The Kashmir Trap

by Mario Bolduc

  “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?

  37

  Philippe’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.

  38

  The “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.”