The Kashmir Trap (15 page)

T
he
only way to get past this is to look straight ahead, to project myself into the future, thought Juliette.
From now on, I'm unshakeable; I won't let anything stand in my way. I won't let David disappear, no, never. He entrusted me with his memory, and I won't let him down
. The basilica was packed, obviously. It smelled of rain all the way to the altar. Everyone was wet and uncomfortable. Juliette turned toward the choir and saw Deborah Cournoyer — whom she'd met briefly in Patterson's office — near the organ. One more glance at the body. The Canadian flag was wet, too. Droplets evaporated with the incense. In a trembling voice, Raymond Bernatchez was describing to all a David who was truer than life. Everyone held back tears.

They carried out the coffin, and Juliette fell in behind, accompanied by Béatrice. The younger woman raised her head. Deborah Cournoyer was no longer in the choir, though Juliette spotted her a few moments later getting into the back of a Subaru parked on Saint-Sulpice. Patterson closed her door, and the car rolled toward the Old Port. When Patterson turned around, he saw Juliette. He hesitated. It was as if Juliette had noticed something she wasn't supposed to or been found somewhere she wasn't supposed to be.

Juliette went over to the consultant. “Who was that woman?”

“Excuse me?”

“Deborah Cournoyer, who is she, really?”

Patterson reacted to the question like a slap in the face. He sighed, looking around for a way out, and then sighed again to signal that he didn't want to talk about it. But Juliette stared him down without blinking, and he had no choice.

“She was Philippe's mistress for a number of years. In fact, right up to his death.”

“I don't want this business suddenly coming out in public.” Now I know what she meant.

The prime minister's favourite caterer had the young waitstaff from the Institut de l'hôtellerie slinking around on cat-feet. There were more flowers, bouquets of them, and a large photo of David, a holiday picture at least, and guests around the buffet table, hesitating between the sauerkraut and the tandoori chicken. Dennis Patterson had done things up grand, as always. Despite her grief, Béatrice was slipping from guest to guest like a bee among flowers: it was just another cocktail party really, a bit tragic of course, but the same rules of etiquette applied, nevertheless. Bernatchez fluttered from one businessman to another with his customary ease. Was this to be a last tribute to David or a chance at privileged access to the high commissioner? To ask the question was to answer it.

Juliette couldn't stop thinking about what Patterson had said a few minutes before and about Deborah Cournoyer's discreet presence at the funeral. Béatrice must have suffered from their relationship. Juliette watched her mingling with the guests and saw her in a new light. She forgave her
mother-in
-law's insistence, her hurtful comments, her condescending attitude toward people in general, especially to Juliette. Must be a defence mechanism built up over the years. Was David in the know? Surely not. Béatrice could have used this woman to tarnish her deceased husband's reputation, but obviously hadn't. It was to her credit.

Suddenly, Juliette felt she'd had her fill of deconstructing the past, and she took advantage of the general melee to slip discreetly away to the kitchen. The fridge — there had to be some ice. Then her cellphone began to hum. This time it was really crackly on the line.

Max brought her up to date on what he'd found out about David's fear and nervousness from Luiz and Adoor, the watchman; the call from Srinagar in the heart of Kashmir as war threatened between India and Pakistan; David's return to Delhi with his well-kept secret most likely increasing his nervousness and fear. David apprehended what was about to happen: the kidnapping and torture, the explosion under the used Volvo.

“What do you get from that?”

“The attack wasn't a blind, gratuitous, or isolated act. David was not simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, as Patterson and the High Commission people think.” David had been selected from among all the diplomats in Delhi for a reason. What that was, Max did not know, but he was going to find out, of that he was sure.

“Kashmir?”

“Maybe.”

That Indo-Pakistani wasps' nest, where both terrorist groups operated —
Hizb-ul
-Mujahideen and
Lashkar-e
-Taiba. Home of
Jaish-e
-Mohammed, of
Harakat-ul
-Ansar, and Al Badr martyrs. “A violence- and-horror competition in its rawest form.” Sponsored by Genghis Khan and his jihadis? Sure, why not?

“Maybe the Indian cops were right after all.”

“Khankashi plays the moderate, denounces 9/11, and pretends to distance himself from Al-Qaeda, while secretly fanning the flames. David's his buddy, his confidant, so he gives him one more mission … in Kashmir, the lion's den.”

Now it was Juliette's turn to be puzzled, as her old theory surfaced again. “So David was charmed by the imam? But that's not like him, not at all.” She was wondering more and more how well she really knew her husband.

“From here on, one of two things will happen,” said Max. “Either David comes back disillusioned, convinced he's been used for his ‘diplomatic neutrality,' and there's a shouting-match in the mosque (‘I'm going to turn you in publicly, Khankashi') — but denounce him for what? — no idea, maybe referring to the recent spate of terrorist attacks or his links to ISI. Genghis Khan is walking on hot coals, and David's a troublesome witness, so there's a phone call to one of his nut jobs.”

“Or …?”

“Or the Hindu extremists — say, Sri Bhargava, James Bond, for instance. The Hindutva fanatic.”

So far extremists on both sides have been banging away at each other while foreigners look on complacently. Maybe David violated this “convention of indifference.” Maybe.

“I have to get to Kashmir and retrace his steps,” said Max, “see what he saw, pick up his trail in Srinagar at the Hotel Mount View.”

Juliette no longer knew what to think.

“Be careful,” she said.

The porter at the Liverpool Guest House seemed to be as sleepy in the day as at night. Leaning over a greasy samosa that stained his receipts, he held the room key out to Max without even looking at him. On the terrace, travellers in pyjamas drifted to and fro in slow motion like lily pads floating lazily on a swamp. Not quite the same ones as the day before, but popped out of the same mould. Max was about to slide the key into the lock when he noticed something to his right, or rather someone. An Indian was looking over the message board where the hippies exchanged tips and news or exhibited their poetic talents. Discouraging to read.

Something about this Indian didn't fit. He wasn't an employee. Max was sure of that.

Despite his typically Indian look — shiny pants and belted shirt — he was peering hard as though searching for a
jalebi
recipe or a travelling companion to Annapurna, but what caught Max's eye was the fact that he was
too
normal. That stood out. Something was definitely off.

Instead of going in, Max pretended to have forgotten something in the lobby. The porter had finished his samosa and was perusing the register with the energy of one halfway between life and death. At the bottom of the stairs, however, just in front of the door to the street, was another Indian, definitely not a beggar or a shoeshine boy, but dressed the same as the other and with the same fake debonair attitude. This one had something else going on that Max would have recognized anywhere, anytime … he was a cop, just like the terrace guy. There were probably two more already in his room with guns drawn.

Max was just able to slip past the counter without being seen and dive for the stairway on his left. It led to the roof. Being painfully silent, he climbed the stairs one by one till he faced a door. He pushed it open and was blinded by the sun. After shielding his eyes, he saw five more of them in khaki uniform, and, as he turned to go back down, he found himself face to face with the plainclothes cop from the street. That was it. The only possible way out was to bluff.

“Look,
sahibji
, you're making a serious mistake. It isn't what you think.” Then lightning forked through his head and everything went black. Another blow sent him to the floor. The cop he hadn't seen coming gave him a massive blow without even taking a wind-up. Max tasted blood and tried to protect his face with his arm, but it didn't help. It was raining hammer blows non-stop.

Lying on the terrace floor, Max didn't even have the strength to moan. The beating had happened without a word being spoken, almost like a ritual. He was barely conscious. He saw boots approaching, probably a
havaldar
, his footsteps echoing on the tiles as though his head were
jammed inside a church bell. He waited for the boot to finish him off, but the voice said, “Okay, the masquerade's finished, O'Brien.”

 

 

J
uliette
and Vandana fell into each other's arms and then set off for coffee and a chat, the way Juliette had done so often with David. Before leaving for India, they'd lived at the Somerset in the Glebe district, an apartment block swarming with Western members of Parliament when it was in session. The rest of the time, it housed wandering diplomats. A life that was reminiscent of, David liked to say, being “young” again. She was right. He would never get old.

“Mr. Bernatchez asked me to come with him,” Vandana explained, “For the conference …”

She had said too much, and regretted it. But Juliette smiled. “No, no, I understand. You don't need to feel bad because you're standing in for him. Anyhow, you're better off here than there at the moment, aren't you?”

Vandana's face clouded over, and there was a long silence before she said, “The people running my country have gone completely crazy.”

They're firing mortars all along the Line of Control, she explained, killing the usual innocent victims: a young woman and five civilians in Garkhal, thirty kilometres from Jammu. At Naugam, in southwestern Srinagar, an Islamist militant was killed by Indian soldiers. It was the same on the Pakistani side — civilians caught in the crossfire, and the media were mostly watching Kazakhstan in the former USSR, especially the city of Almaty, where the regional summit on Asian security was being held. Atal Vajpayee and Perez Musharraf were the stars right now, of course. They alone out of the sixteen heads of state could stop this war.

Talking international politics is her way to keep from crying about David
, thought Juliette. Besides, she was glad to see her friend, whom she'd always liked. In Delhi, the young woman had been the first one to visit their home in Maharani Bagh and set Iqbal straight before he stepped too far out of place (“Domestics expect to be treated as such. Otherwise, they think we actually don't respect them.”). Juliette had balked at that, coming from a background where equality was the rule, and she was finding it hard to adjust to a country where inequality was the basis of society. Vandana often guided the couple around the
mohallas
and government stores on the weekends. She was able to deflate some of the rug merchants' usual self-assurance, and furniture salesmen used the division key on their calculators more often. David and Juliette had managed to save a lot of money because of her.

Later, at Jawaharlal Nehru University, Juliette had relied on her to correct her Hindi pronunciation. Vandana was the first to tell them about the similarities and common roots between Hindi and French. Both of them were derived from the mythical Indo-European language, which in India had become Sanskrit, thence to the Mediterranean Basin and Greek, Latin, and so on …
Two, seven, nine, ten. Do, saat, nau, das.

“Few oppose the war. For a peace march in New Delhi,” she explained, “four hundred people are nothing. And we're in the homeland of Mahatma Gandhi!”

Major/great + soul (âme) = large soul.

Maha + Atma = Mahatma.

“Meanwhile, embassies lie empty now: Iran, Israel, South Korea …” There was no hiding Vandana's disgust. “The leaders of the BJP really want to sock it to the Pakistanis.”

“Why didn't you tell me about Kathmandu?” Juliette asked.

That startled Vandana, though she was expecting it sooner or later. She lowered her eyes. “I don't know. To protect David, I suppose, or rather myself. When I found out he'd lied, I was afraid.” Her eyes were moist as she looked up at Juliette. “I shouldn't have done that, I know.”

Juliette took her hand for reassurance. No one dear to her heart should feel responsible for David's death. “It wouldn't have changed anything, Vandana, not a thing.” Then she said, “I'm pregnant. ‘A new universe created out of the ruins of the old,' is how to see it, according to the
Mahabharata
.”

Vandana seemed happy, and she grabbed Juliette's hand and squeezed it. Then, not able to bear it, she turned away. “They've arrested Max O'Brien. Bernatchez told me just after I landed.”

Yet again, the world collapsed around Juliette's head.

 

 

T
he
pain in his face, especially his nose, was excruciating. The cops had really done a number on him. He still had on the same clothes, and his shirt was stained brown with dried blood. Any glimpse of daylight blinded him. Max O'Brien turned his head just a few centimetres, and the effort it required was colossal. He could make out a white wall and a solid door. He thought he was in hospital, but the hammering of boots on the metal floor brought back to him a reality he knew only too well. He was in prison, not a hospital.

An Indian prison.

Here in these cells they piled up foreigners and fed them disgusting slop they had to pay for out of their own pockets. Corrupt guards and bureaucrats — he felt abandoned by all. Soon he'd find out if all those clichés in movies were actually true. He was probably in Tihar, the same place they'd imprisoned Genghis Khan. At once, he stopped struggling. What was the point? When he woke again a few hours later, it was night. It had to be the next day, and the cell was lit by a naked, yellowish bulb, which made everything seem like a funeral wake. He could hear boots in the corridor once more, but muffled this time. Near the bed was a tray of food that had become a playground for cockroaches, overpopulated like the whole country.

His head still hurt, but the pain had become more diffuse and came in waves like the sea when the tide ran out. At least now he could breathe, and he could smell curry. He retched for a good long time, hoping he could drown all the parasites. He knew he wasn't alone, even before his eyes were fully open. He raised the lids, which, surprisingly, didn't hurt anymore. A familiar silhouette sketched itself against the white of the wall. An unseen guard announced that he was awake, and the silhouette turned round. He made out William Sandmill of the High Commission, not knowing if that was a good thing or bad. What did it matter, anyway? Another man appeared behind him, sweaty and wiping his brow. Sandmill bent over Max, smelling of cologne and wearing a Bulova with a metal bracelet, striped tie, and wrinkled suit. Little splashes of colour and light here and there showed that reality was imposing its presence. Max tried to get up, but his head throbbed. Sandmill put a hand on his shoulder as a signal to stop moving.

He smiled. “Mr. O'Brien. Have they been treating you well, not caused any trouble?”

Treated well? How would he know? He'd been unconscious since … um … when, exactly?

“Two days.”

Sandmill pointed to another man putting away his handkerchief. “Josh Walkins, RCMP.” So this was the Canadian government's token presence kept on the sidelines by the Indian police. “I've got some good news,” Sandmill went on, “You're being shipped home. The High Commission's reminded the Ministry of Home Affairs that our two countries have an extradition treaty, so it got fast-tracked.”

This was Walkins's cue. “You're lucky, O'Brien. Here in India, counterfeiting and fraud are serious crimes, especially in a country on the verge of war and all that …”

Max still didn't get it. “So why am I being sent home?”

“Because you belong to us,” said a third man from behind the other two, “and you won't be going anywhere after that.” Max would have known that voice anywhere, as Sandmill and Walkins stepped aside to let the third party look him over with a triumphant grin. Max closed his eyes and his headache returned, worse than ever. There was something more repulsive than an Indian prison, after all: Luc Roberge.

The detective pointed across the cell to his suitcases. “I picked them up for you at the Hotel Oberoi. You can't say I don't look after you.”

The traffic was sheer hell. The road to the airport was jammed with taxis, trucks, government cars, and all sorts of vehicles — destination “some place peaceful.” The word was out since morning from every embassy. Washington, London, Berlin, and Auckland had all ordered their diplomats and expats to leave; the same with Ottawa.

“Visa-hunting season is open,” declared Sandmill, who was at the wheel. “People will do anything to get out of here.”

This explained the choked roads, cars filled with anxious families, kids jammed into backseats, suitcases hastily crammed inside and pushing up against the roof of every car in a fanfare of horns from impatient drivers.

Walkins was sitting in the front, and he swivelled round to address Roberge. “Can't really blame these poor buggers. In Almaty, Vajpayee and Musharraf never even spoke to each other, no matter what Beijing or Moscow say.”

“China's kicking itself for helping Pakistan build the bomb in 1998,” explained Sandmill, “and now the place is so unstable that no one's in charge, least of all President Musharraf.”

“And that's before you add in Kashmir as well.”

More dead, tens of dead, hundreds of dead, even thousands or millions if the two countries carried out their nuclear threats.

The day before, Minister Advani adopted a harsher tone. If Pakistan wished to avoid being bombed, it would immediately hand over twenty terrorists they were holding — extremists whom Musharraf and Inter-Services Intelligence were protecting.

Roberge shrugged. He couldn't care less. He finally had Max O'Brien sitting right next to him. So what if the world went up in a mushroom cloud? He had his man and nothing else mattered.

“The Americans can't do a thing,” Sandmill shot back. “There's no point in trying to cool the situation down. It won't happen. It never does.”

Walkins frowned. “Strategically, they need to get involved because of Afghanistan. The Pakistanis mustn't abandon their western frontier to go fight India on the other side of the country.”

“Still, there's no way their mediation can work. On the one hand, India wants Pakistan to stop jihadis from crossing into Kashmir …”

“As if Islamabad could control anything in the country anyway, especially in Azad Kashmir!”

“… and on the other hand, they deny even having any terrorists in their country in the first place.”

“So it's a war of wasted words.”

“Still doesn't stop the Americans from begging India and Pakistan to settle things without going nuclear.”

“I get why the Indians are antsy,” Walkins went on. “On the ground, they've got every advantage, but missiles, well …”

“All the Pakistanis have to do is take the offensive. Then …”

Traffic jammed all of a sudden, turning the road into a huge parking lot. Kids from the neighbouring
jhopadpatti
took advantage of the bottleneck to peddle knick-knacks. Max watched them wave their rags, running from one car to another. At least for them the threat of war was a boon, a real business opportunity. He thought about the Pakistani school kids in Kashmir on forced holiday in shelters and refugee camps.

Sandmill turned on the radio. “Maybe the airport's closed.”

Roberge suddenly woke up. “Is there another one?”

“For local flights only,” Walkins said. But the Indian authorities had assured him there wouldn't be any problems.

“Yeah, but they're swamped, your authorities.” Roberge was irritated now.

Back to the pen?

Then, fortunately, traffic started moving again. On to the next slum. The radio talked about Kashmir and exchanges of mortar fire along the Line of Control. The dead were piling up, and already the clinics were flooded with wounded. Max couldn't figure why on earth David had travelled up there for just a few days before Montreal, when the situation was critical even then. Maybe his intuition was right: going to Kashmir and taking part in a conflict that wasn't his went way beyond David's mandate. Maybe that was the reason “they” had got involved.

After the Kashmir junket, was it the Hindus or the Islamists? James Bond or Genghis Khan?

“I've become just like him. I feel just what he felt.”

So David was up to something there: some move, some kind of action, probably heroic and/or risky. He was just like Philippe, bound for the same life and the same destiny. His initiatives had been tolerated up to that point, but then he apparently crossed the line for some group or other. What was it? What hornets' nest had David stuck his nose into? Max tried dredging his memory of the papers at the time. He vaguely remembered articles in the
New York Times
and other U.S. dailies, about the tension in Kashmir and renewed conflict between the two countries … some event. Whatever it was, Max couldn't remember, but one thing was certain: David had chosen that very moment to sneak in. Was there any connection between this secret trip and the upcoming mission in Montreal expressly to reassure Canadian investors? There was no way to tell. There was no one left in the know. He could imagine Roberge's sarcastic reply if he broached the subject. The best he could do was pass his information along to the Indian police, which meant the BJP, who would diligently hide it away or use it for their own purposes.

Close by the airport, traffic was snarled again, but planes were taking off with reassuring frequency. Roberge was in a good mood again. It would soon be time to ditch him, Max figured — in the confusion on the way to the counter in the departure lounge, maybe. But how? Roberge was younger and in better shape, especially given Max's rough time in jail. Max was starving, and his head still seemed about to burst with every movement. Then there was Walkins, too, certainly armed. Sandmill was less of a problem, but he still needed to be dealt with. Three against one was a tall order.

The car pulled into the terminal parking area before he could properly gather his thoughts and work out a plan. The two cops, on the other hand, already had things mapped out. Walkins had arranged for their Air India baggage check in the VIP room of Terminal 2, out of sight of nosy passengers. A young woman guided them through a crowd of Westerners gathering in front of the counters of their respective airlines. Kids lounged on the floor with their Game Boys, their parents vaguely anxious but relieved to be at the airport. Max recognized some of the diplomats from the party the other night — flashing the middle finger of defiance to the terrorists. They weren't quite so sure of themselves anymore. This was to be a quiet, uneventful slinking away.

At the far end of the waiting room, in a stuffy area stinking of cigarettes, a chubby government official stood waiting for them with a sheaf of papers. Roberge quickly scanned them, while Sandmill and Walkins watched from the sidelines. Walkins kept one eye on the prisoner, and Sandmill couldn't stop looking at his watch, likely waiting for the cops to tell him he could go back and finish packing. Would there even be a plane out the next day, or would he have to barricade himself with the other late-leavers in the High Commission?

The papers were signed, and Roberge tied his tie; one more step completed. He looked at Max. “This is the moment I've waited fourteen years for. You have no idea how happy this makes me.”

Max saw the Indian official leave, and past him was the hall where passengers were ready to depart. It was the only way out, and led nowhere.

“You know, I'm gonna miss you,” Roberge said. “Your picture's still on the wall behind my desk. Reminded me to keep hunting you. Yessir, that picture …”

“How about I send you another one? More up to date?”

Roberge burst out laughing, got up, stretched completely, then noticed the mini-bar. He bent down for a look: two cans of Pepsi and plenty of peanuts in case Air India ran out. Roberge sat down facing the prisoner and offered him one of the Pepsis. Max declined.

“Yes, I wish they'd kept you in one of their jails. Ten years times, say, five, the way things are. I'd make sure our union boys sent you a postcard every single day. Whaddya say? A card for a prisoner, now that's depressing, am I right?”

Geez, five hours on the plane listening to this kind of sarcasm, not to mention the stopover in London; Max felt nauseated already. Was this his chance? Nope, Walkins and Sandmill were chatting right by the door. That would be straight-up suicide.

An Air India flight attendant in a sari of the company colours arrived to guide Roberge and Max to the plane. There was good news: the company had upgraded the two of them to first class. Roberge was as excited as a kid in the front row of a puppet show. All the peanuts he wanted and more he could take back to his family.

The waiting room was empty now that everyone was on board, and Max said goodbye to Walkins and Sandmill. What would he do now? Grab the flight attendant as a hostage and drag her into the concourse? That was going too far, even for a Bollywood movie script. Gentlemanly, Max shook hands with the two men. Then came the long corridor, a welcome from the cabin crew, and the smell of disinfectant. The 747 was full, but two places in first class awaited Roberge and his guest, and the cop had the decency not to make a display of his hunting trophy. The people around them paid no attention. Roberge pushed Max over to the window seat.

In a blasé voice, the captain apologized for the delay (probably because of Roberge and his prisoner), then announced still another, a shorter delay. The flight attendant asked them, “Would you like a drink?”

“Mineral water all around,” replied Roberge. “I'm on duty, and so's he!”

She got it, of course. She never drank alcohol herself.

This was going to be a long trip, really long. Roberge was positively glowing.

“At least admit you regret all these stupid stunts you pulled,” he said a few moments later as he sipped his Bisleri.

“That would change what exactly?”

“Maybe get it off your conscience. Always helps.”

“Look, if there's one thing I'm sorry for, it's not doing even more damage. I let you off easy, really. I mean eight million isn't so much.” Max had absolutely no intention of feeling sorry for himself or playing the sad little puppy to try to soften up his jailer. In a way, the cop was right to resent him: those millions the Sûreté du Québec union had been forced to take off the books of its investment fund, the incredible promise of huge returns, and the risk-free investment Max and his team had peddled to those suckers. This trap had finally closed on him, just like all the others, but the sound was sharper this time … and what about their union head who'd wanted to invest even more in it? Eight million, period. Max could just picture the meeting afterward, the anger of the police officers, drained by the naïveté of their broker. All our savings to Max O'Brien!?