The Kashmir Trap (21 page)

“Have you got a quarter?” he asked Juliette before heading into the booth. His third call was to Mimi.

 

D
uring
their one-way conversations, of which there were more and more before Pascale left, she'd tried to make him understand the inevitability of fate,
karma
for the Hindus. Life flowed as a river whose course was fixed forever. There was no point in trying to alter its direction. The current irresistibly brought us back, not into the “right path” as Christians would say, but into the path, for good or ill, that had been set for us since the beginning of time. This fatalism enraged Max, who considered life an obstacle course, a test in the sporting sense, and one for which he had chosen not to obey the rules. But when Philippe died in El Salvador in 1989, he finally understood what Pascale meant. His brother's political mishap had been a futile attempt to change the progress of things. Philippe had returned to his riverbed, which now took him to Central America, and not just anywhere, but specifically to El Salvador, where the menu presented a military clique working for the big landowners, generals who imposed order and terror with machetes and prohibitive taxes. It was a country run by death squads supported by the U.S. Army. Rebel groups hidden in the mountains stood up to them. Assassination and kidnapping were the signs of a perpetual civil war.

A hundred thousand dead in ten years, just one more senseless conflagration on a planet that held to them with demonic persistence.

Max was sure Philippe knew what hell he was getting into and even suspected he chose El Salvador deliberately, maybe because Lebanon, Burma, and other hornets' nests were unavailable. Philippe had determined the location of his sacrifice the way Joan of Arc had resolutely said to her executioners, “Put the fire and stake here, not over there. It's too far!” Karma perhaps, but one he had chosen for himself, as if to prove he didn't care about dying any more than about the latest limo.

Sure, and why not El Salvador?

The sacrifice had been calling to him, and sooner or later, he'd have to face it head-on. The generals just had to wait for the right time to intervene. By seeking to provoke the powers that be, Philippe stood himself in front of the bullseye, but he also drew the sympathy of the people of the capital, terrorized by the violence that corrupted the atmosphere in the country, be they of the right or the left. Lo and behold, here was one, at least, who wasn't barricaded behind bodyguards at every private cocktail party. He dared to drive along the Panamericana without ten motorcycle cops from the Policia Nacional on his tail.

Béatrice watched this provocation, this ritual of death, with anger she could barely contain. What her husband was doing made no sense. If he wanted to die, okay, but why take his wife down with him? That wasn't his plan, either. He chose one of her return trips to Montreal — there were lots of them — to open the embassy gates to some peasants and rebels fleeing the death squads, and in a single night transform his office into Noah's Ark.

Ottawa was informed, and the minister awakened in the middle of the night. Philippe O'Brien once again. He regretted not having insisted on the Singapore posting instead of giving in on this one, but the wimpy prime minister had wanted to soothe his fallen star, and here was the result.

The view from Ottawa showed Philippe creating his own personal crisis to draw attention to himself. This was Bonaparte on Elba plotting his return to the French throne. No question that when this ambitious headline-grabber came home after saving these poor people, his twisted family history would be all forgotten, but what the minister of foreign affairs saw as a rebirth, a resurrection, a roaring comeback, was in reality nothing but an uplifted middle finger. Okay, so Philippe had manufactured his own distinct flashpoint, but he'd done it to be able to make a spectacular exit. A gesture out of the ordinary, the kind that made its agent “useful,” no longer a spectator powerless to act on events, but someone with an impact that made him “essential” to his peers. Since Canadian voters had refused his “total commitment,” illiterate peasants — who probably had no idea where Canada even was — would be the beneficiaries of his act of bravery.

Things unravelled very quickly. While the whole world watched, Philippe negotiated for the lives of the peasants with representatives of the generals. He offered his own for theirs, despite orders to the contrary from Ottawa. But who were they to get in the way of his sacrifice? The authorities weren't expecting anything like this insane courage. Then there were the television cameras, and the generals were getting to enjoy their new show. They could of course storm the place and kill everyone, including the ambassador, and put an end to the drama. But these morons enjoyed being instant TV anti-stars, bogeymen scaring good suburbanites all across the West.

Ottawa was in panic mode. What the hell kind of game was this cretin playing? Communications were cut off, naturally. Anyway, Philippe couldn't care less about their advice, and within a week, the media getting bored with their clinking medals and grandiose uniforms, and their own grand play, the generals decided that at last they could act. In a crackling fireworks of shots, soldiers invaded the embassy like drunken festival-goers carrying machine guns. They were expecting the usual panic and desperate acts, but what they got was a deserted building that was way too calm for that. This place smelled like shit. They came across the ambassador writing letters in his office. He barely paused to invite them to take a seat.

Not a trace of the rebels.

What was this? A trap? An ambush?

Philippe suggested they take a look in the basement.

A tunnel dug through the wall led to the sewers of San Salvador, which accounted for the infernal smell that permeated the building.

Later on, one of the escapees told American TV reporters that he'd once worked in the sewers and knew the city's underground world by heart. An important conduit was situated nearby, and for a week, while Philippe faced down the generals under the eye of the camera, the fugitives had punched a hole in the cement and dug through the crumbly earth to the main sewer and freedom. They subsequently found refuge in Guatemala, and the media that had once demolished Philippe's political career were now the ones that, despite themselves, allowed him to save these poor people and become a hero.

For the military, Philippe's victory was intolerable, especially when it was so cool-headed and insulting. He ought to be at their feet begging for pity, but instead he was beaming and seemed to be at his all-time peak. They killed him on the spot at point-blank range.

“If I'd turned myself in to the police when Béatrice asked me to,” Max sighed, “Philippe would be alive today.”

Juliette was moved listening to this story. A few hours earlier, an elderly woman, Mimi, had greeted them with arched black eyebrows and a strident voice, as well as hot soup. Antoine, her taciturn brother, used his equipment in the basement while listening to
Madama Butterfly
. Mimi didn't seem pleased by Juliette's presence, but she kept her opinions to herself. Max let her use his room and he got settled on the sofa. Juliette wasn't sleepy, and neither was he. She joined him in the living room, and that was when she had asked him exactly what happened to David's father. This time, there was no avoiding the question for Max.

“Did David ever talk about him?” he asked.

“He admired him a lot. He was David's idol,” and she added, “David would have liked a Central American posting. He knew they'd never send him though.” Then, after a long pause, and realizing that Max was silent now too, she continued, “I'm disappointed he didn't tell me what he was up to. What if he felt guilty about something? Maybe he did feel guilty and didn't dare tell me about it.”

“Or perhaps he was trying to protect you. Like Patterson just now.”

Everyone wants to protect me, regardless of what I want
, she thought to herself.
Maybe David did, too
.

“He didn't want you to get mixed up in anything,” Max went on, “like Philippe with Béatrice back then. The people who held a grudge against David knew that somehow or other. That's why you weren't attacked as well.”

“Your brother had secrets, too.”

Max didn't react.

“Did you know about Deborah Cournoyer?”

Max had never heard the name.

“She was his mistress.”

“What're you talking about? What mistress?”

Juliette relayed the conversation she'd overheard in Patterson's office, as well as Cournoyer's discreet presence at David's funeral, and the former diplomat's confidences after she'd left. Max was astounded and couldn't understand why his brother had kept this affair hidden from him, and for such a long time.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”

Two hours later, Max still couldn't get to sleep for thinking about Juliette's revelation. Deborah Cournoyer. Why hadn't Philippe said anything, and why had Béatrice let this go on?

 

 

P
hilippe
's heroic death had been publicized far and wide, and there had been a stamp and a public square honouring his memory. Newborns had been baptized in his honour, there was a planned biography and TV series. There was even talk of renaming the Foreign Affairs building on Sussex Drive in Ottawa. In other words, the canonization was well under way even before his body was brought home. At the Ottawa airport, Béatrice reminded people of a Canadian Jackie Kennedy marked by pain and sadness, but dignified and forever elegant, with David by her side supported by Patterson, as she received her husband's remains with stoic grace.

Max had watched it on TV in his hotel room in Montreal, scanning the crowd for Luc Roberge, but there was no trace of the cop. Still, he had to be there unless he'd sent some of his men instead. No way he would pass up a chance like this. Max tossed his second empty Scotch bottle onto the floor. He'd been drinking since morning, yet he still felt barely drunk. Perhaps it was the pain, the unbearable feeling that this disaster was his own fault, that he could have prevented it, but hadn't, as usual. Had Philippe left him any choice? No, that was no excuse.

Over the coming years, Max was more and more unobtrusive, though still on top of things. From Chicago or Las Vegas, he kept an eye on David and Béatrice as they started a new life, not missing a beat as they went from one thing to another. Of course, forgetting was impossible, but at least they could give the impression of leaving the past behind. On TV interviews, he heard Béatrice say with conviction that Philippe wasn't dead, that the assassins had destroyed his body, but not his spirit. This spirit from now on would help her to continue. For Max, of course, this was just nonsense, pure fantasy once again. All his brother had left behind were furtive images that faded gradually from everyone's memory, even those closest to him. It had been the same with Pascale's passing away. Both their passionate love and her intolerable betrayal began to dissolve as the years went by. The ugly and the beautiful alike petered out in his memory like a slow, continuous second death that never ended. A second death worse than the first one.

Max opened his eyes. The half closed window-shade of the airplane let the sun's light beam in. He looked at the time. Soon it would be London, then Copenhagen.

For David, the adolescent and then young adult, there was no question of having a career anywhere but in Foreign Affairs. He would pick up where Philippe left off, carry on the fight, even if he had trouble discerning exactly what that was.

Max was siphoning the international account of a real estate investment company in Bermuda when he learned that David had been recruited by the Department. He thought about sending congratulations and saying who- knows-what, maybe that his father would be proud or something along those lines, but he decided to let it drop.

“I've become just like him. I feel just what he felt.” Karma from father to son, their fates united in the sacrifice of life? The call of martyrdom like Philippe? The longing to spit fire, give one's life for others, the defenceless ones? Possibly, but David's playing field wasn't as easily mapped out as his father's had been. Drunken soldiers, terrified peasants, a providential sewer. David's world was more complex and even more desperate than Philippe's. One thing was certain, though. David had “done something” as his father had. He couldn't leave things alone, stay quietly behind his desk and entertain passing businessmen. This “heroic initiative,” whatever it was, had dragged him to his death.

Copenhagen in the rain, and the British Airways Airbus had been circling the runway for some time now. The city emerged from the clouds from time to time, only to disappear once again in the fog.

The day before, Juliette had asked Max, “Do you believe this story of a communist they've arrested?”

“Did they arrest him? Sure. Do they have anything against him? Possibly. But I'm convinced he has nothing to do with David's death.” Max had given a lot of thought to this opportune arrest, which meant the Indian police had stopped focusing on the imam Khankashi. Genghis Khan was off the hook?

On the phone, Jayesh told him that Chief Inspector Dhaliwal had filed a report. Doval Shacteree was certainly no angel, but he was also the perfect sacrificial lamb. Still this about-face was hard to swallow. Prime Minister Vajpayee was passing up a great pretext for accusing Pakistan or Kashmiri separatists of being involved in the killing.

“Things are shifting,” Jayesh said. “Here it's
détente
for now, or at least a slight loosening up.”

Maybe the Russians or the Chinese had something to do with it, or even the Americans and their rumblings? Who knew? At least there was a breather. The freeze was thawing a bit, and India had taken the first step.

“Then yesterday,” added Jayesh, “the Indian Navy pulled out of Pakistani waters in the Gulf of Oman, where it's been for the past month.”

“So war is off the table.”

“For the moment, and India's ready to name a new ambassador to Islamabad to replace the one they recalled in December.”

“They can't let Vajpayee blow this by blaming David's death on an Islamist terror cell protected by ‘The Land of the Pure.'”

“Bingo. So that's why they dug around for this communist guy.”

A truce, but a fragile one, tissue-paper thin, and made to the detriment of
Hizb-ul
-Mujahideen and company. So it's back to the bush for the extremists, including Genghis Khan, and the official war appears to be over, while the underground one is on again.

What was going through David's mind in the days before the attack, when he returned from searching Zaheer's apartment in Srinagar, following the journalist's death in Niagara?

“Well,” said Juliette, “the final sprint before the Montreal conference, endless meetings at the High Commission.”

“David following in his father's footsteps. He's ready to churn everything up, and that's why he's afraid and mistrusts everybody.”

“But why Zaheer's apartment, when he was all praise for the Canadian company?”

“Not a clue.”

“Did David already know about Niagara Falls? They'd never even met.”

“Can't be. Zaheer's in Canada when his boss thinks he's in Sri Lanka, and David's in Srinagar when everyone thinks he's in Kathmandu, both of them hiding out …”

“They've made contact, but when and where?”

Max had nothing. SCI maybe. The enthusiastic article praising them for their remarkable behaviour. Maybe Zaheer interviewed David at the High Commission's offices.

“So he wanted to meet Zaheer?”

“Maybe via Bernatchez. Probably met him, too.”

“One thing's sure, they were not strangers.”

“Zaheer revealed what he knew to David. And he was grilled to find out what that was.”

“But what was it?”

Max was stumped there, too.

“It's a weird set of coincidences, isn't it?” Juliette continued: “Zaheer's death, the closing down of Rashidabad, David's secret trip to Srinagar, Khankashi's escape the day of the explosion …”

“The threat of war between the two countries?”

“Not to mention Rodger Morency's little waltz around the hospital.”

“A dog's breakfast, for sure.”

In the airport corridor on the way to the plane stood a small man in a raincoat with an umbrella in one hand and a card reading
MR. GREGORY
in the other. He seemed nervous as he grabbed Max's suitcase, and, in poor English, explained they were late and had to hurry. Three concourses over, about thirty people were twiddling their thumbs: people of all ages, some jolly older folks and serious young ones. Max apologized for his lateness due to the weather, but received only a grunt without any particular sense of engagement. What a fun bunch.