The Kashmir Trap (11 page)

L
uc
Roberge had asked Juliette and Patterson to come to his office on Parthenais, but then called later asking them to meet him at the courthouse, where he was testifying in an embezzlement case. He was waiting for them at the entrance, minus Morel, his usual sidekick. He shook hands with Patterson and made the appropriate condolences to Juliette. Then his usual joviality came right back — second nature.
Life goes on
.

“How about a bite to eat?” he asked, taking them in tow. “There's a good little restaurant around the corner.”

Patterson tried to duck out, but finally went along when Roberge insisted. The two men talked as though they'd known each other for ages, which surprised Juliette.

“What is it you want?” she asked.

“Just to ask you a few questions, that's all.”

The policeman would have grabbed her arm if she'd let him. He whispered a lame joke in her ear to put her at ease. Roberge was the type who couldn't help imposing his good-naturedness on everyone, even at a time like this.

“Very interesting case. A model employee beyond reproach; always knew what he was doing. Well, he put three, maybe
three-and
-
a
-half million, dollars in his pocket over eleven years, a little at a time. Seems like nothing, just a discreet fiddling of the company books.”

When they came to a red light, Roberge paid no attention and dragged his companions across anyway, ignoring the car horns. A show-off in the spotlight.
This is a setup
, thought Juliette,
but what for
?

“You know what did him in? The flu. Yeah, yeah, a week in bed, says the doctor. Well, it gets worse: two weeks, three, and he had to be replaced in accounting. Some whiz kid with a calculator suddenly smells a rat. At first, no one would believe it, and then …”

Fortunately, the restaurant was nothing like Roberge. It was simple, discreet, settled at the bottom of a quiet street; a romantic sort of place for couples in the evening. The owner had done his best to attract a local lunchtime clientele, even adding a “Judge's Special,” but the message hadn't got across, as the place was empty.

“Anyway, the moral of the story is ‘beware of conscientious people.' You know, the ones who never take vacations or call in sick. The ones who never give up.”

“You mean like you?” ventured Patterson.

Roberge smiled as he slid into a booth. “People think thieves are lazy. Not true. Stealing is a full-time job. You're always on. No let-up. Take Max O'Brien, for instance, he's our regular
man-in
-
the
-wind.”

Juliette looked up, but Roberge was staring at Patterson. “So, one day he shows up in Montreal and the next he's in New York. He spends his entire life on the road, in hiding.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Patterson asked.

Roberge turned to Juliette, then Patterson again. He wasn't so jolly anymore. He was through with the song and dance. “Why have you two been lying to me? Why are you protecting that crook?”

Patterson was about to protest his innocence when Roberge held up his hand for silence: “You had lunch together like old buddies.”

He stared at Juliette. “And he came to see you at the hospital. You talked to him. Why didn't you say anything?”

Juliette was mute, and Roberge lost patience. “A nurse identified him. He saw the two of you together.”

“That doesn't prove anything.”

“We're not in court here, Mrs. O'Brien. I'm not out to ‘prove' anything. All I'm saying is, I know you three have been in contact.”

“Hey, leave her out of this.”

“Look, Dennis, it's nice of you to play the tough guy, but …”

“You shut up!” yelled Juliette.

She was startled by her own anger. She'd spoken too loudly, and the owner behind the counter was staring at them. She wished she hadn't accepted this stupid invitation. She stood up. “I won't have anything to do with your garbage. My husband's just died.”

“I'm sorry. Please sit down.” He took her by the arm.

“Leave … her … alone,” emphasized Patterson firmly, but Roberge wasn't budging. He fixed his gaze on Juliette.

He said, “I don't wish you any harm, Dennis, either. All I want is your co-operation.”

“I don't have to answer to you.”

“I know, and normally I wouldn't bother you, but I need your help.”

“You're not getting anything from me, ever.”

“Please sit down.”

She pulled her arm out of his grasp but sat down. Patterson, to her right, was staying silent, almost as though he knew what was coming next.

“Max O'Brien's in India,” Roberge continued as he thumbed through the menu. “How do I know? As a matter of fact, I don't know that yet, though David's mother is convinced that's where he is. I could ask Josh Walkins, the RCMP man over there, to get a list of newly arrived Canadians and Americans in New Delhi, say, in the last forty-eight hours. There won't be a ton of them, given the political situation.”

He'd made his choice and closed his menu. “But it would be pointless,” he said to Patterson. “I can get that information here myself and quite easily, can't I, Dennis?”

Juliette turned to Patterson as he played nervously with his knife. His anger had given way to resignation, though Juliette didn't know why. She looked to Roberge, but the policeman was no longer interested in her. He added, “I'm sure Mrs. O'Brien would be thrilled to hear what you have to say about him.”

“Shut up. This is none of your business.”

Roberge couldn't help smiling once again. Juliette felt bad for the former diplomat. She now understood the cop's tactic. He'd included her just as bait and pressure for Patterson's confession. She didn't know Patterson well, but she was aware that David's confidence in him was unshakeable. By attacking Patterson, Roberge was also attacking David.

“So what'll it be, Dennis? Shall I tell all to David O'Brien's wife, or will you work with us?”

“Why are you being such a creep?” Juliette said in disgust.

Now she had his attention once more.

“You should be glad. You're this piece of crap's latest victim. I'm only trying to protect you.”

“Yeah, well, your methods stink.”

“Max O'Brien's are even worse. Ask Béatrice about it. I'm sure she'd be glad to tell what she knows.”

Turning back to Patterson, he said, “The minute I learned he was headed for India, I alerted Josh Walkins. I even sent him photos on the Internet — Photoshopped. Amazing piece of software, isn't it? Do you know it? Yup, I knew Max O'Brien was a master of the disappearing act, and figured he was sure to see his old ‘friend' Patterson for some specific purpose, like, say, getting himself into the High Commission. A letter from a former diplomat, or better yet, a personal call to Raymond Bernatchez would do the job. That meant revealing the assumed name he was travelling under, and you're going to tell me what that is right now without a fuss.”

Patterson went on playing with his fork, while Juliette begged him not to give in to this blackmail, but he wasn't listening. “Peter Brokowich.”

Roberge then turned to Juliette with a smile. “Terrific, and now, how about we order?”

Juliette was already up and heading for the exit. Patterson caught up with her in the street. “Look, let me explain.”

She was in no mood to listen to him humiliate himself any further. She hailed a taxi and got in. She felt like throwing up, and leaned her head against the window.

Most diplomats die in their beds, surrounded, at best, by their grieving families, and at worst by their souvenirs from another world — exotic trinkets dried out by electric heating and cracked into a thousand veins, not really something worthy of a state funeral. On the website for retired Foreign Affairs people, there would be the inevitable short blurb on the great loss resulting from this death, not just for the family, but for all of society, due to the “selfless devotion to duty and his beloved country.” Juliette recalled seeing David turn to the death notices looking for colleagues of his father, who, unlike him, hadn't been “fortunate” enough to die tragically.

Death in the line of duty, however — violent death especially — received the fullest recognition. This was a first-class send-off with all the pomp of Foreign Affairs behind it. Ministers got the wrinkles out of their best suits and shined their shoes. The grieving widow was obviously the heroine of the day, a role Juliette had absolutely no desire to play. She'd have much preferred a more discreet burial, but since David's death she'd let herself be swept along by events. She had some vague perception of everything being arranged around her, as though she had no connection to the whirlwind of energy that strangers were expending on her husband's remains. Patterson had coaxed her to the funeral home on Laurier, shown her the coffin, which she had approved, along with the text of the card. Unquestioning, she said yes to everything. She kept thinking,
I'm not going to cry. I'm going to be dignified
, like those widows of politicians, whose strength of character the media praised to the skies: “She remained erect, not shedding a tear, despite the unbearable grief.”

David, in a suit he'd had made to measure by a tailor in the Santushti Shopping Complex, lay in his coffin at the far end of the room. Béatrice fussed over the floral arrangements for the hundredth time. Juliette charged up to her.

“What's wrong? What do you want?” Béatrice cried out.

“The truth.” Juliette had had her fill of things left in the shadows, little mysteries, and things implied but left unsaid. The previous evening, she'd asked Béatrice about Deborah Cournoyer and the story that should not be brought out into the light of day, but Béatrice had brushed her off. This time Juliette was looking for answers about Max and why Béatrice always bad-mouthed him. Why was that? She'd turned Max in to Roberge without a moment's hesitation. She stayed as far away from him as possible, as though he were a leper who might infect her. What was the reason?

Béatrice had adopted the pose that David called “her statue pose.” “She makes me laugh,” he'd said. “She's like a rabbit in the forest when it hears a noise — it freezes completely.” Pose or no pose, Juliette was not letting her off the hook till she explained.

Juliette quoted Roberge: “Max O'Brien's methods are even worse. Ask Béatrice about it.”

Béatrice didn't budge. This rabbit was unmoved by Juliette's torrent of words.

She moved in again. “What did Max ever do to make you hate him so much?”

Béatrice sighed. “He could have prevented Philippe's death, and he refused. It's as simple as that.”

 

 

T
he
small diplomatic world of India stuck together in their mourning and wanted to prove to the Indians that the terrorist threat wasn't going to intimidate them. On the contrary, this was an act of will, of bravery, and even of heroism. Obviously, the military Jeeps and police cars that Max saw in front of the Spanish ambassador's residence lent courage to the guests. Yet, despite the precautions, Max had no trouble getting past these obstacles. In the immense salon, he faced an Osborne bull in a tapestry hung on the wall above a Gaudiesque bureau. Photos of Toledo and a reproduction of seventeenth-century Madrid were also on show. The Spanish did nothing by halves. The grated door, which separated the servants' quarters from the ambassador's family could be locked in the event of an uprising and was typically decorated with Castilian flourishes.

The ambassador, Don Miguel Ferrer, seemed built to match. His long, emaciated El Greco face was topped by a tangle of wayward grey hair that was borne every which way by the draft from a fan that seemed to pursue him wherever he went, even by the bar near the kitchen door where a group of Sikhs in evening wear stood.

Max stopped a young Indian serving girl, snagged a glass of champagne from her tray, and then went out into the garden. Some of the hardiest were out there defying any possible sniper and seemingly the more excited for it. Guests, fuelled by alcohol, were talking loudly, punctuated by the occasional belly laugh. He'd expected more restraint from David's colleagues, but the vocal display was part of their bluff: “Terrorism won't stop us from enjoying ourselves and indulging in curried shrimp.”

There were representatives of other embassies there, as well as Indians, all of them fully decked out for the occasion, downing Scotch and Rioja with typical Western self-assurance and good humour, as if they were saying, “We were present at the end of the world.” Around the bar were small groups of entrepreneurs who had shown up, as Max had done, without invitations in order to escape the solitude of the Intercontinental Hotel or an intimate dinner with themselves at the Parikrama. Under other circumstances, Max would have had no trouble at all choosing “pigeons” among these rootless ones and latching on to them for his own profit. For now, he had other things on his mind: finding someone, and that someone was Vandana. But she was nowhere to be seen.

He took another spin around the garden, where groups of Japanese were handing out stacks of business cards, before going back inside. The Sikhs had split up, and the ambassador was now discussing the Afghan situation with a Polish diplomat, while his wife, Ana Maria, was describing the
feria
in Pamplona to an enthralled Indian. Two Australian businessmen wondered if they shouldn't leave the country like their compatriots, especially now that Pakistan had announced missile tests in order to show the Indians that two could play at that game. Their Indian companion simply smiled.

“Vajpayee is away on holiday in Manali. If it were that serious, don't you think he'd stay here in New Delhi?”

The Australians seemed even less convinced.

A fresh glance at the door revealed that Vandana had just arrived, resplendent in a burgundy sari, and she wasn't alone. Henry Caldwell and William Sandmill were with her in Bernatchez's place. He was probably in Canada by now. Sunil Mukherjee brought up the rear. Max would rather have been alone with her, so, disappointed, he headed once again for the garden, where the darkness would afford him better protection. He kept his eyes on Vandana and her escorts, who were now the centre of attention. Don Miguel dropped his conversation with a chubby Argentinean to welcome the new arrivals. Renewed courage — “We won't be cowed by terrorists.”

The ambassador took Caldwell by the shoulder and drew him to one side, treating him like an old friend from way back, a confrere at an
escuela ecuestre
in Madrid or Jerez. Sandmill made a beeline for the bar, while Mukherjee was cornered by an Indian journalist, judging by the notebook the man whipped out of his jacket pocket. Max took the opportunity to pounce on Vandana, who was taken aback. “What are you doing here? They know who you are now. The police were tipped off.”

It had to be Luc Roberge. He was quicker than expected. Max would have to act swiftly. He dragged Vandana behind a banana tree. He knew his brusqueness was off-putting, but there was no time for politeness and etiquette.

“What is this charade, and who exactly do you think you're fooling?” he said.

Vandana looked up at him. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“David and his inner conflict, feeling torn and clamming up …”

She frowned. “What …?”

“Your little trysts at the foot of the Himalayas. Kathmandu.”

“There's never been anything between David and me.”

“You rushed over to his place the day after the attack, and you knew about the safe under the stairs. It wasn't the first time you'd been there.”

“What safe?”

“You were in a real hurry to open it. What were you looking for? Letters, notes, messages? Things to implicate you personally with David, things that would compromise you with the police if they started rifling through the young diplomat's past.”

Vandana stared at him in amazement. “You're out of your mind!” She started to leave, but Max blocked the way.

“An affair? A little slip-up, maybe? But it was still going on when you went to Kathmandu. Otherwise, David would have postponed the trip till after Montreal.”

Max heard a murmur behind him and turned to see two security agents blend into the crowd. Don Miguel was already hurrying over to them, his hair flying. Max couldn't hear what they said to him, but he could guess: they couldn't have been admitted without his government's permission. They were explaining to him while sweeping the room with their eyes. There was no doubt about what they were looking for. Max. He grabbed Vandana's arm and rushed her out to the garden.

“I want to know what happened between you and David in Kathmandu.”

“Nothing happened … nothing at all.”

“Look, David's dead, so please stop lying to me, okay? I'm not here to preach at you.”

By now, the Indian police were being accompanied by embassy employees, as they jostled their way through the crowd, which was intrigued and entertained by it all. In a few seconds, they'd be here.

“What happened in Kathmandu?” he repeated.

Vandana stared fixedly at him and appeared to hesitate. He'd been right to insist.

“I went by myself,” she confessed after a long pause. “David didn't come with me.”

“He stayed in Delhi?”

“I don't know, but after the bombing, when Juliette started saying he'd changed after Nepal, I realized he hadn't been with her as I thought.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“No. I didn't want Juliette to get involved.”

“Another woman?”

She shook her head. “Juliette and David were in love. He'd never do that. Never. Not with me or anyone else.”

Max looked at her for a long time. He felt sorry he'd accused her.

“Does the name Tourigny mean anything to you?”

“No, nothing. Who's that?”

Loud voices emerged from the crowd as three policemen joined the others to everyone's delight.

“You haven't a hope of getting out of here,” Vandana said, but Max just smiled.

“Don't worry. I'm used to this.” And he snaked through the guests at the bottom of the garden and out to the alley by an opening he'd spotted in his previous reconnaissance. It was deserted and dark, and though he wanted to run, he settled into a brisk walk and never looked back. At the corner, he wondered which way to go, but then his attention was caught by the coughing of a rickshaw motor drawn to its potential customer.

“
Aray!
Rickshaw,
sahib
? Rickshaw?”

Max climbed inside and sat down without even dickering about the fare, something the
Lonely Planet
he bought at Heathrow had expressly told him never to do.

No way Max was going back to the Oberoi, of course. The cops were certainly sitting on it. It was by showing his photo to taxi drivers that they had probably traced him to the Spanish ambassador. The rickshaw skirted India Gate and headed for Tilak Marg.

“Do you want to stay at my place?” asked Jayesh over the phone. That could work, but it would compromise the young Indian. He'd thought about hiding out at the inn on Akbar Road, if it still existed, but the police would certainly check there.

“Some place discreet, Jayesh. Better if it's one where Westerners hang out.”

After a moment's silence, Jayesh said, “Ask the driver to let you off near the Jama Mosque. Facing it is a small alley leading to the Chawri Bazaar.”

Max relayed the address to the driver, who then branched off onto a side road. Suddenly the landscape was different, as Embassy Row and the Ministerial Quarter yielded to a true Indian city, offhand and neglected, a sort of random set of building blocks that, by some miracle, barely held together. Here, unlike the new city, the people were in control of the streets, families sleeping outdoors on
charpai
, a sort of bed they put away in the daytime. Then the avenue narrowed imperceptibly and became a long and winding thread of mud past the shops all barred up for the night. Occasionally they encountered a beggar, one of those who slept in the train station until the police turfed them out to wander the streets in search of shelter. This city was the complete opposite of what one saw in the daytime, astonishingly silent and tranquil, and it would stay that way until the mosques called the faithful to prayer just before dawn: “Never forget, neighbours, that Delhi, Old Delhi is, above all, Muslim!”

Max pictured Bhargava, the “James Bond of Hindu­ness,” dreaming that he could silence these muezzins forever. Send these circumcisees packing to their brothers and accomplices in Pakistan, or anywhere!

There was no missing the red door, Jayesh told him. Behind it was a bright — too bright — illumination, probably neon, and a hand-painted sign announced L
IVERPOOL
G
UEST
H
OUSE:
C
LEAN
S
HEETS.
C
LEAN
S
HOWERS
.
The night watchman was napping on a worn-out mattress behind the reception counter, an older man with ruffled hair and teeth reddened with betel juice. Max signed the tea-stained register but didn't even have to present his passport. The porter showed no surprise that this guest looked utterly unlike his usual customers, whom Max saw early next morning on the sun-flooded terrace. The hotel was a refuge for hippies in wraparound
longyis
and oversized pyjamas — escapees from the West, bigger than life, hairy, and probably fried, smoking
bidis
and nodding incessantly. Max smiled. Jayesh was right. The police couldn't even imagine this place.