The Kashmir Trap (3 page)

She nodded.

 

 

A
s
he parked the Taurus on the third floor of the Montreal General parking garage, Max suddenly realized he'd come without even making a plan. He'd driven back to Canada on a whim, abandoning the most elementary caution. Why had he come anyway? David was in a coma and couldn't speak, and even if, by some miracle, his nephew recognized him and allowed him to stay, what could they possibly talk about?

Your father asked me to keep an eye out for you, but while you were getting blown up on the other side of the world, I was in Manhattan swindling a banker — again! I'm so sorry.
Max sighed. His presence seemed increasingly pointless, wrong, in fact. Never mind. He wanted to be with him, and he ought to be with him.

Max slammed the car door, cast a quick look around, and made his way to the hospital. No cops anywhere. Not surprising, really — terrorists never finish off their victims. They leave them to suffer right to the end. Why not do as much damage as you can? No journalists, either. He learned later that they'd been corralled in a smoking room on the ground floor, and there weren't that many anyway. The operation was over, and the radio was saying that David had survived … just barely. Now he was stable.

Max did spot a security detail, though, but not the usual hospital agency, which struck him as odd. At the entrance, the regular guards' uniforms were burgundy. These ones wore navy-blue jackets. They were also armed and looked all ready to play commando.

“Can I help you?” An agent had appeared behind him with two more hanging back, and before Max could answer, the man added, “Journalists aren't allowed here.”

“I'm family.”

The guard looked him up and down. Max realized right away that something was off. Two more agents ambled up in case they were needed as backup. There was no time to lose, and Max tore off down the corridor, looking for stairs to get him out of there fast. Already, he was cursing his carelessness.

He bumped into a nurse, who dropped her tray of meds with a howl of fright. First he tried the door to the stairway, which he opened without looking, but other agents had been called in and were swarming up from below, cutting him off. Max jumped over the handrail, delivering a few punches as he went, but it wasn't enough. He was being held firmly, his head hurting, against the bars of the railing. He'd stumbled upon some real pros.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to visit my nephew.”

The men looked at one another. One pulled out his cellphone and stepped away to make the call while they took Max back to the corridor. The nurse was crying, and a well-intentioned guard was helping her pick up the things she'd dropped.

Max was taken to a windowless room that must have been where the on-duty doctors came for a rest because it had lockers, a washbasin, and a toilet with the door half open. Someone offered him a coffee, which he refused with a grunt. Then they left him alone with one guard. What was this setup for? Why didn't they hand him over to the cops? Maybe that was next. A few moments later, he imagined Luc Roberge showing up with an evil grin.
After all these years, I finally get my hands on Public Enemy Number One!
Luc Roberge. Max had practically forgotten him till now. Of course, it was his turf he'd stepped onto, straight into the cop's waiting hands. What a screw-up!

When the door opened, it wasn't Roberge he saw but Béatrice, and the guard had disappeared. Béatrice stood apart from other women her age, thanks to her long years in the diplomatic corps, her manners, and her attitude: lofty, very erect, and impeccably elegant. She was radiant, even in this naked, cold, and impersonal room. Max hadn't seen her for years, ever since the death of Philippe in 1990, when he'd shown up incognito — thanks to all the “wanted” notices — to be with his brother's remains. He'd taken a big risk then, too, but he'd trusted Béatrice, who, during the night, had smuggled him into the funeral home on O'Connor Street in Ottawa. While she stood lookout at the back of the hall, he'd gently made his way through the floral arrangements, as though he had the place to himself. Philippe with the discreet and modest red maple leaf pin on his lapel, for which he'd given his life in El Salvador. Max didn't know how long he'd spent beside the coffin, looking but not crying — he'd already done that. When they were outside in the parking lot, Béatrice announced majestically, “From here on, I never want to hear from you again. Don't write or speak to me or David. Nothing at all. You no longer exist.”

Then Max had shown her the
International Herald Tribune
, the paper Philippe had used to communicate with him once upon a time. Béatrice tossed it in the street. “Never, you hear me? Never.”

So this was to be a double mourning. Her husband was dead, and Max was shoved into the shadows. The idea was to protect David now that Philippe was no longer around. What galled him the most was not this decision; that was hardly unexpected. It was her intransigence … and all with that bedroom voice of hers. Max knew seduction; it was the basis of his craft, and he could only admire the finesse and subtlety of hers. The outcome was the same, but oh, how she said it. Max had gone from being a necessary evil to just plain evil.

A century later, here she was again, standing before him, attractive as ever. She looked disappointed in him, as though his appearance only meant more bad news, just another rock in the avalanche of the past twenty-four hours.

“How is he?” Max asked.

“The doctors are confident; in fact, downright encouraging.”

After long pause, Béatrice said, “I knew you'd come.”

Max smiled sadly. He couldn't tell if she meant it or if it was just her way of saying it was too late again, that it was time to lay a wreath and choose a picture for the card.

“I want to see him.”

“He's in a coma. He doesn't recognize anyone.”

“I want to see him,” Max insisted.

“What's the point?”

Before she could stop him, Max stepped around her and continued down the corridor. The teary-eyed nurse was gone, and the mercenaries were clogging the coffee machine, leaving only one guard at the door on the other side. He rushed Max to keep him from going in, while others moved in to back him up. Then behind him, Max heard Béatrice: “Okay, it's okay.”

The man hesitated, then stepped aside. Max glanced across the hall at Béatrice and opened the door. The room was in shadow, but his eyes easily spotted the bed in the corner behind a curtain. He approached and pulled aside the curtain. The bed was empty.

David was actually on the next floor up. Dennis Patterson's idea, Béatrice said. “It's for his security,” though someone seemed to have forgotten to give his change of address to the doctors, who were conspicuous by their absence, until Max noticed shadows behind glass at the opposite end of the room. The patient was intubated and plugged into various respirators, monitors, intravenous drips, and luminous dials. David's eyes were closed, of course, his hands by his side as though at attention.

Max spent a long time staring at his nephew, his face thickened with bruises, probably with medication too. The boy had aged since the last photos Max had seen in
CanadExport
, the Foreign Affairs newsletter. Max was confronted with a young adult; in fact, an adult, period.

“Are you Max?” a voice came from behind him. A young woman holding a piece of chocolate was sitting in a straight-back chair by the door. She had blond hair and blue — very blue — eyes, practically an ad for Lufthansa. This model was tired, though, worn out by long hours in front of the cameras. He went over to Juliette and held out his hand. She smiled weakly, but her hand was burning hot. He could easily see David falling for this one's charms.

So, the family was all here: the dignified but grief-stricken mother, the devastated wife, and the unconscious
son-and
-martyr. And, oh yes, the American uncle. The mysterious uncle who always shows up unannounced, the one they only talk about in hints and whispers.

“I suppose the armed guards were Patterson's idea?”

Béatrice nodded. “No point in taking chances.” She glanced in the direction of Juliette, who had her back to them and was contemplating Montreal's buildings massed against the river, which looked like a distant grey sliver blending with the sky.

“If you had an ounce of decency, you'd go straight back where you came from. You've seen him. Now go.”

“I want to know what happened, the whole story. I want to find those bastards and make them pay!”

Juliette turned to look at the newcomer. This man was the first thing to make any sense since it all happened. When he'd come in, he looked like a loser in that worn raincoat. Worn out like him. Still good-looking, but oldish and running on memories and bygone days. Some globe-trotting con man hunted by the police for the last fourteen years! Somebody had it all wrong.

The conversation was starting to interest her, and she drew closer. Finally, something was happening. Strangely, though, Béatrice said, “What's the use? Do you think that will bring him back?”

“Look, Béatrice, I'm sick of getting here too late.” He headed for the door without even a glance at Juliette, who was still intrigued and shocked by what Béatrice had said. Angry. Before she had time to catch him, he was gone. Juliette turned to Béatrice.

“Why did you —?” but Béatrice was already on the phone “— what are you doing?”

“My duty … hello, Detective Roberge? This is Béatrice O'Brien …”

 

 

H
ere
Greek Avenue turned into Little India, and flags with the crescent moon or the spinning wheel replaced the
blue-and
-white. On Hutchison Street, a right-turn at the Al-Sunnah Al-Nabawiah Mosque, and Max was stuck in traffic taking in the scenery: a veiled woman at the bus stop, mustachioed men in conference in front of the Ratha Driving School, other men farther off buying lottery tickets.
Hmmm … I thought the Qur'an forbade that
. Next, a left turn onto Ogilvy. On either side, there were Sri Lankan grocery shops selling products “direct” from Colombo. The beginnings of turbans, saris, and traditional
shalwar kameez
, in front of a video store specializing in Bollywood films. Posters in strident colours featuring Hrithik Roshan, the latest heartthrob, and his star-struck leading lady Kareena Kapoor, had replaced the purple curtains announcing the Cretans' Association — long gone, along with the pastry window displays — piles of baklava engorged with dripping honey.

Max parked the Taurus near Athena Park on Jean Talon. Soulless blocks of grey concrete with fake windows just for decoration, called the Labyrinth to please its former Greek tenants, now served an Asian diaspora. Here were the offices of immigration lawyers, temp agencies, schools that taught languages, a tae kwon do academy, and Thai restaurants, and, naturally, import-export agents. Among them was the workplace of Dennis Patterson. Max had tried calling him, but he was at lunch, his secretary said. Max would not take no for an answer and was told Patterson always ate at noon in the ground-floor cafeteria.

“I'm sure he'll call you as soon as he gets back.”

Those who worked in the Labyrinth could eat their way around the world every lunch hour. The kitchen had a fast-food version of just about everywhere, with steaming vats standing out in the open for those in a hurry. You could go from China to North Africa to Mexico to Italy without jet lag, just some heartburn. Behind the counters, caterers in colourful costumes bustled constantly. A long lineup could cost them faithful customers who might not come back to New Orleans once they'd been to Polynesia and its sauces. You had to shake a leg, get excited, and convince the customer he was getting some serious effort.

Max scanned the room: the white spots of tae kwon do outfits everywhere — the students ate there, too — and in front of the Mughal Palace, advertising vegetarian food, a young Indian woman was barely managing the daily specials. Dishes of
masala vada
and
roti
orbited her under the menacing eye of the turbaned boss, who was stationed behind, making the lemonade. Two other employees, both male, did hardly any better. Sooner or later, all three of them would probably be shown the door by the lemonade-maker.

But Max wasn't here with the hungry throng to feel sorry for the immigrant proletariat. He'd just spotted Dennis Patterson sliding his tray along in front of the Indian girl. The former diplomat had aged, and his breath probably smelled of Scotch, as usual. They'd first met when Philippe brought his classmate from the University of British Columbia home with him. Patterson had drunk all night long, even then, and Max recalled Philippe mentioning it. He even overheard a conversation between them years later. Philippe was warning Patterson about his habit, saying it could hurt his career.

His brother had predicted correctly. Philippe had charged up through the ranks in fourth gear, whereas Patterson, after a distinguished beginning, had marked time. Parked in Ottawa behind a desk on Sussex Drive while his friends were posted around the world, he had left Foreign Affairs mid-career and wandered from one law firm to another — he'd trained as a legal adviser — before opening a consultancy in international relations in the basement of his bungalow in Repentigny.

That was the best decision of his life. There was a real, concrete need for Canadian companies just waking up to the opportunities of “emerging markets,” as the jargon had it. There couldn't be any gaffes or approaches to the wrong people. In this blind uncertainty, Patterson was their seeing-eye dog. It wasn't his job to tell them which country to go to, but simply how to get there with as few problems as possible.

Though a poor bureaucrat, Patterson turned out to be a dynamic entrepreneur; he hired other defrocked functionaries from the department and unceasingly developed his manic attention to significant details:
You're invited to visit a Japanese colleague. Do you wear a tie or not? Jacket?
By virtue of his effort and eighteen-hour days, he became indispensable in his domain, and now he employed twenty people on the eighth floor of the Labyrinth, drove two Mercedes — one sport, one not — and owned a summer home in Sutton. All this did not stop him from enjoying the chicken curry special at $5.99, soft drink included.

“Luc Roberge is after you. He's already met Béatrice.”

Max already knew where the emergency exits were and that a second elevator was located on the south side of the building. He also knew there was an alley behind some stands beyond the storage room. From where he stood, he could also see the saloon door to the kitchen in the Mughal Palace, which was in constant activity with employees going back to the storage to fill up on beef bhuna or shrimp biryani. Even if Roberge found his way here, Max was sure he'd be able to sneak out. He might be Public Enemy Number One, but only to the cop. They'd have given Roberge a partner, two at most, but ones better suited to working on a computer than tailing anyone in a car. Photocopying would be more their style than high-speed chases through the city streets, so nothing much to worry about in that department, at least for now.

In Max's absence and after Philippe's death, Patterson had been David's surrogate father. This way, Béatrice was sure he had everything he needed and his inheritance handled properly. Money management wasn't Béatrice's thing. Spending it was. From the U.S., Max had discreetly kept an eye on things via some contacts in brokerage houses, and amazingly, he found absolutely no misdoing on Patterson's part. He administered Philippe's pension with complete honesty, leaving no room for reproach on investment matters. So, despite his alcoholism, Patterson was a much better guardian than Max, though Béatrice had never given Max a chance to prove himself.

Patterson seemed to read his thoughts: “Love abhors a vacuum,” he said. “I simply stepped into the space that was available.”

Béatrice had David in Rabat, Morocco, but Max first saw him at age three. He'd been living in New York and only came back to Canada incognito, always at great risk, but never encountered any serious problems. He and Philippe had arranged a code to be printed in the
International Herald Tribune
want ads. Their get-togethers seemed more like secret meetings, always furtive, always in a crowd: in the middle of a park, on the Metro. Two big kids having fun unknown to anyone close to them, but Max had to be more and more careful. Roberge had realized how close they were and was sure to use this “weakness” to grab Max one of these days. Family reunions became more dangerous. That didn't stop Max from sending birthday presents to David via Philippe, but this, too, had its risks. Young David had been fascinated by this American uncle who rarely showed up, and when he did it was unannounced, quickly and on the sly. What else could they say to the boy? That Max was on the run from police in three U.S. states and two Canadian provinces? Of course, this couldn't go on forever.

In December 1987, when David was nine and the little family was back in Ottawa for the holidays, Max and his brother set up a meeting at the Plaza in New York. But Béatrice showed up instead, the
International Herald Tribune
in her hand … quite a surprise for Max. Over smoked salmon and under the loudspeakers moaning a disco version of “Jingle Bells,” she asked Max not to try to see his brother again. Béatrice wasn't going to let her husband risk his career on these escapades.

“So why didn't he come and tell me himself?” Max was annoyed.

In fact, Philippe didn't know about his wife's manoeuvring. He thought she was in Montreal to finish up her Christmas shopping, and she was not about to clue him in either. She wanted Max alone to make this decision and bear the brunt of the blame for the estrangement.

“And if I refuse to go along?” he said unconvincingly.

“You won't.” She smiled sadly, placing her hand on his. “You love Philippe too much to make him risk his future.”

She was right, and he knew it. The sacrifice was his to make, and he only wished he'd been the one to take the initiative. In a way, it was humiliating that it came from Béatrice, but being cut off from Philippe meant being cut off from David, too. She pushed away the untouched salmon and reached into her purse, pulling out a gift-wrapped box with a red ribbon that Max recognized. The Walkman he had sent his nephew. Every year he sent a present. She held it out to him and he slipped it into his pocket. This, too, he understood, and he nodded.

“This will be our little secret.”

He nodded again.

“Thanks, Max, for Philippe.”

Central Park was covered in snow. The hack drivers took him for a tourist. The sky was grey, so more snow was coming. Max and Béatrice had parted inside the hotel: she was booked on the four o'clock flight to Montreal and Ottawa, where David and Philippe waited. Max walked aimlessly across the park with his hands in his pockets, ignoring the cold wind that scorched his face. Emptiness, a bottomless pit from which he'd never escape. He emerged at Fifth Avenue across from the Metropolitan Museum. At a distance, a homeless man lay asleep on the sidewalk, his whole life contained in the torn and scattered plastic bags around him. Max got out the Walkman and slipped it into one of the bags, unnoticed, then continued on his way to nowhere.