The Kashmir Trap (28 page)

I
n
the Himalayan fortress of Kashmir lies a cave, and in that cave is a
lingam
of ice, a reproduction of the erect male sex organ, phallic symbol of the god Shiva. A natural phenomenon to which Hindus attribute divine powers. They go there every summer in endless lines of pilgrims, by minibus or on foot from Chandanwari to Amarnath, four thousand metres high. At pilgrimage time, the village would resemble a medieval fair, with itinerant vendors, jesters, and profiteers of all sorts. After the recurrence of the conflict with Pakistan and the aggravation of the Hindu-Muslim conflict, this voyage, the
yatra
, required a military escort. Patrols were scatterd along the route to prevent excesses on either side, since the Hindu convoy had to pass through Muslim villages, and since the pilgrims and their families needed reassurance.

The Amarnath road was one that Sri Bhargava took each year, once accompanied by his two daughters, now alone or with a disciple. On his way back from the sacred grotto this time, having accomplished his
darhsan
, or viewing of the
lingam
, there was a surprise awaiting him:
a detachment of Indian police with a warrant for his arrest. They apprehended the religious agitator and took him to Jammu.
He was arraigned that day and accused of being the leader of the Durgas by the government pursuant to an investigation led jointly by the Canadian and Indian police, with Josh Walkins in the driver's seat. At the same time, in Hamilton, his colleagues were arresting Susan Griffith after a search of the SCI offices that followed the close interrogation of Vandana Bhargava (her real name) and William Sandmill, now recovering from his injuries. Rodger Morency was on the return route to the pen under the resigned eye of his mother, Madeleine. All four were formally accused of the murders of Ahmed Zaheer, Dennis Patterson, and David O'Brien.

Max was unconscious and so knew nothing of the testimony given by Indrani and the ensuing tidal wave it had caused. She was already back in India by now, where a serious de-escalation seemed to be underway. At the Line of Control, Indian and Pakistani troops were shaking hands, and it appeared to be a radiant summer, not radioactive. In Delhi, Prime Minister Vajpayee agreed to meet President Pervez Musharraf, and the arrest of Bhargava and the dismantling of his terrorist group reinforced what Pakistan called the goodwill of the Vajpayee government. All across India, the CBI was scooping up Durga membership lists and their strategies against Muslims and the more moderate members of the BJP government. Vajpayee proclaimed far and wide his determination to root out terrorism from whatever source, Hinduist or Islamist. A pious wish? Perhaps. In the same breath, Vajpayee promised closer scrutiny of foreign investment projects, even from such “commendable” countries as Canada. Airy promises? Perhaps. At the Montreal conference, SCI executives, shaken by the arrest of their CEO, committed themseves to restarting the Rashidabad hydroelectric station. One thing was certain: young Indrani went home to a country much calmer and more serene than when she had left it. Not paradise, of course, but then who wants a paradise promised by extremists?

Max, on the other hand, was sure he'd gone to heaven. White, white everywhere. No walls, no ceiling, just one huge white, pure mass everywhere, one where he'd have to learn life all over again forever. An angel leaned over him. It was Pascale, older, but beautiful as always. He didn't recall those lines around her eyes or at the edges of her mouth. Any second now, he expected to see Philippe, and then — why not — David, but these two probably still had a lot to tell one another. He'd be seeing them later. For now, it was plenty to feel Pascale's fingers running through his hair.

“Doctor, he's coming round.”

The voice. It was Luc Roberge. What the hell was he doing in heaven? They must have brought him up from the underworld specially to piss him off. No, that wasn't it. They were both in hell together. Police and thieves. Handy-dandy. Then he opened his eyes, and Pascale said, “I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I'm sorry I hurt you.”

“Sorry?”

That was all he got to say before night fell on him again. Deepest night. The voices faded, and silence moved in once more. When he came to again, it really was dark, and he saw Juliette sitting at the bedside table, leafing through a magazine. That was what woke him. He watched her read a long while. Through the open door, he heard a car honk, so he wasn't dead after all.

“I had a dream, a weird one. Pascale was there beside me.”

“That was no dream, Max. She's alive.”

Max was stunned. He closed his eyes again, but Juliette repeated, “She's alive.”

He wasn't ready for this thing she'd just said.

Two days later, sitting on the edge of his bed, despite nurse's orders, Max saw the door open ever so softly, and Pascale appeared and came toward him, just as he'd imagined so many times all these years. The same. Older, of course, but the same. He even recognized her perfume when she sat on the edge of his bed; her scent had crossed the years. She smiled the same sad smile he'd so loved the very first time. She repeated all she'd told Juliette about David and added, “I had no choice. It wasn't against you, but
for
him.”

Max stopped her there. All he wanted was to touch her, hold her against him, not ask for a reckoning or an explanation. Just erase the lost time for a moment. He took her in his arms, and for too brief an instant, forgot all the sleepless nights and cries in the wilderness. Pascale was here again. Nothing else mattered.

“You know,” she said, “I had the good fortune to see David in Delhi. The high commissioner's wife was setting up a an international adoption agency.”

“IndiaCare.”

“I went to meet her in her husband's office. Then in the corridor with a pile of paper in his hands, there was ‘our' son.”

She'd looked at him long and passionately, proud of what he'd become. He'd smiled at her without knowing who she was.

Max followed her gaze to the door, where Béatrice was discreetly standing, never daring to interrupt the lovers' reunion. Now she moved closer and said, “I loved him as my own, Max, and so did Philippe, I promise you that.”

Max couldn't hold back the tears, and so he cried rather than get carried away and clutch these two women to force them to give back all those lost years, his lost son, but he hadn't the strength or the courage for it. Deep down, he knew Pascale had been right. She had done what had to be done. He couldn't blame her. Béatrice and Philippe had kept their promise and made a fine and honest man of their son.

Today was the day he got out. There were voices outside in the corridor: Luc Roberge and the man in white, probably the doctor. It was time to respect the agreement with Mancini, and Roberge had come for his due. Juliette helped him on with his shirt under the watchful eye of a uniform, and no, it wasn't the same one with a beef about his retirement.

“You might want a sweater. It's cold up there. I bet they've still got snow.”

So it was back to Temagami with the antler troop. Max could see Roberge's smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“It's going to be a girl,” said Juliette. “The doctor told me this morning. David would be thrilled.”

Max was.

“You can see her any time you want … and shower her with presents if you like.”

Max softened for a moment. “No, keep her away from prison, same as David.”

There was a long silence.

Then she said, “Thank you so much for everything you've done. David would be proud of you.”

In the elevator, Roberge ordered Max to be cuffed, and he didn't complain.

His life was entering a new phase again. Nothing that would have enraged him before bothered him now. He'd reached that level of serenity that Hindus and Buddhists often achieved, an inner peace that outsiders sometimes mistook for resignation. Max wasn't resigned at all, sad, maybe, but at peace with himself. He felt as though he'd picked up where “his son” David left off, completing what he'd begun and transcended death, made a difference, like Philippe.

Roberge did things up grand. The police van was parked with its doors open in the spot reserved for ambulances. So this was the end of a long race won by the copper, an exit in style for “Public Enemy Number One.” That's when Max saw Pascale with Mimi, Antoine, and Béatrice. Pascale stepped forward and squeezed him in her arms just as he was climbing into the van.

“Take care, Max.”

He looked at her long and hard. “Adieu, Pascale.”

The doors slammed shut on him, and Roberge got in the front with the driver. A second cop faced Max in the back. Pascale and Béatrice, joined by Juliette, appeared in the window. Finding her, erasing all those years of absence, that was what he'd wanted most. That was his dream, just another phantasm. Pascale was going back to India with Juliette and David's ashes. She'd promised to scatter them there in Kashmir. Max was off to the pen. This time, they were well and truly broken up. Death was all that remained.

Montreal slid past the grill-covered window, and for hours the heat had been unbearable. This was like India just before the monsoon. “David, my son” was all Max could hear in his head, over and over, as though he had to convince himself it was true, not just another bad joke. A son he'd lost twice. Suddenly they were shedding the city like a scab. Here was the country. Where were they headed? From behind the Plexiglas where he sat next to the driver, Roberge glanced over his shoulder, and Max did, too, looking at the guard to his left, but just a second too late. Standing over him, the guard struck him solidly in the face.
Christ, another one whose life savings I swiped
, thought Max. He tried to shield himself with his arms, but the cuffs prevented him. Then more continuous blows, steady, relentless and precise. Max tried to lift his arms, then roll himself up in a ball on the bench, but lost his balance. As he fell to the metal floor, Max realized they had stopped by the roadside.
Okay, this is it
, he thought.
Here on the shoulder, this will be for all the cops I swindled
. Then the slam of a door, and cries of alarm from Roberge, who was ordering the guard to stop. “What are you, nuts? Cut it out!” Then he fell in a heap beside Max, just a quivering mass doubled up in pain. What was happening here? The guard knelt by Roberge and handcuffed him from behind. Then he forced Max's face up to look at it.

“Phew, he's okay,” he said after checking it.

Max squinted against the sun, which came in behind him through the open door. A silhouette. The driver was Jayesh in a QPF uniform.

“Sorry about the punch-up,
yaar
…”

Max closed his eyes. Now he could die in peace.

“Come on, we've gotta get out of here. Let's go!”

He felt someone lift him up by the arms, then by the waist, lifting his feet clear off the ground. What next? Siddharth Srinivasan's Daybreak 34, the “Dark Demon,” more gaudily decorated than a temple in Tamil Nadu, with pictures of goalie José Théodore along with the god Hanuman. Deepa was bitching at her husband about the samosa he was eating instead of grapefruit. A turquoise
kurta
. “Come on, Jayesh!”

To the music of Kishore Kumar, he had to change out of uniform before they reached the U.S. border. One more passport, yet another, was ready for his friend. Max couldn't even pronounce his own name this time.

“Bennington, New Hampshire,” explained Jayesh. “A
khumbamela
, a feast in the honour of Shiva. Every Hindu from the East Coast will be there, just like every year.”

Reincarnation, eh? Max had to believe in it now, didn't he? Actually, he'd never done much else.

So, a Hindu on a pilgrimage. Sure, why not?

 

 

M
any
thanks to the following, who helped me during the writing of this novel: Feroz Mehdi, project head at
Alternatives
, for ensuring that references to India and Indian culture are accurate and adequate, including names and expressions in Hindi; Sergeant François Doré, of the Direction des communications — Sûreté du Québec (Québec Police Force), for describing the work of officers in the Service des enquêtes sur les crimes économiques (Economic Crimes Squad); Dr. Gilles Truffy, for revising the text to ensure the exactitude of medical aspects; Reeta Chowdhari-Tremblay, for supplying precious information on Indian society; Christine Boucher and Francine Landry, for comments and suggestions during the writing and revising stages of this book.

Many thanks to everyone at Libre Expression, especially Johanne Guay, Jean Baril, and the late Monique H. Messier, who encouraged me and allowed me the benefit of her expertise as an editor.

Thanks also to Nigel Spencer for this translation and to Shannon Whibbs and the team at Dundurn Press.

The author can be reached at [email protected]

 

Copyright © 2016 Dundurn Press

Originally published in French under the title
Cachemire.
Copyright © 2004 Mario Bolduc

© 2004, 2007, 2012 Les Éditions Libre Expression

Published under arrangement with Groupe Librex Inc., doing business under the name Les Éditions Libre Expression, Montréal, QC, Canada.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

Editor: Shannon Whibbs

Design: Jennifer Gallinger

Cover design: Laura Boyle

Cover design (French edition): Chantal Boyer

Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Bolduc, Mario, 1953-

[Cachemire. English]

The Kashmir trap / Mario Bolduc ; translated by Nigel Spencer.

(A Max O'Brien mystery)

Translation of: Cachemire.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-4597-3348-0 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-4597-3349-7 (pdf).--

ISBN 978-1-4597-3350-3 (epub)

I. Spencer, Nigel, 1945-, translator II. Title. III. Title: Cachemire. English.

PS8553.O475C3213 2016 C843'.54 C2015-907804-0

C2015-907805-9

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, and the
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through the
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.

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