The Kashmir Trap (22 page)

T
he
“dynamic duo,” Griffith and Bernatchez, concocted the startup of the hydroelectric plant behind closed doors in his office. This had been playing on Juliette's mind ever since Patterson first mentioned it. Before Max left, he and Juliette had agreed that she'd ask the high commissioner about it. He was still going to the Montreal conference, but first she wanted to get her things from Béatrice's place. She knew David's mother would be at her hairdresser on Greene Avenue, and Juliette had chosen this opportunity so she wouldn't be forced to explain things. But Béatrice was waiting for her in the kitchen, with a book in her hand:
The Idiot's Guide to Pregnancy
.

“You look awful,” she said by way of greeting. “I've taken the liberty of getting you an appointment with my friend Dr. Ménard at Hôtel-Dieu Hospital.”

“I'm fine, really.”

“The first months are crucial. When I was pregnant with David …”

Juliette closed her eyes. Béatrice was angry, and she had every right.

“Apparently everyone knows but me.”

“I'm sorry. With all that's been happening …”
What's going on with me?
she wondered.
She goes through my things and finds this book. Sure I should have hidden it, but still she had no right to.… And I'm the one who is sorry?

Béatrice put the book on the table.

“Dennis called and told me you'd met him with Max. You know, if Roberge learns about this …”

“Gee, I thought he already knew.”

“Don't take that tone with me. I am just concerned for your welfare.”

“Max is going to find whoever killed David.”

“Too late, they've already got him. It's in the papers.”

Juliette was in no mood to argue, and she went to the guest room to get her things while Béatrice looked on.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

She pushed her way past without answering. Béatrice tried holding her back.

“You're making a serious mistake.”

“No, doing nothing would be a mistake.” And out she went with Béatrice calling from behind.

“Do you really hate me that much?” She looked horror-stricken.

In the past days
, thought Juliette,
this woman's strength has faded away
.
All that's left is a hollow shell.
Juliette had tears in her eyes for her husband's helpless mother, and collapsed on a chair, while Béatrice drew closer.

“I'm so sorry,” Juliette said. “You should have been the first to know, but I was waiting for the right time.”

All over again.

“I'm happier for you than you can possibly know.”

“I'm doing all this for our child,” Juliette cut in. “I want to be able to tell him everything that happened, one day.”

Béatrice nodded.

“And Max's part in all this will not be left out.”

Béatrice's face darkened.

Outside, Juliette hailed a taxi and then asked him to wait in front of the Sheraton Centre on René Lévesque Boulevard. She entered the familiar atmosphere of the government and industry get-togethers she'd sometimes been to with David. The hall was decorated with saffron colours to charm the Indian families and business representatives recuperating from jet lag. Juliette knew Vandana was in Ottawa at Foreign Affairs today to settle a few things before returning to lend a hand tonight, so High Commissioner Bernatchez would be alone in the presidential suite as organizer of all this. When Juliette got to the floor, however, she stumbled upon Sandmill on the phone to New Delhi. Too late to avoid him. He'd seen her already and wanted a word.

“I feel so sad about David,” he said. “I wanted to be at the service, but I was just swamped.”

“Thanks, I understand.”

He'd arrived a few days earlier and was relieved to say things had calmed down somewhat in India.

“Mr. Bernatchez …”

“Is in his suite.”

The high commissioner welcomed Juliette a few moments later and asked her to be seated.

“You know they've caught that fanatic, don't you?”

She nodded. No way she would mention Max's doubts on that score.

“Of course, it won't bring David back,” added Bernatchez.

“What was their connection to one another?”

“The Indian police say they'd met a few times at the High Commission. Something about a visa application that was refused. I'm not quite sure. Anyway, he took David as his
bête noire
after that, so he got a few henchmen together …”

“They never found them, did they?”

“They will.”

So, here was the official version properly corroborated by the accused.

“Do you really believe these guys kidnapped, tortured, and killed David?”

“Excuse me?”

Juliette outlined what Max had found out about the journalist's “accident” in Niagara Falls, the dam construction on the Jhelum, the use of ammonium nitrate explosives …

“Wait, hold on, are you telling me that David's death is connected to SCI in India?”

“I never believed the official theory about the attack.”

“That's not a reason to accuse just anybody.”

“Then tell me why,” she said. “Why was the power plant built in Kashmir? There are plenty of rivers elsewhere, some other region of India, like around Darjeeling, in North Bengal.”

Bernatchez was searching her face with puzzlement. Instead of consoling the young woman, here he was giving her an introductory lesson in Indian economics. He sighed loudly.

“The government wanted to develop hydroelectric power potential in the region using foreign capital, but because of the political situation, no engineering firm wanted to get involved.

“Except SCI.”

“Right, the company's used to dealing with this kind of problem. They've handled similar projects in Brazil and Indonesia.”

“And Susan Griffith tackled things head-on.”

“With a mandate from HQ, obviously, and she came to Delhi with a proposal that convinced the new government.”

“The BJP.”

“The BJP leadership, the ones with the real power in Delhi, coalition power, in fact. That's what allows them to govern with a majority, support from other parties.”

“And these other parties looked favourably upon the Rashidabad hydroelectric station.”

“A great chance for the BJP leadership to show they were more than creators of fascist slogans and backward policies.”

“And better yet, the Canadian government was agreeable to the project, which looked good to Vajpayee and his bunch of fundamentalists!”

“Look, Juliette, I don't really get why this is …”

“Concretely?”

“Roads had to be built, peasants mobilized, local leaders reassured.”

“Because there was opposition to the the construction?”

“Sure, normal. You upset the lives of thousands of people, you have to expect some of them to be hesitant.”

“Upset how?”

“Part of the valley had to be flooded, so villagers had to be evacuated, but you need to realize that the company was very responsible about the orderliness of it and about respecting local culture.”

This silenced Juliette, and Bernatchez went on the offensive. “I'm not sure what you're trying to prove, Juliette, but you can be certain SCI's attitude was beyond reproach. Susan Griffith, too.”

“Not to mention her selflessness and social awareness, especially regarding the orphans of IndiaCare.”

Bernatchez darkened, annoyed at Juliette's sarcasm. “Let's leave Geneviève out of this, okay?”

“Still, it's quite a weird coincidence, don't you think?”

“I can assure you Susan Griffith has nothing to do with David's death. The plant was constructed before he ever got to Delhi. That's all ancient history.”

So she'd hit a wall, and she could see Bernatchez wasn't going to offer up anything more. The affair was closed, and it wasn't going to be reopened for the weeping widow.

“David knew about the factory closing a few days before the conference,” she forged on, “and you discussed it.”

“Sure we did, along with several other things. There were still logistical problems to solve.”

“The code of silence, did you talk about that, too?”

“Yes.”

“How did he react?”

Bernatchez hesitated as he tried to guess where she was headed with this. “David was conscientious as a diplomat. He understood SCI's problems and the concerns of its board for any publicity this might draw.”

“It would hurt a company listed on the stock exchange, right?”

“David wasn't working for the shareholders, if that's what you mean.”

Next she asked if he knew about an agreement Griffith had signed with the Hinduists when the dam was to be built.

This caught him off guard. “Who told …”

“Patterson.”

Bernatchez shook his head. Again he wondered what connection this could have with the murdered diplomat.

“Was David aware, yes or no?”

“I don't think so.”

“What exactly was in it?”

“Hiring quotas, mostly, as well as respect for Brahmins in terms of working conditions.”

“Concerning purity?”

“Among others.”

“Meaning …?”

“Well, a separate environment, the hiring of Brahmin cooks, vegetarian menus, and the site itself: no contact with lower castes or no-castes, Muslims, strangers in general.

“Is that all?”

“That's already a lot.”

Juliette was disappointed. Clearly the Hinduists had settled fairly easily.

Bernatchez drew closer to her. “I know what you're feeling, Juliette. Your husband's death is so unjust and absurd that you need to try and give it some meaning.”

“I just want to get at the truth.”

“It's right in front of you. You just refuse to see it.”

For the first time, doubt began to nag at her. Maybe Bernatchez was right. Her doggedness was starting to look like blind panic, a refusal of the inevitable, rejection of the simple and obvious solution, but still …

“Go get some rest, Juliette. Take a few weeks' vacation far away from here, far from India and all its problems.”

The taxi driver was reading the newspaper, the public confession of a pedophile complete with a huge photo covering all of page one. Suddenly, Juliette's mind went back to Madeleine Morency, and she leaned over to the chauffeur: “Can you take me to Marieville in Montérégie?”

T
hirty
-four degrees and unbearably humid at the Islamabad airport — some gawkers seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of humanitarian aid, or at least the “eyewitness account” they had come for and these sweat-soaked Westerners were pretentiously bringing them. Cops, customs officers, porters, and tea vendors looked on smiling at these extra-terrestrials in sand-coloured clothes. One pot-bellied Pakistani with a shiny bald head, and a moustached man in a suit and tie, were trying to gather them all together in a corner between a foreign exchange counter, which was “temporarily” closed, and a snack bar full of travellers waiting to leave on Aero Asia or Bhoja Air. In the parking lot were other faces and more moustaches, but also an ultra-modern coach, or so it looked. Max thought the pot-bellied guy had to be the driver. He was watching his fellow travellers worn out by an eight-hour flight: no Americans but a few Brits, and, most of all, Scandinavians (way too blond) who stopped laughing at their own incomprehensible jokes the moment they got on board the Pakistan International Airlines 747. Max also saw a group of soldiers with AK-47s using a mirror to look under a small Suzuki truck. There could be attacks here, just like anywhere else. The Inter-Services Intelligence agents definitely had to be around somewhere, patrolling the airport day and night. The man with the moustache and suit now shepherding the group to the bus might even be a regional ISI man himself. For now, though, he was just being the energetic tour guide trying to hurry them along. Waving his hand without missing a beat, the guide was examining and counting each and every tourist, probably paid according to the number of humanitarian units he could deliver. He tried to weed out any Indians or other undesirables.

No danger for Max in his Tilley hat, just like nine other volunteers, that was tilted down over his eyes so as to make him unrecognizable. Still, as a further precaution on his way out, to avoid the guide's gaze, he turned to a chubby, good-natured lady who seemed to have latched on to him since Copenhagen. Ingrid had three grown kids in Norrköping, Sweden, who'd advised her against this “expedition,” but she'd resisted, and as they got off the bus, Max asked her if she'd ever been to Pakistan before. No, and she was thrilled but nervous about “all that.” He wasn't sure if she meant the overall international political situation, the icy reception they were getting in Islamabad, or the impression of being circus animals.

The Swedish lady sat with Max behind the driver. The secret service spy stood at the end of the aisle to welcome these “guests” to his country, still checking out faces the whole time, and assuring each and every one of his complete and entire co-operation.

“Don't hesitate to ask any questions you might have. That's what I'm here for — to answer and make sure you have a realistic picture of Pakistan …” There were no laughs there, so he asked if there were any journalists among them. More silence. Max knew perfectly well that three reporters from a student newspaper in Fredericksberg had made the trip — a photographer had come out to snap them before the trip, but these three daredevils were smart enough not to raise their hands. Fortunately, these dipsticks had been briefed at least.

The bus rolled out, and Pakistan appeared amazingly similar to India. The humanitarians had their noses glued to the glass of their rolling aquarium as Jeeps and other military transport roared past. Under the canvasses, soldiers sat in double rows, weapons between their knees. Their look held a fatalism that, for once, didn't look at all religious. More like animals headed for the slaughter, no longer able to howl or struggle. To Max, war seemed more prevalent here than there. Islamabad was very near the Kashmiri border, while Delhi, to the south, seemed less wrapped up in the northern conflict. That had to be why. If not, then this de-escalation Jayesh was talking about was no more than the pipe dream of foreign correspondents.

Delhi would have won any beauty contests, as well. Not that Islamabad was ugly, but it was a new city in the rectilinear American style, and soulless, though maybe that was an advantage in modern-day Pakistan. On
Khayaban-e
-
Quaid
-e-Azam Street, a geography nut in the group pointed out the presidential palace. This was where General Musharraf reigned after overthrowing Nawaz Sharif, successor to Benazir Bhutto, daughter of Ali Bhutto, himself accused of corruption, then dislodged and hanged by Muhammad
Zia-ul
-Haq in 1979. The latter, probably haunted by his victim, died in a plane accident nine years later. Pakistani politics was a morbid game of musical chairs. The geography whiz explained, under the curious gaze of the guide, that the name
Pakistan
had been invented out of thin air in the 1930s by Choudhry Rahmat Ali, an Islamic student at Cambridge combining the names of the Muslim states in the British East Indies: Punjab. Afghan Province, Kashmir, Sindh, and Balochistan. Missing from this amalgam was the other Kashmir, hence the Pakistani insistence in standing up to the Indians. These “mangy dogs” had gone so far as to attack the very name of their country, but a traveller behind Max disagreed. Pakistan, he said in a British accent, meant “land of the pure” in Urdu, a debate that they didn't have time for.

The Hotel Ambassador-Inn on Khayaban-e- Suhrwardy Street was also surrounded by soldiers. In it, air-conditioning awaited the travellers, the guide told them. Piled in front of the reception desk, the foreigners tendered their passports at arm's length, documents that the thugs of the ISI would enjoy thumbing through tonight while their owners were recovering from jet lag.

Max got away from the crowd and slipped into the coffee shop, where the barista served him a non-alcoholic beer without even asking if he wanted it. His worn jacket had the name A
ziz
sewn on it, though the letter
i
was unstitched, leaving a slight outline. He observed the humanitarian gaggle in the lobby as he wiped the counter. Max took a mouthful of beer and asked him if the others were expecting to have any problems getting into Azad Kashmir. “Are they fooling themselves?”

“It's out of bounds to foreigners, especially journalists.” Aziz was fairly new to this, sloshing water everywhere, or else it was the local custom when cleaning a counter. “You won't have any trouble though; they'll get you out of here tomorrow as planned.” In other words, no hitches, no excuses, no pretexts, no sweaty official apologizing for the delays, no potbellied military officer blaming the Indians for the holdup.

“What about Chakothi?”

“That's the first stop. I don't know if your guy is still there, though.”

Max conjured up all those old films he'd seen. The question was always, “How will I know him?” With the invariable answer, “He'll know you.”

Aziz had a TV, too, and he loved playing this part, the receding hair, the penetrating stare, the fleshy lips just right for the part where information is given under one's breath. No doubt about it, he'd been born in the right country for this game. It was he who had informed Jayesh that the gaggle had arrived bound for Azad Kashmir, and Max had nothing to do but jump onto a moving train.

Their guide of the inquiring eye was now showing them the way to the elevators.

“You think he's with the secret service?” asked Max.

“No idea. First time I've seen him.”

A fresh mouthful of beer.

“So Mercedes is the ‘in' thing in Pakistan these days?”

Aziz shrugged. “The war, always war.” He couldn't wait for things to stabilize and settle into familiar
day-to
-day corruption. Till then, there would be hell to pay.

The jostling crowd at the reception desk was thinning, so Max got up, emptied his glass in one gulp and left the barman to his “work.” He'd much rather slip out now and make his way into Pakistani Kashmir, but that would attract suspicion. It wouldn't be easy to ditch these clowns, but if, unlike what Aziz said, the Ministry of Information was keeping them confined to the hotel under some pretext or other, Max wasn't going to waste precious time. On the other hand, the presence of this Western contingent would lend him much-needed anonymity.

The room was clean, the plumbing modern, and the view of Shakarparian Park not half bad. A little more imagination and Max could have believed he was on holiday.

Juliette answered on the second ring, as if she'd been expecting this call.

“November 1996. You wanna know where Rodger Morency's community service took him?”

“No idea, Juliette.”

“Kipawa Summer Camp in Temiscamingue. A country setting for handicapped kids: there were cabins to be fixed up, a wharf to rebuild, a road through the woods to signpost …”

“Okay, Juliette …”

“Kipawa, one of Mrs. Griffith's good works, along with international adoption.”

When Max mentioned Stewart-Cooper, the name rang a bell with Juliette, but where had she seen it before? Then, all of a sudden, when she spotted the taxi driver absorbed in his paper in front of the Sheraton Centre, she remembered Madeleine Morency's absorption in her scrapbook. That's when Kipawa appeared before her in a letter Rodger wrote to his mother: “Look Mama, this is me resting!” The picture was a photo from the camp newsletter showing him helping fellow ex-cons. The accompanying text mentioned Griffith, a member of the board at Stewart-Cooper.

So, at last a link between him and David, but why? How?

In the Pakistani hotel restaurant, Max had time to ponder all this. The meal was so-so, since the chef had agreeably watered down the spices in his
qoftas
and
chapli
kebabs for his Western guests. The conversation, though, was spicier. The geo-geek who had managed to locate the presidential palace that afternoon, and claimed to have had a long chat with the Ministry of Information guy, who said they were leaving for Azad Kashmir tomorrow morning without fail. He seemed proud to announce this to table companions, as though personally responsible for the efficacy of Pakistan's government. So why were they going? To show foreigners the determination of the inhabitants of Azad Kashmir to free their country from Indian domination? Though not to the press, because they'd be tempted to interpret things their own special way and pose embarrassing questions. This was a PR exercise under the guise of a humanitarian expedition.

So, there'd be no journalists, but TV cameras from Islamabad, and publicity would replace truth. It worked very well in the West, so why not in Azad Kashmir?