The Kashmir Trap (4 page)

“W
hat
identity did you come under?” Patterson asked.

Max wasn't in the mood to regale him with stories from his travels. Maybe some other time, so he got straight to the point.

“What happened in New Delhi? Who's responsible?”

Patterson wiped his mouth, then took another swig of beer. The former diplomat was worn out. His eyes were red, glassy, as if he hadn't slept in days. “No idea here, either,” he replied after a while.

“Did you talk to David just before it happened?”

Max shook his head, disappointed. “No. I knew he was busy.”

Patterson sighed loudly. “Ha, we thought globalization was a one-way street. For trade, maybe. Not violence. Take that crapfest in Singapore, for instance, which unleashed a horror show in Caracas, then a catastrophe in St. Petersburg.”

Max wasn't there to hear the day's headlines from an international-relations consultant.

Patterson turned to him. “David was in the wrong country at the wrong time.”

“Look, Patterson, I'm not one of your clients, okay? Explain.”

“It could be any one of five groups, from what I could get out of my CSIS contacts.” Patterson considered the Canadian Security and Information Service diligent in its handling of the incident. “First, there's the Hizb-ul-Mujahideen. They're the biggest. A thousand Muslim fanatics, very highly trained, probably in Pakistan. Great planning …”

“Like the Indian Parliament attack?”

“No, that's another Islamic group, Lashkar-e-Taiba, at least according to the Indians and CSIS. Their trademark is suicide missions, preferably spectacular. They're based in Pakistan, but India, especially the disputed state of Kashmir, is their playground.”

“And the other three?”

“Similar style. This is a contest in violence of the most raw kind. Jaish-e-Mohammed, Harakat-ul-Ansar, and Al-Badr, all of them active in Kashmir, naturally. One of those is responsible, I'm certain. Remember the Hindu victims the other day in Jammu?”

Max couldn't see the connection with David. Why attack Canada? Why a diplomat … and not even the most important one, a rookie? An isolated, desperate move. It made no sense.

Patterson shrugged. He had no idea either. No one had come forward, and even if they did, it might not mean anything. Often two or three groups claimed the same action so as to cover their tracks.

“India's a powder keg these days, because of Kashmir,” Patterson went on. “Poisonous Kashmir: a conflict left over from the dismantling of the British Empire in 1947. Since Partition, the Indians and Pakistanis haven't let a chance go by to get at each other. Three wars already. Three times India has won, once in 1947 and 1948, once in 1965 — both wars over Kashmir — then again in 1971. Nothing changed for the locals. They were still cut in half by the demarcation line with the two armies facing off at the foothills of the Himalayas: a million soldiers and sixty-five thousand dead in over fifty-five years.

“In the wake of September 11, and with Al-Qaeda, the conflict took on more resonance. A new scope, too. Before then, the only victims were in Kashmir. The rest of what went on up there stayed there: jihadist and Kashmiri rebels versus the Indian Army — homemade carnage. But now India is accusing the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence, the most formidable secret service in all of Asia, of covering for Islamic terrorists and helping them deploy all over the country. So, you might say things are tense.” Patterson paused, then added, “Especially now they both have the bomb. Sure, our minister of foreign affairs tried to cool things down, without taking sides, of course. As far as Kashmir's concerned — like any other conflict of this type — Canada has to keep on good terms with both countries.”

“So David was just an unlucky victim? No Italian or Japanese diplomats out on the street that day — oh, hey, wait, a Canadian!”

“I can't think of any other reason.”

“What do we hire security people for, then?”

“When in doubt, it's good to be prepared for the worst. You never know … a Hizb-ul-Mujahideen hit man shows up at the General Hospital with an AK-47 slung on his shoulder —” Patterson looked up “— I know it's crazy, but I wanted to reassure Juliette.”

“The Mounties questioned her?”

Patterson looked at Max a long while. “Béatrice is right,” he said ironically, “you're going to stick your nose into this, aren't you?”

Max glanced at the half-open door to the Mughal Palace storage area, just as some Indian employees opened another one onto the street. Just for a moment, with both doors ajar, Max saw through to the other side of the building: parked in the alley was a police car with removable flashing light on the roof. No one was at the wheel. Could this be Roberge already? Again Max's eyes roamed over the cafeteria. It was less busy now. Employees had finished lunch and were headed back to their offices. He looked around for Roberge's profile, but didn't see him. This time, Patterson picked up on his nervousness. No point in pretending.

“You called them, didn't you?” Max asked, but Patterson just smiled.

“I have absolutely no interest in making life easier for Roberge. You know that.”

That left Béatrice. Why had she turned him in?

A man in a uniform shirt appeared at the north exit and another one at the south. They seemed to be looking for someone: it had to be him. So they hadn't spotted him yet.

“Look, I need an intro to the high commissioner, Bernatchez.”

“Don't get involved in this, Max. Stay away from it.”

A third agent emerged from among the stands, a flabby guy pretending to be engrossed in the Mexican menu. And another among the tables. Then a bustle of activity behind the display of
chalupas
and
enchiladas
. There were shouts and the sound of a plate shattering, then a struggle on the ground. When the agents got up, they were firmly grasping a young Latino. Screeching of walkie-talkies followed — a successful raid right there in the Labyrinth.

Another illegal on his way back to Chihuahua, courtesy of Her Majesty
, thought Max.
One more broken dream
.

The cops ignored Max and Patterson as they went off with their prize, looking proud, shoulders straight.

Patterson resumed the conversation. “The situation there's explosive. Way beyond our abilities, and yours, anyway.”

“I don't give a damn.”

“You're going to take off after Islamist terrorists all by yourself?”

“Sure, why not?”

Patterson shook his head hopelessly. “These guys are even worse than the Salvadoran army, Max, harder to get hold of.”

Max closed his eyes. He could see Philippe's office on Avenida Las Palmas, the chalk outline on the floor, the Policia Nacional officer by the door, pretending to be somewhere else, not wanting to disturb Max's reunion with ghosts.
I'll see it through to the end
, he told himself.
I'll keep my promise to Philippe
.

 

T
he
last of the trees had been cut down, or would be soon. The dirt roads had been cleared and marked out. Cranes, tractors, a giant Meccano set. From his window, the young Max could see the first construction sites, the first wounds. Houses going up as far as the eye could see; all identical, lining up like fresh scars. Against the advice of Max's mother, Solange, his father, Gilbert, had quit the poorly heated apartment on Lajeunesse in the summer of 1962 to seek out something new at the opposite end of the island. His new fortune and his family's.

He'd convinced Stéphane Kavanagh, his banker and friend, to take a chance on him, and in the following weeks, while everyone else was getting worked up about the Cuban Missile Crisis, the two Irishmen were at the kitchen table, totally wrapped up in something else. It was a contest of dreams and hopes. Solange pretended to be won over by her husband's arguments — the future king of Roxboro, as he said with a smile as broad as you please, shaving cream still on his face. Max remembered that Sunday when the four of them (Philippe was there for the day this time) went to scout out the plot for the ultimate sacrifice. Solange, not wanting to be a wet blanket, though she was wary of her husband's impulses, faked her enthusiasm for the clearing of the street, the beauty of the lot, and the size of the river.

Gilbert O'Brien was a veritable home-handyman visionary. All these houses were going up at high speed, and one day they'd need improvement, renovation, or at least a change of colour. All these tenants becoming home owners would sooner or later get bitten by the toolkit/electric-sander bug. Their mortgages were all sewn up thanks to Kavanagh, who in return financed Gilbert's business on Gouin Street. Yep, a tidy little arrangement. Solange went along without a word, Philippe and Max, too, despite the sacrifices: new neighbourhood, new school, new friends. Then, when Philippe left home to avoid the exhausting daily trek to college, Gilbert had to resign himself to the boy getting a room in town. He'd be a long-distance partner in the dream.

Max was inconsolable. He idolized Philippe, his teacher and protector. Philippe had six years on his brother and brought a whiff of the outside world to Lajeunesse Street. With him around, dressing, eating, and talking were all different: everything was “modern,” a modernity learned at college side by side with the daddy's boys of Greater Montreal. Gilbert had spared no expense. The Jesuits cost him an arm and a leg, but he paid without blinking. It was an investment in his son's future, his own, too. Did he already have Philippe in mind to pick up the reins after him, or was he thinking of Max as the “handier” of the two? Whichever it was, the “empire” was still in the planning stages. It kept Gilbert awake at night. He spent sleepless nights adding details here and there. By dawn he'd be ready to pass the torch to both of them, as they went out to conquer the world in their turn. His office became a time machine to the future.

Solange was the one left waiting in the present. Then one day she'd had enough. She was seeing another man on the side, one who “understood” and who did not live in a fantasyland. Her confrontation came as a complete surprise to the “king of Roxboro,” who felt she'd betrayed him. Gilbert hadn't seen this coming. She wanted a new life that wasn't Gyprocked, screwed, and asphalt-shingled into place. She wanted out with her kids, but Philippe refused to leave. So did Max. They both clung hard to Gilbert, shutting out their mother's arguments. She insisted, she lamented, then she slammed the door in a fury.

Gilbert, supported by his friend Kavanagh, was heartbroken for months. Then life started up again, and the king of Roxboro got right back to work. On Saturdays, Max filled in for Philippe, who was absorbed in his studies, and helped his father in the store. Early on Sunday evenings, Philippe would disappear to his small room on Amherst. When he was gone, Max paced the floor, not knowing what to do. He had trouble fighting the sadness brought on by big brother's absence. Fortunately, there was Kavanagh, a constant guest at their table after Solange walked out. Likeable, open, and “modern” in his own way, he gradually replaced Philippe, who showed up less and less.

A love lost turned into new prosperity for Gilbert. He had been right, and Kavanagh the banker was delighted. Business at the hardware store doubled every trimester, and it was time to expand right away. The housing boom surpassed all expectations, and the king of Roxboro reigned supreme. Gilbert invested more and more, and Kavanagh backed him up. The bank made bigger loans on the strength of even greater projected income. Gilbert spent more than ever and didn't mind sinking everything he had into the project. Success became almost a monotonous routine: no bumps or sharp turns in a road as wide as tarmac leading straight up into the clouds.

The fateful day was one Max could never forget. The radio said it was the coldest day of the year. They came to get him while he was in math class late one afternoon.
Way to go
, he said to himself. He hated differential and integral calculus. Philippe was in the principal's office, fresh from Vancouver, where he'd been studying political science since September. Then Philippe took him out to a waiting taxi. The driver already knew where to go. He headed straight for downtown, but road construction led him back to Gouin and the hardware store.

By the time Philippe realized what was happening, it was already too late. The store was closed … on a Friday. Max looked for his father, but the place was deserted.

“We're going to a hotel for a few days,” Philippe said when Max turned to him. “The house has been seized, too. It's the bank's now.”

“What about Papa?”

“He'll be here soon.”

Kavanagh had six stitches in his face where Gilbert had hit him with a nail-puller. From the police station, he'd called Philippe in Vancouver instead of a lawyer, and Kavanagh declined to file charges, so Gilbert was able to join his sons at the hotel by evening — motel, actually. A pretty grubby one, too, in a slummy neighbourhood. The windows hadn't been opened in weeks, due to the cold, and the room hadn't been cleaned ever, except maybe a superficial once-over. All three slept in the same big bed, three world-weary musketeers chewed up and spat out by fate. Gilbert turned on the light in the middle of the night. He had to talk, confess, get it off his chest. He was washed up. Kavanagh hadn't kept his word and had let his superiors take a piece out of the king of Roxboro. The vultures had swooped down on his business and torn it to pieces. It was the saddest night in Max's short life: a filthy little bulb overhead, worn-out furniture, and the hum of traffic in the distance.

“Why us? Why?” Gilbert couldn't get over it. He never did. After the nervous breakdown, he wound up in the woodworking section at Castor Bricoleur, where he coasted along. He'd come home with his hands full of splinters and never even bother to pull them out. All desire to make an honest living or even “make an effort” deserted Max, too, which resulted in petty crimes to round out the month's expenses, a borrowed car to impress a girl his age in the neighbourhood, some vandalism, a few misdemeanours here and there: nothing original, just
run-of
-
the
-mill impulses. Then one day, he took off after Kavanagh to give him a taste of their calamity. Another dose of the old nail-puller. But the banker had pulled up stakes.
Aw, the hell with him
. Max had to get on with his life, and he wasn't about to let anyone get in his way, not like his dad. Little crimes led to bigger ones, bolder, riskier. Max was bound to end up in jail sooner or later.

Then along came Mimi.

Before her, Montreal had always spelled misery and hard times for Max.

The first time he got out of the Bordeaux prison in 1972 — it seemed like only yesterday — there was no one but the bus driver. Gilbert hadn't passed the news along, so Philippe didn't know Max was out. No sign of his father in the little apartment on Bagg Street, either. That's what Max thought at first, because of the drawn curtains and locked door. A neighbour came and let him in. There was Gilbert, sitting in the shadows with a cat on his lap. He'd never liked animals before.

“I don't want you here, Max. I put all your stuff in that box. Take it and go.”

It was only a shoebox of souvenirs he didn't want anyway, and he tossed it in the first garbage bin he came across on his way to Mimi's place — an ex-cellmate had given him the address.

Mimi was the eldest of the three and stood in as mother for the other two: Antoine, who was Max's age, with his nose buried in
Popular Mechanics
, was the intellectual in the family; Pascale was secretive and melancholic, looking at him that day through wide teenage eyes, more curious than frightened. The tenants were the collateral damage of the justice system, and Mimi had seen plenty already, so what was one more or one less? And what did these bewildered black sheep live on? Max had an idea, but he wasn't about to ask. To each his own. They barely said “hi,” then one day they disappeared. A halfway house to crime is what it was. That's the way Max was headed, too, inevitably. Mimi, though, liked nothing better than to exercise her maternal instinct.

She was taken with Max, and she stood behind him unobtrusively. A slight glance or a word or two once in a while, nothing more. She was cautious as if she were afraid he'd panic.

One morning, she found out what he was up to — a gas-station holdup, just one more dumb move — and she took him out to a restaurant to explain a few hard realities, as she called them. Not just any restaurant … the Château Champlain, swarming with waiters decked out in formalwear. Max had never eaten in a place like this before. He had trouble believing Mimi could manage such luxury. Okay, she had money, but not
that much
.

“What's the matter, Max? I've never been here before either.”

She'd chosen a table at the far end near two businessmen in suits and ties whose discussion involved airy sweeps of their pens. Mimi at once struck up a conversation with them. They were only too glad of a pretext for getting off business matters, and she was especially charming: a smile here, a burst of laughter there, and her timing was perfect. Max twiddled his thumbs until they ordered … the same thing as the two business types, who were now back in the thick of their number-columns. After dessert, and feeling stuffed, Max was still wondering what this life lesson was that she wanted to teach him. Till now, they'd just talked about trivial stuff, as though intimidated by their surroundings, nothing
heart-to
-heart. Max was confused. Mimi had brought him here to talk him out of a burglary, but they were surrounded by things only money could buy — lots of money. Max figured after the burglary he'd invite her out for a life lesson, too.

When they'd finished eating, Mimi caught the attention of the businessmen once more. On the ground was a leather wallet one of them had probably dropped.

“Is that yours?”

Intrigued, one of the men scooped it toward him with his foot, but it wasn't his or his colleague's. Mimi took it from him and said, “I'll give it to the waiter. He'll want to know which table it was under. If he looks this way, signal him, would you?”

Baffled, Max followed her to the counter where the overworked waiter was trying to juggle three different orders.

“Our boss is getting the bill, so just give it to him.”

“Your boss, where?”

Mimi pointed to the two businessmen, and one of them, as expected, waved to them. The waiter nodded and went on about his task.

Once out on the sidewalk, Mimi walked Max away, but not too quickly. Bewildered by what he'd just seen, Max didn't dare ask any questions, though he was dying to.

Then she said, “There's more than one way into a life of crime, Max. Some ways are smarter than others.”

Over the following months, there was a change in the program — a new career, new things to learn under a new teacher. Mimi taught him the ABCs of the con game with great patience. Gradually, he gained confidence, inventing his own swindles and updating the old ones. He threw himself into the pigeon hunt with the energy and enthusiasm of a neophyte. Soon, the world of grifters kept no secrets from him. He joined a network of fraud artists and plunged himself into all kinds of schemes, playing more and more key parts as his experience grew and his talents gained recognition. He stole smart, without violence or intimidation. Mostly from businesses or those they profited, and that set his conscience at rest. Max didn't lead just one life, but ten, twenty, fifty … lives that overlapped constantly, so he had to look in the mirror to remember who he was.

Now he was coming home to Mimi for the first time in years. She'd started renting rooms to students from the Université du Québec nearby, the area a little more respectable than the hoods of the old days. Noisier too, though. As soon as they hugged and took a good look at one another, and told one another they hadn't aged a day — actually, she had, but he didn't mention it — students came running down the stairs. Mimi rolled her eyes in exasperation, then smiled, a dimple in her right cheek. Despite the wrinkles, really nothing had changed. Some women can retain that “little girl” look forever, and she was living proof.

“I can't tell you how good it is to see you! They told me you were in New York.”

“New York and other places.”

She smiled. Again the dimple. He stroked her cheek. He was happy to see her as happy and steady on her feet as always. Antoine, too. A little stooped maybe, and wearing slippers, but still with his head full of projects that worried Mimi. She'd moved on, but not Antoine. He'd turned the basement into a print shop. He still worked at Dorval Airport, but on weekends he made fake documents: passports, social insurance cards, travellers' cheques, the way other people had fun with stamp collections or building the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks. Who for? Illegal immigrants “fresh off the boat,” sort of, who needed that kind of thing. The middle of the room was occupied by a Xerox 3275, HoloText 283 that even embedded holograms right in the photo, and a TypoFlair 2220 — the very latest in plastic lamination — plus other machines whose purpose Max didn't know.