The Kashmir Trap (19 page)

P
hilippe
could have ended up anywhere, even Paris. Along with London and Washington, it was one of those prize postings for older and ambitious diplomats. That's what he'd become overnight. Old. The once-fine bird had lost the majesty of its plumage upon contact with politics. It was a physical and emotional shock he had only just got over when the new minister of foreign affairs offered him Singapore. Back to Asia, where he'd previously shone — a hard-working, calm, and uncomplicated city far away enough for him to wind down his career in relative peace. The new minister was assured the political agenda for Singapore and the Malaysian Peninsula was not all that important, nor was it likely to become so. Soon, this “ghost” would no longer be around to embarrass the prime minister and his government.

Philippe preferred to go to El Salvador, where perhaps he'd reclaim the energy and enthusiasm of his youth, everyone thought. But Philippe's intention was self-sacrifice. He wasn't yet conscious of it, of course, though he did feel an impulse to do something surprising and spectacular.

He was going to be a “disrupter of exploitation” as he liked to say. Max knew enough to bet Philippe was going to outstrip his role and mandate, even if at first he had no idea how.

David didn't follow his parents to El Salvador, but stayed in Montreal to start his studies at Collège
Jean-de
-Brébeuf. This was the family's first time apart, and for reasons yet unknown to Max, Philippe brought him up to date during a secret meeting in a park in Boston. When Max mentioned the business of the election campaign, Philippe cut him off.

“That's ancient history. What's done is done.”

“Why El Salvador?”

Philippe shrugged: he didn't want to talk about it anymore. Why bother getting together just to avoid all the subjects they had in common? Philippe knew what his brother was thinking.

“I want you to look out for David … at arm's length. I don't want him to know.”

This came as a surprise to Max. He'd rightly guessed since the election catastrophe that his nephew hated him.

“Please do it for me,” Philippe insisted.

Max agreed. He couldn't say no to his brother, could he?

Philippe's face darkened. “If anything happens to me down there, if I don't make it back, promise me you'll always keep an eye on him.”

“What do you think could happen to you? Diplomats usually die in their beds, don't they?”

Philippe smiled. “Just promise me.”

Max agreed once more. “I'll be there always.”

They left the park and walked into town without saying anything. Much later on, Max was to remember this day as especially radiant. Workers from nearby offices were out having their lunch, but paying no attention to the two brothers strolling side by side. Then they crossed Quincy Market, went under the John F. Fitzgerald Expressway, and took Atlantic Avenue near the docks.

For no particular reason, Philippe turned to his brother and held him tight, which Max found surprising. They didn't normally do this kind of thing, especially given the practically illicit meetings they were forced to have. Philippe drew back and looked Max straight in the eye.

“Thanks, Max, for David.”

Then he left before his brother had time to answer. A car awaited Philippe not far off. Max could have kicked himself for not noticing it before this. It had followed them discreetly the whole time. Max watched it disappear with a feeling of infinite sadness. The solemnity, the silences, the show of affection, the bizarre thanks, none of it customary, gave him the feeling of having unwillingly taken part in a farewell ceremony.

And it was. Max would never see his brother alive again.

“Jayesh Srinivasan speaking. Mercedes, Lexus, Alfa Romeo … what will it be, sir?

“Very funny, Jayesh, very funny.” Max's partner had stayed in the heart of the turbulence in Srinagar. He'd spent the time since Max had left going through the files belonging to Ahmed Zaheer at
The Srinagar Reporter
, looking for a trail or at least a hint of a clue, something that could tie the journalist to the murdered diplomat.

“It's chaos here,” he continued. “It's all going to hell: Kashmir, Punjab, the north … and the Line of Control isn't controlled at all.”

“What about Rashidabad?”

“Eh?”

Max explained what he'd found out. Any mention of Stewart-Cooper in Zaheer's old files? Jayesh hadn't seen any, but he'd look again.

The Queen Elizabeth Way, then an industrial zone that went on forever, with fields of factories bounded on one side by Lake Ontario and the first suburbs of Hamilton on the other. Chimneys, cranes, a grey haze. Leaving Jordan Harbour minutes earlier, Max was now driving through a lifeless zone straight out of a documentary about the delinquency of heavy industry. The choice of motel seemed to make more sense in light of all this. Zaheer had chosen it not for the isolated location. He could reach the industrial zone, and thus the headquarters of SCI, in mere minutes. What, though, was the connection with the attack on David? Max hadn't the slightest idea, but before leaving the motel, he'd called Juliette in Montreal to tell her what he'd found out, and also to ask her to check the archives.

“Esplanade Avenue, corner of Mount Royal, a branch of the National Library, where they keep the old newspapers, like the last five years' of the
Globe and Mail
. You need to search for Stewart-Cooper and India.”

Then he set out.

Terry Hoberman, wearing a dark blue suit with the SCI logo on his lapel, held out his hand to Max, who got up and gave him his business card, freshly made that morning at CopyKat. “Thanks for seeing me so quickly. I don't normally just arrive unannounced in a company's offices like this.”

Hoberman cut him off: “You know, I just love your articles, but I had no idea you were in Toronto. Otherwise, I'd have …”

“Oh well, I'm afraid
BusinessWeek
is a circus. Things get decided as you're walking down the hall. On Monday, I hardly know where I'll be on Friday.”

Hoberman laughed. “Same here, don't worry!” He led Max to the elevator, and the communications director at SCI was still laughing when they got out a few seconds later. Max realized right away the kind of dipstick he was dealing with and how to handle him. Tanned and probably just back from vacation, in his fifties, thought Max, trying to look younger with a discreet dye job in his curly hair. Hoberman was a bit chubby, the jovial type who could have a laugh even reading a press release. His department had been functioning on auto-pilot for ages. With rising profits, sustained growth, and steady development, Stewart-Cooper International was one of those massive but reliable ocean liners that sloughed off minor turbulence. It was immense, profitable, and worry-free, so hardly known to the media, and this in turn made Hoberman's job a breeze. Max figured he probably spent the day leafing through trade magazines and planning his weekend golf tournament. Actually, no, he enjoyed sailing, hence the deep tan.

Hoberman sat Max in one of the leather armchairs facing his huge desk. On the right-hand wall hung a genuine James Wilson Morrice, not a reproduction. He wasn't often visited by the press. The previous day, Max had downloaded a list of
BusinessWeek
correspondents from the Internet and called them one by one until he reached the voicemail of Tim Harrington: “I'll be away from my office for a couple of days, etc.” That way, if Hoberman had doubts and called their editorial offices at Penn Plaza … but SCI's communications director wasn't the suspicious type. Max didn't even need to explain his visit before the man began talking about their international activities in the present context of globalization, the company's results on foreign markets, or even their local hiring policies and respect for national culture.

“There's no reason to exploit them — on the contrary — nor to impose our vision of the world.” The company was careful to examine the activities of its suppliers, something that companies of this size often neglected, “to the detriment of the stockholders, I might add.”

Bit by bit, Max manoeuvred the conversation around to the hydroelectric plant at Jhelum, which had been built in collaboration with the Indian government. Despite huge obstacles, it was a success, exemplary in every respect.

“Obstacles?”

Hoberman sighed. “Well, the same you'd expect in most developing countries: petty bureaucracy, shortage of qualified manpower, unforeseen delays with subcontractors, and so on.” Then he added, “It almost cost Mrs. Griffith her health. When she came through Hamilton …”

“Susan Griffith?” Max had spotted her picture in the annual report he'd consulted in the reception area as he waited for Hoberman.

The latter nodded. “She's definitely earned the respect of my colleagues on the board. Not many of us would want to be in her shoes, certainly not me.”

“Yet she succeeded.”

“Wonderfully.”

“And I guess that's why she's now running the company.”

“That and other reasons. You see, Mrs. Griffith …” Here Hoberman frowned, a sign of careful reflection. He seemed to be weighing the pertinence of what he felt like saying. Not for long.

“She's an exceptional person from the humanitarian angle, too. Charity campaigns, international co-operation, development aid — she has a long list of good works. From the moment she got back to Hamilton, she started a foundation to assist Canadian and European couples in the adoption of young Indian orphans, especially those of tribal origin.”

Clearly, the communications director was in awe of her. Max imagined him on his knees before her, praising her successes and ignoring the rest, an obsequious expert in bowing and scraping. Probably this Griffith was every bit as competent and up to date as he portrayed her, and she in turn had shunted him into a dead-end job to get him out of the way.

“I guess the threat of war over there complicates things, right?”

Hoberman's tan deepened as his good-naturedness drained away.

“I'm afraid I know nothing about it all,” Max went on, “but I suppose managing a generating plant like that in the middle of a country which …”

“Uh, it's closed, as a matter of fact.” Responding to Max's curiosity, he added, “Since last month.”

“Oh, but I thought …”

“Nothing's changed officially, mind you, and we haven't made it public, because we're hoping to reopen it. If those morons can lay off killing one another, that is.” Was he disgusted by this or afraid he'd said too much? He turned a stern eye on Max. Some light seemed to go on in his tanned brain.

“Exactly what is it you want to know, Mr. Harrington? What's your article about?”

Time to take the plunge. “I'm not here as a journalist.” Hoberman frowned. “I'm trying to understand what happened to my colleague Ahmed Zaheer from
The Srinagar Reporter
. His body's been found at the foot of Niagara Falls.” No reaction from Hoberman. Either the name Ahmed Zaheer meant nothing to him, or he was a good actor. “I'm here for the International Federation of Journalists as their American delegate.”

“And how does this involve Stewart-Cooper?”

Max kept it short and sweet. “Well, his laptop was wrecked, but they accomplished miracles in the lab, and
voilà
, they retrieved his agenda and address book. Your name was in there along with your phone number.”

Max was fishing, but now Hoberman observed with interest. Had Max hooked something?

“He's dead?” Hoberman was anxious.

“An accident at first glance, but the coroner has doubts, so they asked me to dig a bit deeper.”

“Well, why would he want to meet me?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that.” Max held out another branch. “Zaheer was from Kashmir originally. In fact, he lived there until just recently. He may have met Mrs. Griffith, perhaps talked to her about the closing down, who knows?”

Hoberman was staring at Max.

“Would it be possible to meet her?” Max inquired.

“Excuse me?”

“Mrs. Griffith. I'd like to talk to her.”

Hoberman realized he'd gone too far. “I'm afraid that won't be possible,” he said smiling. He was back in control. “But what I can suggest is that when you get to New York you fax me your questions and I'll turn them over to our lawyers. How would that be?”

When Max got back to the car, there was a message from Jayesh. He hadn't wasted any time. “I think I have something. Nothing on SCI and
The Srinagar Reporter
,
though — in the files, I mean. Same with
Indian Geographic Magazine
, but at noon, I hung around in the canteen at the
Reporter
to see if I could pick up a lead …”

“Get to it, Jayesh.”

“Yeah, yeah, I am. I met a colleague of Zaheer's who told me he worked on pieces for the commentary magazines, as he called them. Small stuff with low circulation and high pretentions.”

“Meaning …?”

“Whistle-blowing, accusations, muck-raking …”

Max got the picture. Guys with the gift of the gab seated at a round table, passing around hot files to supply them with whipping boys. “Zaheer showed them one on the mad rush to build dams.” Since independence, he explained, Indian leaders had been obsessed with dam-building as a way to control rivers and irrigate drought-stricken land. This had been Jawaharlal Nehru's baby. The results, however, had been so-so. Since the fifties and sixties, entire regions had been emptied of their occupants and flooded. The slums of Mumbai and Kolkata were inhabited by peasants who'd been expropriated with no notice and without receiving compensation or damages. Thus the Indian government had created an army of the homeless, and, with its economic policies, had contributed to the depopulation of the countryside and the impoverishment of its people.