The Kashmir Trap (17 page)

T
he
immense register, like those in all hotels long ago, unfortunately held no mention of David. Max's nephew must have had no difficulty using an assumed name. India wasn't in the habit of requesting any ID, passport or other, when one rented a room. Max had already noticed this in Delhi, but the corpulent, stern-faced owner recognized David from the photo Max showed her.

“How many days did he stay?”

“One night I think.”

“Was he alone?”

She nodded.

“What did he do? Make any appointments, visit the city, receive any phone calls?”

“Shabir!” she yelled.

The handyman was elderly, frail, barefoot,
and dressed in a
salwar.
He seemed better prepared for hunting flies than for painting or woodworking. The owner conferred with him, intoning in a language Max didn't recognize. He later learned it was Kashmiri.

Shabir tilted his head one way, then the other, as though on the point of falling into a trance or passing out, but he was really saying, “I know some things, but only at a price.” Jayesh held out a few rupees, and Shabir slipped them into his
salwar
as imperceptibly as a magician. He remembered David, oh yes, because he was the only Westerner in the hotel, in fact the only client who hadn't stayed shut up in his room, especially with the curfew.

“Where exactly did he go?”

This brought a fresh round of nodding and rupee-ing. They'd never find it, he said, without someone who really knew Srinagar the way he did, having lived there all his life. Oh, the horrors he'd seen. More rupees to help him bury the past.

The capital sprang back to life in the daytime, but still a life under military occupation. Armed men looking for possible terrorists patrolled the squares, streets, and markets constantly. David had probably taken this same route and passed the same patrols. He'd no doubt laid out the rupees, too, and that was exactly why he was remembered. The old man walked steadily in front of them, as if he'd done it hundreds of times, as he surely had. He was right — the city was a labyrinth, and, for an hour, they went through narrow streets and narrower ones, even alleys and inner courtyards, as well as false dead ends that actually did lead somewhere, into dark ways apparently designed for throat-cutting, then to a square a little more sunlit than the others, where Shabir pointed to a rundown three-storey building painted sickly green like the rest of the neighbourhood.

“I brought him here,” he said with great authority, as though fearful of not being taken seriously, “He went inside here.”

How many apartments were there? Quite a few, judging by the number of windows, some of them covered but showing silhouettes. David had given Shabir a generous tip. Jayesh got the message loud and clear, so out came the roll of rupees. After David went in, which apartment did he go to? Why? To do what? Max had to resign himself to the fact that Shabir didn't know. They had no choice but to knock on every door and show everyone the picture of David, risking a few rounds from a Kalashnikov instead. While Shabir waited outside, the two went in. A chubby type, poorly shaven, wearing just an undershirt, who had watched them from his window, emerged at once from a ground-floor apartment.

“Are you here to look at the studio, is that it?”

Then they heard him fumbling for keys as he went back inside. Then he headed upstairs before them without bothering to close his door. He was painfully heavy and slow, and used the handrail not just for direction, but for support. He couldn't get up the stairs otherwise.

“I have to warn you,” he said, coughing, “I can't rent it until things are settled, what with this bloody business and all …”

Max pretended to understand, explaining he'd just arrived in Srinagar and was at the hotel for the time being, so he could wait a few days. The fact that a stranger had showed up didn't seem to surprise the caretaker: he probably wasn't the first to visit. Since things had broken down with Pakistan, the city was crawling with foreign reporters.

“And when do you suppose this ‘business' will be over?”

The man shrugged. “They've got other things to worry about, and they say I've already had my commission so I'm not short.”

“They?”

He, as if noticing him for the first time. “You're not with the papers.”

“We just got here from Delhi.”

“Well, you'll have to work it out with them, if you want the place right away.”

“With who?”

“
The Srinagar Reporter.
”

Max remembered seeing it on billboards when they got into town. It was a daily, like
The Times of India
, but focused on Kashmir. The concierge slid the key into a lock at the end of the third floor in the back, and opened the door. When he turned on the light, the studio was tiny and disorderly. To the right was an unmade bed. To the left were a table, a cupboard, and a sink. The place had the relative luxury of running water despite the outward appearance of the building. At the end, a half-open door revealed a wash basin and toilet.

The caretaker was standing in the middle of it all with arms folded to show he was ready for questions or criticisms. Max showed him David's photo.

“He may have come here to see someone — pos­sibly you?”

The man looked defiantly at both of them. “Police?”

“Do you recognize this guy? His picture was in the papers last week.”

“Never seen him here.”

Max put the photo away. So, they were going to have to go door to door. They got ready to leave.

“Strange that a newspaper would rent a place like that,” Max said before they got to the corridor.

“Owners.”

“
The Reporter
owns this building?”

“Yesss. They wanted to pull it down, but they changed their minds. I don't know why. Meanwhile, they rent. That's how Ahmed got the apartment.”

“Ahmed?”

“Ahmed Zaheer.” He pointed to the furniture and items scattered round the place, “This is all his.”

“And where did this Ahmed go?”

“To Canada. To die.”

 

 

T
he
Srinagar Reporter
occupied a modern block on the southern edge of town. The windows of the editorial office overlooked the road to Jammu and Delhi a little way off, which symbolized accurately their basic political stance. The daily was “secular and progressive,” and, as their highly vocal and visible publicity claimed, an “All-India Publication Promoting Respect & Understanding Among Indians of All Castes & Beliefs.” Deepak Vahsnirian,
editor-in
-chief, was a sort of Indian Walter Cronkite who spoke in a low voice punctuated with sighs of limited dramatic impact, a gentleman, or trying very much to be one. Any minute now, Max expected him to get out a pipe and start stuffing it like a character in some British film from the fifties. Vashnirian prided himself on being a man of conviction, “not an easy thing in this country, even less in this city.”

A Hindu himself, he hired a number of Muslims, and not necessarily as sweepers and cleaners, he hastened to add. He, of course, was a member of the Indian National Congress, “India's great party,” chased from power by the narrow-minded nationalists of the BJP.

“Still, those of the Congress weren't always up to the standards of their illustrious predecessors, Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru,” Jayesh put in, referring to the state of emergency proclaimed by Indira Gandhi in the 1970s.

Vashnirian's complexion darkened, and Max frowned. This really wasn't the time.

“We aren't here for politics, Mr. Vashnirian. We'd like to talk to you about Ahmed Zaheer.”

“How much does he owe you?”

Max and Jayesh exchanged glances as Vashnirian came round his desk to face Max.

“Oh, you're not the first, you know, and you won't be the last, but you'll not get a single rupee from this newspaper, no more than any of the others.”

Zaheer had led a dissolute life, he said: baccarat, roulette,
chemin de fer
— he was better known in Macao than he was in Srinagar, debts all over town, not to mention his attitude. He annoyed the staff royally with his spoiled-child act. “Why he even showed up at the office dead drunk, and quite often too.”

Vashnirian frowned. “You Westerners imagine them all on hands and knees toward Mecca with a machine-gun slung across their shoulders, as though most Christians are members of the Ku Klux Klan!” He sighed once more his face becoming sad. “Ahmed was the best journalist this paper had. The most formidable …”

“The kind Indira would have loved to throw in jail.”

More poisonous looks from Max to Jayesh, who raised his arms in surrender, “Okay, okay, I'll shut up.”

“Ahmed had, I don't know, fifty years of vacation piled up, and he said one morning, ‘I'm going to Sri Lanka for a few Adonises, then …' ”

Max looked puzzled, so he explained: “I didn't tell you he was gay? No one knew except for everybody. I mean he wasn't officially out of the closet and not the slightest intention of even opening the door. And Islam, well, that's a closet inside a closet.”

“Sri Lanka? I thought he died in Canada.”

“Yes, you're right, Niagara Falls.”

Now Max was beyond puzzled.

“He changed his travel plans at the last minute, I suppose,” said Vashnirian, then. “A stupid accident, really. He fell, and they only found his body at the bottom of the falls next day.” Vashnirian paused. “I suppose he should have gone to Sri Lanka after all.” He went on to ask them the reason for their interest in Ahmed Zaheer, and Max improvised a story about insurance contracts Zaheer had signed. The editor showed them the journalist's office, now occupied by a serious young intern with large glasses and curly hair. Anything that might have been of interest had been scattered or destroyed, hardly surprising. There was no hope Zaheer would be careless enough to leave anything the least bit compromising lying around, anyway. Next, Vashnirian invited his visitors to eat in a local café (“if it isn't closed for the bloody war!”). He just had to make one telephone call while they waited in the entrance hall.

Niagara Falls, huh?

A Muslim homosexual, barfly, gadfly, and gambler. What kind of nutbar had David got himself in with?

Jayesh was thinking the same thing. “Maybe your nephew was gay.”

Max had wondered that, too. Perhaps all this secrecy was just in aid of an ill-fated love-affair. Zaheer would be the inconsolable lover at the foot of the falls. David rushes over to his place to erase all evidence of their liaison. Sure, why not?
Naah
. “David would never do anything like that with me or anyone else,” Vandana had said. What if she were wrong?

It was a tempting theory nevertheless, but didn't lead anywhere. David's trip to Srinagar was nearly two weeks after Zaheer's death, so why wait that long before rushing off to “save his reputation”? And who would then be responsible for the bombing? Come to think of it, there was no proof of any kind of link between David and Zaheer at all. The lady at the Mount View and Shabir, her handyman, could have invented anything for a few rupees more. Even if what they said was true, there was no evidence that David went to Zaheer's apartment that night. Possibly any other apartment for any number of reasons.

The more Max thought about it, the more he had the impression his investigation was founded on hypotheses and witnesses who weren't reliable, starting with Adoor Sharma, the amateur pimp. It was all a house of cards that the slightest breeze could bring down in a heap. Niagara Falls. Adoor Sharma. The strongbox. Max thought and thought, racking his brain, till an intuition, rather an image, took form in his mind. He rifled through his memory — Tourigny and the phone number he'd tried in vain to identify. He thought for a second and looked up.
Why not?

Max went over to the reception desk and asked the young lady if he could use her phone. She pointed to an empty room a little way off, and he went in, dialled the number for Canada Direct. The young Acadian woman asked if she could help him. He read her the phone number kept in David's safe “… in the Niagara Falls area code, please.” One ring, then two, three, and someone answered the phone brusquely. It was a woman's voice, melodious, professional.

“Niagara Parks Police, Joan Tourigny speaking. How can I help you?”

 

 

KLEAN KASHMIR

P
hilippe
and his son, two shooting stars, David, with his life before him. New Delhi, his first posting, his very own Tokyo, where he was already outshining others, just as his father had done. Max was convinced of it. Sandmill, Caldwell, and Bernatchez himself had already made their beds in Foreign Affairs with the firm intention of pursuing a career free of ups and downs to a comfortable retirement. Max was not being fair, and he knew it. He really didn't know David any better than Langevin, Vandana, or Mukherjee. But still, the young diplomat couldn't help but be exceptional, just as his father had been. He had to be destined for greatness, again like Philippe.

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

After Rabat, Ankara, and Bangkok, Philippe had become an ambassador himself, slipping in ahead of one of the prime minister's protégés, a shoo-in whose mentor had promised him Thailand while he waited for a Senate seat. However, the minister of foreign affairs had played hardball, and the Asian Tiger was awakening, so a young wolf was required on the scene, not some sleepy bear who'd get eaten alive. The prime minister had agreed, finally. With the protégé gone to Lisbon, Philippe moved into the Silom Road offices. This was a coup in Canadian diplomatic circles. Philippe was one of the youngest ever named to such an important posting. Max understood better than ever the kind of precautions Béatrice was taking. The rocket was on the launch pad and she was not risking a misfire. Philippe was aimed at the upper atmosphere, and flying close to the sun.

David at ten years old. The photos Philippe sent showed him in front of Wat Phra Kaew, temple of the Emerald Buddha. Piloting a motorized pirogue in the middle of the Chao Phraya. A boy with intelligent eyes and an attentive gaze, curious, hands on his mother's shoulders. “Manly.” Keeping his promise to Béatrice, Max answered the last messages from his brother, explaining that security considerations forced him to proceed with much more prudence and discretion from now on. So their little ads to one another in the paper became increasingly rare, till they disappeared altogether, though Max never stopped looking for them. Béatrice was surely satisfied. The break was complete.

Thus, after Pascale came Philippe.

Would anything have been different if Max had refused Béatrice's demand at the Plaza? What if he had told her to take a hike and mind her own business? She could not possibly understand the bond that united them, or with Gilbert and against Solange. All three huddled together like players in Sunday afternoon football. Max figured it was the best thing to do at the time, but since Philippe's death, he'd come to doubt his decision, and even more so since David's murder. He kept replaying it in his head over and over, shuffling the deck each time, but with the same result.

What was he doing in India, anyway? Was he looking for his nephew's killers, or was that just an excuse for setting his own house in order, or understanding it at least?

Philippe's life took a sudden turn, Max recalled: fresh blood for the Canadian government's electoral machine, which was badly in need of it. He was rumoured to be “ministrable.” Meanwhile in Bangkok, Philippe had not yet decided, but he'd been approached and was “interested” in this scenario. Journalists used to grazing on Parliament Hill found themselves interviewing the ambassador down by the
klongs
, holding their noses against the putrid stench of the water … no connection with the Rideau Canal. Bangkok was an open-air sewer.

The leak came from inside the party, of course, or else Philippe himself. He wasn't about to jump into the lions' den without first having an idea of what the opinion-makers thought of his change of career. At worst, it would be viewed as a meaningless “parachute-drop,” a make-up operation, additional proof that Ottawa's opportunistic administration was dead on its feet. Well, none of that happened. For once, the media agreed that the future candidate had potential, that plus the fact that the young ambassador had sent a wake-up call, as they say. Philippe's initiatives in Southeast Asia had shown that Canada was no longer the lapdog of the U.S. Now, it could not only bark, but bite, too. This was necessary to the country's independence. It did not go down well with the American ambassador, but won the admiration of the French and Australians, who disliked the increasing encroachment of the U.S. in the region. Vietnam was still fairly fresh in their minds, and the Americans with their two left feet were not welcome there.

Philippe played his cards right, and his performance did not go unnoticed by the head-hunters. Today the minister, tomorrow the prime minister, and why not? Canadian diplomacy had already yielded Lester B. Pearson, and Philippe O'Brien was cut from the same cloth. The red carpet was rolled out from Bangkok to Ottawa, now it was up to him to commit, and to inform his family … all of it.

The brothers met at La Guardia during Philippe's stopover on the way to Toronto, their first contact in months.

“So, what does David think of having the future Minister of Foreign Affairs for a father?” Max asked.

Philippe smiled. “You don't approve?”

“Who am I to tell you what to do?”

Philippe looked ill at ease. The decision had been a hard one, of course. Max could imagine them: Philippe and Béatrice, unable to get to sleep at night, discussing it on the barred verandah of their home. David would be napping, unaware that he'd have to change schools in mid-year, yet again. Max had a hard time with ambition: having any, cultivating it, even considering it a quality in someone. In his line of work, it was a fault, a weakness, a failing, the soft spot for another crook like himself to exploit. Philippe's, though, was not your
run-of
-
the
-mill ambitiousness.

“I'm tired of representing people I don't respect or trust. I'd like to change things.”

From the depths of the backstage, far from the spotlight, Max could see his brother was taking his new role very seriously. He was as good at politics as diplomacy. He was photogenic, but not smug, and he knew how to play credibly to the camera without being boring or pompous. With journalists, he always had just the right word at hand, the perfect quotable phrase for headlines. He wasn't alone in this, of course. There was an army of scribes ready with speeches and jokes, but he never gave the impression he was just reading from a script, holding forth or making people laugh on cue.

By mid-campaign, he was considered a shoo-in, but that didn't stop him from crisscrossing his future riding with constantly renewed energy; Béatrice and David by his side: the holy family, the ideal family, once more.

“I'm here to learn,” he used to say, quoting the Russian hockey players who came to scare the daylights out of North American players in the 1970s. Well, everyone lapped that up and laughed. He was a good learner, and quicker than other diplomats. One day, though …

Béatrice was seated across from Max in a New York café, the second encounter without Philippe's knowledge, and she'd come with a definite purpose in mind that she found hard to put into words. Finally, she came out with it. She'd had a visit from Luc Roberge, who had done his little number about how he respected Philippe and believed, like everyone else, that he'd be a great minister. Still, his job wouldn't let him feign ignorance about the younger brother. The crook, the counterfeiter, the invisible man. Here's what he proposed: if Max turned himself in to the police, Roberge would treat the whole thing “confidentially,” so as not to compromise Philippe's budding political career. This is what Béatrice had come to New York to discuss with Max in secret one more time, to ask him, beg him, not to blow her husband's dream out of the water.

“Or else?”

“The usual fanfare.”

Never had Max hated Roberge so very much, but what could he do but make the sacrifice? Once more. Was it worth it? Who could guarantee Roberge would keep his promise? What was to stop some nosy journalist from rooting around below the surface of a politician beyond reproach? Then again, what choice did Max have? Could he refuse Philippe, and, in a way the country, the career to which he was already sacrificing his own life?

Of course not. Thinking was required, naturally, over a Scotch in the Westbury on Madison, where Max had set up quarters those past six months. So, Abel was venturing into politics, and Cain was planning his exit. The lightweight but effective organization he'd built up would have to be demolished. Even the operation already underway would have to be ditched. The cadre at Consolidated Edison he'd been grooming patiently for months would have to be left twisting in the wind. Then, of course, there would be prison itself. He hadn't been back since the zoo where he'd been when he lost Pascale, but one sacrifice deserved another, and Max gradually got used to the idea.

Then, all at once, Philippe appeared in Cobble Hill Park in Brooklyn, taking a break from his campaign. Béatrice had goofed and told him about it. He was furious at Roberge's blackmail. She admitted to being the origin of Max's silence in the
International Herald Tribune
. She drove the two brothers apart.

“Why didn't you say anything to me?”

Max sighed. What difference would it make?

Philippe grabbed him by the lapels. He'd never been violent with his brother before, and now this. “Blackmail is the worst cowardice of all.”

“I don't care. I'm ready for it.”

“Well, I'm not. What more will Roberge want after this? Favours, free passes, special treatment? Today it's you he wants, but tomorrow what? An in-ground pool, a new car, a cottage in the Laurentians, huh?”

Max broke free. Okay, so Philippe was right, but Roberge's threat couldn't be ignored. He moved away, and felt his brother's arm locking with his.

“I'm not getting into politics to put myself at the mercy of the likes of Roberge, get it?”

“That's just crazy.”

“Oh no, it isn't. Honesty and guts …”

“Your voters don't care about all that.”

“You're wrong. You are so used to dealing with people's weaknesses you've forgotten they have their good points, too.”

Already the politician, Philippe was gearing up for a speech, and Max reproached his naïveté, but big brother wasn't having any of it. Did Max really want to prove that people couldn't be trusted? He could've just ignored Philippe's visit and turned himself straight in to Roberge as planned, but he'd never be forgiven, so maybe Philippe was right. What Max took to be candour was perhaps just courage and determination.

Banking on human weakness was his daily bread, his specialty. Philippe, though, was devoting his life to proving the contrary. His entire existence, it seemed, was based on the notion of pardon and redemption.

Take Kavanagh, for instance. He'd saved the man, even if he didn't deserve it; Solange, too, and now Roberge. Philippe was not going to play the game by the cop's manipulative rules and threats, even at the risk of losing his career.

So it was Max in shadows and silence, and his brother in the spotlight, as always. On the dais, Béatrice was silent and retiring. Wonder what she thought of all this? On TV, she was all smiles, elegance, and refinement — no way to guess what she felt — but Max knew she'd never forgive his selfishness: “You had a chance to redeem yourself.” What if Philippe was right, and he, not Max or Béatrice, was in touch with the truth about human nature? Max hoped so with all his heart, but didn't believe it for a second.

The news seeped out discreetly, as though the journalist wanted to apologize for being such a party pooper. A short insert in an
out-of
-town daily hinted that Philippe had an “invisible brother.” Maybe it was worth looking into. Was the public aware that Max, the younger one, was a notorious con man, a chronic repeat offender whose comings and goings were as mysterious as his present location? An interview with Detective Sergeant Luc Roberge, economic crimes specialist, gave a few more details. Roberge painted the picture, true, alas, of an unscrupulous fraud artist, and went on to relate his endless pursuit of this international bandit whose misdeeds sapped the very basis of our society.

It was a juicy accusation that made headlines in all the dailies and news bulletins. Suddenly, Max was the one in the spotlight. Old newspaper photos revealed what had happened to some of his victims, who were only too pleased to soil the older brother's reputation along with that of the younger. All of a sudden, “the successful diplomat” wasn't what captured people's attention, and his exploits in Asia seemed boring. Now what they wanted was his explanation, more information, heartfelt accusations, and fratricide. His advisers thought the same way. Philippe would have to disentangle himself from his wayward brother, a stain on the family's reputation, or watch his rise come to a halt. Internal polls were already dipping, and the Opposition wanted his head before he'd even been elected! The lions were already on him before he even entered the arena.

Philippe insisted on continuing to believe in the power of the truth, and he went into lengthy explanations on TV. He opened himself up wide to the public, asking for their loyalty and confidence.

“If you choose someone, trust him, not those around him.” But it only made things worse. His frankness was questioned, and he was suspected of covering up even more crimes.

Official corruption and complicity were implied. What if the failure to put a stop to Max was due to his brother's intervention with the Department of Justice, where he surely had contacts? This was the man to whom they were going to entrust major governmental responsibilities? It would surely come to light that the two brothers were partners in crime with a precise, detailed plan that had been in place for years.

Philippe couldn't sleep. The perfect diplomat by day, he gave the impression this mudslinging wasn't affecting him, but alone with Béatrice at night (David was staying with the Pattersons in Repentigny) he spent long hours at his work-table, haggard and wondering. It seemed that, no matter what he said and promised, his political career was in ruins.