The Kashmir Trap (20 page)

The great dams had quite clearly become the rallying point of the ecological left, and that political chameleon Ahmed Zaheer had helped with his freelance pieces.

“So Zaheer would have denounced Stewart-Cooper.”

“No, praised them, more likely.”

“Say what?”

“Look, the article says the Jhelum dam was the example to follow. Respect for every norm available, both human and environmental, adequate reimbursement for damage and relocation for the peasants. If the government had respected the rest of the population as much, well …”

Max was even more astounded.

“Wait, wait, that's not all,” Jayesh said.

Zaheer's article quoted the engineer in charge of the project and the particular difficulties encountered during construction.

“Do you know the Jhelum? It's a mountain river with falls and whirlpools, ravines and everything, as well as being very hard to reach. Well, that might give you some idea of what it was like to do this.”

“Jayesh …”

“Okay, okay, so this engineer starts telling him how they got this project going. There were rocks to get through, trenches to dig right through them using CK-Blast 301 to do it.” Now Max was listening, as Jayesh went on, “I thought the same as you, so I phoned our friend Ashok Jaikumar of the Indian police and got their reports on the attack.”

“Conclusive?”

“The same kind of explosive. Ammonium nitrate, basically.”

So there was a link to SCI after all.

“Can we get hold of this engineer?”

“I'm working on it.”

 

M
ax
O'Brien had read and re-read the leaflet a dozen times while casting an occasional glance at the entrance to the sports club. It wasn't overly popular, but attended by the “right kind of people” — one of those luxury gyms where clients went around in high-fashion sweatshirts and designer shoes. After leaving Hoberman, he'd immediately headed for Yorkville in Toronto, where IndiaCare had its offices. An old house had been remodelled to suit its purposes: a Victorian home camouflaged by the huge trees that lined the streets. From where he sat and without leaving his car, Max could see employees walking to and fro behind the windows. It was just as he expected: a modest-sized agency, but with luxurious quarters that inspired confidence and reassured eventual adoptive parents with the air of an impeccable organization, which it was. At first glance, one could tell it was as Hoberman described it, efficient, discreet, and industrious — qualities that had allowed Stewart-Cooper International to make its mark.

Still in his car, Max made a reservation at the Sutton Place Hotel, and then, just before five o'clock, he called IndiaCare pretending to be Hoberman from headquarters. He had to reach Mrs. Griffith, but her cellphone seemed to be off: “Would she be at the foundation by any chance?”

“I'm afraid not,” said the young woman. “Have you tried the gym?”

“You think that's where she is?”

“Usually late in the afternoon, she is.”

“You wouldn't have the number, would you?”

Max was now hoping that Griffith hadn't altered her appearance too much since the photo he'd seen in the annual report.

He needn't have worried, for around seven-thirty, a grey Mercedes with tinted windows, driven by a chauffeur, drew up near the entrance to the gym, and a few seconds later, a woman of about fifty emerged from the club and headed straight for the car. Susan Griffith was elegant and apparently determined; the kind of person who had no time to lose and was always late for appointments. Had Hoberman talked to her since his visit? Max was betting he hadn't. He'd wait for news from the “journalist” before alerting the boss to his existence. He would be in no hurry to admit his recent indiscretions, either.

The moment she opened the car door, Max approached her. “Mrs. Griffith?”

She turned and was on the defensive, but Max smiled and held up his ID card: “Detective Sergeant André Sasseville of the RCMP.”

Griffith looked intrigued. “What's going on?”

“Just two or three questions is all. I'm in charge of the inquiry into the death of …” Max took a card out of his pocket and pretended to read from it, ‘Ahmed Zaheer at Niagara Falls.'” He watched for a reaction to the journalist's name, but there was none.

“What does that have to do with me?”

Max explained what had happened to Zaheer. The reception-desk clerk had heard him call SCI and ask to speak to Griffith. It was a bluff, but Griffith was now watching him with interest.

“I have an eight o'clock meeting at home,” she said. “If you like, we can discuss it on the way. Then my chauffeur will take you anywhere you like.”

Max got in with her. Bloor Street. Choked with traffic as usual, it served Max well. He'd have more time to question her.

The CEO of Stewart-Cooper knew no one named Ahmed Zaheer, nor any other Indian journalist for that matter.

“What about when you were in Kashmir?”

She was surprised he knew about that period in her life, so he quickly followed up: “I found out on the Web, and I thought he might be someone you knew at the time.”

“It's true, I did live in India, Kashmir in particular, but I had no time to hang out with journalists.”

“Of course.” He added, “I heard about the closing of the central. A real pity.”

She registered her disgust for all that, her depression about it, too. It was obvious she cared more about that plant than any other. It would be natural, since it was her baby, her own creation, according to Hoberman. Then she had to be the one to suspend activities and lay off the personnel.

“Maybe that was what Zaheer wanted to talk to you about.”

Max saw the chauffeur was turning onto Mount Pleasant Road in Rosedale, with its cushy homes, large patios, and Hollywood pools. Griffith was now more distant and reticent, at least as far as this conversation was concerned. She repeated knowing nothing about this Ahmed Zaheer, whom she'd never met.

“Well, we're here. I'm so sorry I can't help you more.”

The Mercedes had pulled up in front of a sumptuous residence that outdid its neighbours. Griffith opened the door, and Max got out to walk around to her side.

“There's just one last question. A Canadian diplomat was recently attacked in New Delhi three weeks ago, and the Indian police think he was in touch with Ahmed Zaheer. His name was David O'Brien.”

Griffith had heard about it from the papers.

“I didn't know him, but I'm very sorry.”

“When you were in India …”

“Look, Sergeant. All this has nothing to do with me, and now if you'll excuse me.”

Sure
, thought Max. Besides, he really had no choice. She briskly walked toward the house and “Sergeant Sasseville” was already history. Then he heard the voice of the chauffeur behind him.

“Where do you want to go, sir?”

Max waved him away. “Nowhere, I need to stretch my legs.”
And think.

 

 

T
he
Indo-Pakistani crisis was headlined in every news outlet. Indian Prime Minister Vajpayee had shown imagination in setting up joint patrols with the Pakistanis to prevent terrorists from infiltrating into Kashmir, an idea that Musharraf found interesting. They were still on a war footing: Portugal advised its citizens to leave the region, and Air France had cancelled all flights to Delhi, though beneath the surface, the ice was beginning to thaw, but only on a very slow drip. Musharraf wanted international observers and the UN along the Line of Control, and Vajpayee refused. Then there was the troubling story of a rice truck loaded with arms being intercepted in Gujarat. The Indians said they came from Pakistan and were bound for Ahmedabad, where Hinduist militants had massacred Muslims two months before.

Juliette was right; sectarian conflict couldn't be disentangled from Indo-Pakistani relations.

“In India, everything's connected to everything else, she had said. “You can't separate one event from another.”

As Max drove along the 401 in a rental car, Juliette called.

“The ‘Report on Business' section of
the
Globe and Mail
for November 2000,” she said.

“Yes?”

“An article about Brad Thomassin and his small family from Downsview moving to Rashidabad. Here's an engineer who's never been out of the neighbourhood, and he's worried about spending three years without Harvey's, Walmart, and McDonald's, but fortunately Brad had the advantage of some sessions of familiarization with daily life in Asia given by …”

“Dennis Patterson.”

“Hired by SCI so their employees know the difference between a Shiite, a Sunni, a turban, and a Sikh.”

Max smiled. Some results at last.

“And that's not all,” Juliette added. “I asked Vandana about IndiaCare.”

“Susan Griffith's outfit?”

“Who do you suppose she got the idea from? Geneviève, Raymond's wife.”

Juliette went on to talk about what Vandana called “the budding friendship” between Susan Griffith and Geneviève Bernatchez as the months went by, their common feeling about the unfortunate orphans in this country, their worthy cause taking shape under the benevolent eye of the high commissioner.

Max remembered seeing a photo of Geneviève with Indian babies in her arms on the desk in Bernatchez's office, but something else about Juliette's news bothered him, the orphans, more specifically the orphan girls. The little girls Sister Irène had been forced to abandon.

Suddenly, two worlds collided.

“You still there, Max?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The picture was beginning to resolve itself, even if the content didn't yet add up.

A dam in the heart of Kashmir; the friendship of the woman responsible for the dam and the high commissioner's wife; an international adoption programme; a journalist, now accidentally killed; and his links to David, though cloudy for the moment.

Three hours later, and Max was in Montreal, in the Labyrinth to be exact. Farther off, at the Mughal Palace stand, the nervous young Indian girl of his first visit had gained experience. No more hesitation and gaffes, and she was heating up the bowls of
dal
and curry dishes with the skill of a Culinary Academy of India graduate, as well as sliding the
papadums
and
naan
bread out of the microwave with the ease of a chef at the Taj Mahal Hotel, all of which tickled the boss as he slicked back his moustache behind the cash. His patience had paid off with a smooth fit.

Max took up his usual post behind the palm tree at the Kon-Tiki, where he'd just spotted Dennis Patterson pushing his and Juliette's trays along the counter. Their plan had worked, Juliette having called Patterson to talk about David and suggesting this place, a public spot Max knew well. It would be easy to ditch Luc Roberge, if he was over the initial shock and back on the trail with his pack. No need to worry, though. Max had got there an hour ahead of time, and everything was normal.

After they paid, Juliette guided Patterson to a booth for four and sat down.

Then a third party appeared: Max himself. The consultant realized, of course, that he'd been lured into a trap. “Aw c'mon now, don't be like that,” Max said. “Your food's getting cold.”

Patterson was ready for the worst, and it showed, so he got out in front of it. “I'm sorry, Max. I had no choice. He forced me …”

“I'll take care of Roberge some other time. Juliette and I've got better things to do, like finding the guys who killed David.”

“I have to understand what happened,” Juliette said.

For an instant, Patterson seemed to be sizing up the situation. Then, as though he'd settled on something, he asked Max, “What exactly do you want to know?”

“The connections between David and Stewart-­Cooper International.”

“SCI?”

Juliette told him what she'd found, and Patterson frowned. “Where was the connection with David? I mean, what are you driving at?”

“Terry Hoberman, their communications guy, talked about trouble on the site: bureaucracy, delays from subcontractors, tangled connections with the Indian authorities.”

Patterson sighed.

“Look, don't come on all righteous and indignant with me, okay? If the company hired you, it wasn't about delays. No one thinks it was a bed of roses over there. The employees needed to figure out how to muddle through.”

But Patterson was still maintaining radio silence.

“What really happened at Rashidabad?” Max asked.

“Bureaucracy, delays, of course, but mostly threats, acts of intimidation, sabotage.… The Indian Army got called in, but it didn't help, so the company had to hire private security to protect the workers. Rotten atmosphere, and pretty soon unsustainable. The site was shut down for long periods, and the company's schedule went to hell. The budget doubled, then tripled, and the place was costing a fortune. The bosses in Hamilton were threatening to pack up and go build that dam somewhere else. In China, for instance, just over the mountain there had to be plenty of rivers like the Jhelum, and a more amenable population.”

“Where'd the violence come from? The jihadists?
Hizb-ul
-Mujahideen?”

“That's what the authorities first thought, separatist rebels, who were unhappy that the population was putting aside their demands to court international capital and the promises of jobs with SCI, but that wasn't it. It was the Hinduists. The extremists weren't about to let the Muslims — and indirectly Pakistan — benefit from the plant. The dam was built only a few kilometres from the Line of Control. One assault and a surprise attack by the Pakistanis and they'd take control of the central committee and use it for themselves, but instead of caving in, Griffith decided to stand up to the extremists. She went to see the Hinduists at Jammu and confront them. She tried for three days. The hydroelectric installations wouldn't serve one group more than another, just Indians, period. No exceptions. She was even ready to establish quotas by working with Hindus and Muslims, for instance, verifiable by any and all. She had a commitment from headquarters to correct things as soon as any abuse or omission was pointed out.”

The Hinduists had finally ceased hostilities, a real feat.

“So the violence stopped?”

“Right. They even came in on schedule. Griffith could now go back to Hamilton with her head held high.”

“No wonder the board made her CEO,” Max exclaimed.

Patterson nodded. “Too bad the real war blew it all away, for the time being anyway.”

“So what exactly was in this agreement?”

“You'd have to ask Raymond Bernatchez about that.”

Patterson explained the startup of the central committee at Rashidabad had been planned behind closed doors in the office of the high commissioner, and Griffith wound up in New Delhi from time to time in order to solve some new problem, take care of some new boo-boo.

So
, thought Max,
she went to the high commissioner's place and got to know his wife, and the IndiaCare idea came to fruition? Sure, why not? Griffith had played her cards right: make sure you win over Geneviève Bernatchez, so you get the number one of Canadian diplomacy in India on board
.

Raymond Bernatchez and Susan Griffith became the spearhead of a campaign aimed at various government departments and even Prime Minister Vajpayee, from what Bernatchez told Patterson. The rain was nonstop, so dykes had to be built, and for this they needed the Indian Army.

“Did they get it?” asked Juliette.

“Oh yes. The government is co-owner of the installations.”

“And SCI is taking part in the Montreal conference, right?” asked Max after a moment's pause.

“Of course, they're one of the chief sponsors.”

“Even though they're temporarily shut down. It's an open secret within the industry, and if they ever gave in to panic, it would be a disaster. Hell, I'd go invest in Thailand or buy from Venezuela.”

“Did David ever talk to you about a journalist called Ahmed Zaheer?”

Patterson had never heard the name from David or Bernatchez. He knew nothing about him, so Max brought him up to speed about the research, his “natural” death at the Falls, Joan Tourigny's phone number, the kind of explosive used in Rashidabad and on David, all trails leading to the business in Hamilton, not to mention Zaheer's interest in ecology.

“Hell of a lot more interesting than what the Indian authorities are working on, right?” said Juliette.

“You gotta go to the police with this.”

Max just smiled. “Like Josh Walkins, for instance? He's a stand-in over there in Delhi. Luc Roberge, why not?”

“The cops have shown no interest at all in any of this,” added Juliette.

“Well, they had no evidence to get their hands on. Now, though …”

“More like trails that Juliette and I have followed the best we can. Now that we've started, you want me to just hand things over so they can sit on them?”

Patterson turned to the young woman. “You're playing one hell of a dangerous game, Juliette.”

“She's playing with me, and that makes it a whole lot safer,” Max cut in.

Three phone calls when they got back to the car and drove away. The first was from Jayesh in Kashmir.

“Good news. The engineer gave me a run for my money. Nobody at his old Srinagar address, the one I found at the newspaper's offices.
Klean Kashmir
, they called it. After the factory and dam were built, farewell all! He collected his marbles and left the region. Then I discreetly got some info, and I walked all over the neighbourhood. I went to the mosque, the butcher shop, and the café. Finally, I stumbled on an old friend of his …”

“Jayesh …”

“Okay, in the summer of 2001, Najam Sattar went back to his home village to take care of his family. According to this guy, he's still there.”

“What's it called?”

“Chakothi in Azad Kashmir.”

“Pakistan?”

“I'm doing the best I can.”

The second call was from Roberge. “I oughta be furious, I don't mind saying. But now I just feel like laughing about it. The main thing is you're back in town. Oh, so close …”

He too had big news. “The main perpetrator of the attack was arrested this morning and you are virtually the first to know after the RCMP and us, of course. David's wife and mother haven't even been told yet.”

Max was caught short on this, and he looked to Juliette, who wasn't privy to the conversation.

“You still there, O'Brien?”

“Huh? Yeah, yeah.”

“One of those nutjobs, and a communist to boot.”

“I thought that model was obsolete.”

“Guess not. In India, they're still current, active, and dangerous.”

Max got the idea.

“The Canadians are beginning to see the Indians as foot-dragging, so Chief Inspector Dhaliwal goes back to an old list from the eighties and dusts off a few suspects. Hmmm, let's see, this one's not too bad. Besides, he lives nearby.”

Roberge's sigh came across the line. Obviously, he didn't share the sense of humour at the other end.

“The guy confessed he kidnapped the diplomat with two accomplices, and …”

“Things just get better and better. An asterisk next to the name means he couldn't withstand electrodes to the nuts. The perfect suspect.”

“Look, O'Brien, this isn't
The Lonely Planet
anymore. This is the end of the road, so you've got a choice. Come in quietly and give yourself up without harming your ‘hostage,' and I'll take it into account in my report. Otherwise, I throw the book at you.”

Max hung up the phone and looked at Juliette. “So, now you're my hostage.”

“Who turned you in? Patterson?”

“Probably thinking of your safety.”

Max spent a long time looking at her.

“What you're doing is illegal, you know. If they arrest me, they'll accuse you of aiding a fugitive.”

“I'm big enough to know what I'm getting into. No warnings necessary.”

He shook his head. Boy, she had guts, this young woman.

“So, where do we go now?”

He paid no attention to that one. “David sure was lucky finding a girl like you.”

Juliette, ill at ease, looked away. “I'm just doing what he'd do for me,” she said. “I won't stop asking questions till I know what happened.”

Max had on a canvas money-belt filled with American dollars and three passports, all of them maybe “burned” already. He could just see Roberge before the computer juggling aliases and playing with Photoshop to try out different combinations. For the first time since returning from India, Max had the feeling he was an easy target for the police because he was with a woman who wasn't part of “the scene.” He absolutely needed a place to rest. He stopped next to a phone booth, opened the car door and let his cellphone slip through the grate into a sewer.