur’s imam is a humble enough fellow, unworldly, inexperienced, too grateful to bite the hand that feeds him. He’ll say and do whatever the mosque committee tells him to say.”
    â€œIs he a member of the cell?”
    This time Laine answered. “No. In fact, the cell has made certain that the imam knows nothing about their private meetings. They have a word for them.” She withdrew her phone from within her blazer pocket and flicked through a series of screens. It was a delaying tactic. She would know the word by heart by now. “They’re called halaqas. The halaqas are a smoke screen for the organizers of the attack. When they meet, it’s to advance some aspect of the