The Kashmir Trap

by Mario Bolduc

  “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.

  6

  “What identity did you come under?” Patterson asked.

  Max wasn’t in the mood to regale him with stories from his travels. Maybe some other time, so he got straight to the point.

  “What happened in New Delhi? Who’s responsible?”

  Patterson wiped his mouth, then took another swig of beer. The former diplomat was worn out. His eyes were red, glassy, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “No idea here, either,” he replied after a while.

  “Did you talk to David just before it happened?”

  Max shook his head, disappointed. “No. I knew he was busy.”

  Patterson sighed loudly. “Ha, we thought globalization was a one-way street. For trade, maybe. Not violence. Take that crapfest in Singapore, for instance, which unleashed a horror show in Caracas, then a catastrophe in St. Petersburg.”

  Max wasn’t there to hear the day’s headlines from an international-relations consultant.

  Patterson turned to him. “David was in the wrong country at the wrong time.”

  “Look, Patterson, I’m not one of your clients, okay? Explain.”

  “It could be any one of five groups, from what I could get out of my CSIS contacts.” Patterson considered the Canadian Security and Information Service diligent in its handling of the incident. “First, there’s the Hizb-ul-Mujahideen. They’re the biggest. A thousand Muslim fanatics, very highly trained, probably in Pakistan. Great planning …”

  “Like the Indian Parliament attack?”

  “No, that’s another Islamic group, Lashkar-e-Taiba, at least according to the Indians and CSIS. Their trademark is suicide missions, preferably spectacular. They’re based in Pakistan, but India, especially the disputed state of Kashmir, is their playground.”

  “And the other three?”

  “Similar style. This is a contest in violence of the most raw kind. Jaish-e-Mohammed, Harakat-ul-Ansar, and Al-Badr, all of them active in Kashmir, naturally. One of those is responsible, I’m certain. Remember the Hindu victims the other day in Jammu?”

  Max couldn’t see the connection with David. Why attack Canada? Why a diplomat … and not even the most important one, a rookie? An isolated, desperate move. It made no sense.

  Patterson shrugged. He had no idea either. No one had come forward, and even if they did, it might not mean anything. Often two or three groups claimed the same action so as to cover their tracks.

  “India’s a powder keg these days, because of Kashmir,” Patterson went on. “Poisonous Kashmir: a conflict left over from the dismantling of the British Empire in 1947. Since Partition, the Indians and Pakistanis haven’t let a chance go by to get at each other. Three wars already. Three times India has won, once in 1947 and 1948, once in 1965 — both wars over Kashmir — then again in 1971. Nothing changed for the locals. They were still cut in half by the demarcation line with the two armies facing off at the foothills of the Himalayas: a million soldiers and sixty-five thousand dead in over fifty-five years.

  “In the wake of September 11, and w
ith Al-Qaeda, the conflict took on more resonance. A new scope, too. Before then, the only victims were in Kashmir. The rest of what went on up there stayed there: jihadist and Kashmiri rebels versus the Indian Army — homemade carnage. But now India is accusing the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence, the most formidable secret service in all of Asia, of covering for Islamic terrorists and helping them deploy all over the country. So, you might say things are tense.” Patterson paused, then added, “Especially now they both have the bomb. Sure, our minister of foreign affairs tried to cool things down, without taking sides, of course. As far as Kashmir’s concerned — like any other conflict of this type — Canada has to keep on good terms with both countries.”

  “So David was just an unlucky victim? No Italian or Japanese diplomats out on the street that day — oh, hey, wait, a Canadian!”

  “I can’t think of any other reason.”

  “What do we hire security people for, then?”

  “When in doubt, it’s good to be prepared for the worst. You never know … a Hizb-ul-Mujahideen hit man shows up at the General Hospital with an AK-47 slung on his shoulder —” Patterson looked up “— I know it’s crazy, but I wanted to reassure Juliette.”

  “The Mounties questioned her?”

  Patterson looked at Max a long while. “Béatrice is right,” he said ironically, “you’re going to stick your nose into this, aren’t you?”

  Max glanced at the half-open door to the Mughal Palace storage area, just as some Indian employees opened another one onto the street. Just for a moment, with both doors ajar, Max saw through to the other side of the building: parked in the alley was a police car with removable flashing light on the roof. No one was at the wheel. Could this be Roberge already? Again Max’s eyes roamed over the cafeteria. It was less busy now. Employees had finished lunch and were headed back to their offices. He looked around for Roberge’s profile, but didn’t see him. This time, Patterson picked up on his nervousness. No point in pretending.

  “You called them, didn’t you?” Max asked, but Patterson just smiled.

  “I have absolutely no interest in making life easier for Roberge. You know that.”

  That left Béatrice. Why had she turned him in?

  A man in a uniform shirt appeared at the north exit and another one at the south. They seemed to be looking for someone: it had to be him. So they hadn’t spotted him yet.

  “Look, I need an intro to the high commissioner, Bernatchez.”

  “Don’t get involved in this, Max. Stay away from it.”

  A third agent emerged from among the stands, a flabby guy pretending to be engrossed in the Mexican menu. And another among the tables. Then a bustle of activity behind the display of chalupas and enchiladas. There were shouts and the sound of a plate shattering, then a struggle on the ground. When the agents got up, they were firmly grasping a young Latino. Screeching of walkie-talkies followed — a successful raid right there in the Labyrinth.

  Another illegal on his way back to Chihuahua, courtesy of Her Majesty, thought Max. One more broken dream.

  The cops ignored Max and Patterson as they went off with their prize, looking proud, shoulders straight.

  Patterson resumed the conversation. “The situation there’s explosive. Way beyond our abilities, and yours, anyway.”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “You’re going to take off after Islamist terrorists all by yourself?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Patterson shook his head hopelessly. “These guys are even worse than the Salvadoran army, Max, harder to get hold of.”

  Max closed his eyes. He could see Philippe’s office on Avenida Las Palmas, the chalk outline on the floor, the Policia Nacional officer by the door, pretending to be somewhere else, not wanting to disturb Max’s reunion with ghosts. I’ll see it through to the end, he told himself. I’ll keep my promise to Philippe.

  7

  The last of the trees had been cut down, or would be soon. The dirt roads had been cleared and marked out. Cranes, tractors, a giant Meccano set. From his window, the young Max could see the first construction sites, the first wounds. Houses going up as far as the eye could see; all identical, lining up like fresh scars. Against the advice of Max’s mother, Solange, his father, Gilbert, had quit the poorly heated apartment on Lajeunesse in the summer of 1962 to seek out something new at the opposite end of the island. His new fortune and his family’s.

  He’d convinced Stéphane Kavanagh, his banker and friend, to take a chance on him, and in the following weeks, while everyone else was getting worked up about the Cuban Missile Crisis, the two Irishmen were at the kitchen table, totally wrapped up in something else. It was a contest of dreams and hopes. Solange pretended to be won over by her husband’s arguments — the future king of Roxboro, as he said with a smile as broad as you please, shaving cream still on his face. Max remembered that Sunday when the four of them (Philippe was there for the day this time) went to scout out the plot for the ultimate sacrifice. Solange, not wanting to be a wet blanket, though she was wary of her husband’s impulses, faked her enthusiasm for the clearing of the street, the beauty of the lot, and the size of the river.

  Gilbert O’Brien was a veritable home-handyman visionary. All these houses were going up at high speed, and one day they’d need improvement, renovation, or at least a change of colour. All these tenants becoming home owners would sooner or later get bitten by the toolkit/electric-sander bug. Their mortgages were all sewn up thanks to Kavanagh, who in return financed Gilbert’s business on Gouin Street. Yep, a tidy little arrangement. Solange went along without a word, Philippe and Max, too, despite the sacrifices: new neighbourhood, new school, new friends. Then, when Philippe left home to avoid the exhausting daily trek to college, Gilbert had to resign himself to the boy getting a room in town. He’d be a long-distance partner in the dream.

  Max was inconsolable. He idolized Philippe, his teacher and protector. Philippe had six years on his brother and brought a whiff of the outside world to Lajeunesse Street. With him around, dressing, eating, and talking were all different: everything was “modern,” a modernity learned at college side by side with the daddy’s boys of Greater Montreal. Gilbert had spared no expense. The Jesuits cost him an arm and a leg, but he paid without blinking. It was an investment in his son’s future, his own, too. Did he already have Philippe in mind to pick up the reins after him, or was he thinking of Max as the “handier” of the two? Whichever it was, the “empire” was still in the planning stages. It kept Gilbert awake at night. He spent sleepless nights adding details here and there. By dawn he’d be ready to pass the torch to both of them, as they went out to conquer the world in their turn. His office became a time machine to the future.

  Solange was the one left waiting in the present. Then one day she’d had enough. She was seeing another man on the side, one who “understood” and who did not live in a fantasyland. Her confrontation came as a complete surprise to the “king of Roxboro,” who felt she’d betrayed him. Gilbert hadn’t seen this coming. She wanted a new life that wasn’t Gyprocked, screwed, and asphalt-shingled into place. She wanted out with her kids, but Philippe refused to leave. So did Max. They both clung hard to Gilbert, shutting out their mother’s arguments. She insisted, she lamented, then she slammed the door in a fury.

  Gilbert, supported by his friend Kavanagh, was heartbroken for months. Then life started up again, and the king of Roxboro got right back to work. On Saturdays, Max filled in for Philippe, who was absorbed in his studies, and helped his father in the store. Early on Sunday evenings, Philippe would disappear to his small room on Amherst. When he was gone, Max paced the floor, not knowing what to do. He had trouble fighting the sadness brought on by big brother’s absence. Fortunately, there was Kavanagh, a constant guest at their table after Solange walked out. Likeable, open, and “modern” in his own way, he gradually replaced Philippe, who showed up less
and less.

  A love lost turned into new prosperity for Gilbert. He had been right, and Kavanagh the banker was delighted. Business at the hardware store doubled every trimester, and it was time to expand right away. The housing boom surpassed all expectations, and the king of Roxboro reigned supreme. Gilbert invested more and more, and Kavanagh backed him up. The bank made bigger loans on the strength of even greater projected income. Gilbert spent more than ever and didn’t mind sinking everything he had into the project. Success became almost a monotonous routine: no bumps or sharp turns in a road as wide as tarmac leading straight up into the clouds.

  The fateful day was one Max could never forget. The radio said it was the coldest day of the year. They came to get him while he was in math class late one afternoon. Way to go, he said to himself. He hated differential and integral calculus. Philippe was in the principal’s office, fresh from Vancouver, where he’d been studying political science since September. Then Philippe took him out to a waiting taxi. The driver already knew where to go. He headed straight for downtown, but road construction led him back to Gouin and the hardware store.

  By the time Philippe realized what was happening, it was already too late. The store was closed … on a Friday. Max looked for his father, but the place was deserted.

  “We’re going to a hotel for a few days,” Philippe said when Max turned to him. “The house has been seized, too. It’s the bank’s now.”

  “What about Papa?”