The Kashmir Trap

by Mario Bolduc

  She confided in Zaheer what she knew about the Griffith-Bhargava agreement, and told him she wanted to tell all, but she didn’t know how to go about it. Talk to the police? She knew they were crawling with BJP supporters who’d been placed there, and even if there were an investigation, she knew it would get adulterated, covered up, and masked by a hundred other files “more urgent and scandalous.” Zaheer hit on the idea of spreading it out in the media, going to the news outlets instead of the police. Indrani had thought of it, too, but that too could be blocked by corruption and influence-peddling that would keep it off the front pages. Specialized papers like Klean Kashmir would be interested but less credible. As for the Muslim press, forget it. They had zero impact on government.

  She recalled Zaheer smiling at that. He wasn’t thinking of the Indian papers, but the Canadian ones. After all, Stewart-Cooper International was a Canadian company, wasn’t it? Sure, they were cautious about their activities abroad: protection of the environment, respect for local unions, the company’s reputation was intact. Zaheer had even praised them for avoiding ethnic scandal, and now here they were financing Hindu terrorism! He could just imagine what would happen when it came out in the Canadian media.

  “Why Hamilton, though?’ Why confront Griffith, when all he had to do was descend on The Globe and Mail or the Toronto Star with the industrial scoop of the year?” asked Max.

  Indrani did not know, but when they discovered Zaheer’s body, she knew she was in danger. If they could get to him, why not her, as well? They’d been very cautious and not mentioned to anyone the real reason for his trip to Canada. Someone else knew and was determined to act, but who?

  “Bhargava?”

  “Not directly, my sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Vandana.”

  So that was it. Now it all made sense: Vandana, the model employee!

  David, returning from Srinagar, was nervously trying to hide what he knew from his colleague, the older sister still faithful to her father, who suspected something strange in the attitude of the Third Secretary … Bhargava’s reluctant accomplice? Not likely, downright enthusiastic would be truer, in fact every bit as impassioned.

  “Now,” explained Indrani, “Vandana’s making sure the money keeps on flowing from Griffith to the Durgas.”

  “Because your father’s back in charge.”

  “He held his prey, and he wasn’t letting go.”

  “Then the journalist threatened to shed light on it all.”

  “But how did Bhargava find out about Zaheer?” asked Juliette, still stunned by the revelation.

  The young Indian woman shook her head; she knew nothing. What about leaks, or an outright accusation? The young journalist might have bragged to The Srinagar Reporter or the Indian Geographic Magazine, even indirectly hinting that he had information that would cause trouble for the Hinduists and shake the Vajpayee government. The BJP had ears in every corner of the country, and a zealous Hinduist might have passed on the message to the leaders, who would surely turn their attention to him.

  “Well, Ahmed was certainly chatty,” she went on. “He liked to brag and show off his journalistic skills.”

  “Where does David fit into this?” Juliette asked.

  “One day, Vandana told me what he’d done for Genghis Khan in prison, and she was furious.”

  After her journalist friend died, Indrani mistrusted everyone, not even daring to come out of the apartment opposite Zaheer’s, where she was in hiding. Then one night, she heard strangers going into his place.

  “Bhargava was looking for you.”

  “So I called David in New Delhi and told him everything. I begged him to help me.”

  Max and Juliette could fill in the rest: the young diplomat’s secret trip to Srinagar to fetch Indrani; then the Delhi airport with a fake passport for Béatrice Gupta O’Brien; the flight to Montreal via Paris. David had it all set up with Patterson, who met her at Dorval and found her a job at the Mughal Palace; a room he could watch from his office on Jean Talon. He was the invisible hand shielding her, an ace up David’s sleeve when he needed it.

  The conference would be the perfect platform for David’s revelations. Griffith would be there, and so would journalists from all over Canada and India. The floor would be jammed with personalities for his denunciation of the CEO. He knew she owed her job to the “Rashidabad miracle,” and she stood to lose it all when the scandal became public. She wasn’t his real target, though. He wasn’t just out to do damage, to accuse people for the sake of it. He was more concerned about the victims of the inter-communal riots Durgas had unleashed, and he wanted an end to the horrors, the way Philippe had done in El Salvador.

  His father had mobilized the media, and so would he. Philippe had set fake negotiations while the peasants fled via the sewers after managing to get the reporters together in front of the embassy without even calling on them. David would use the Indo-Canadian press the same way. For the first time in my life, I have the power to change things.

  “David wouldn’t do anything like that,” exclaimed Juliette. “It isn’t a diplomat’s job to get up there and mete out justice!” She was right, and Indrani smiled.

  “That’s exactly what David said, but he had a solution for that.”

  Patterson.

  The former diplomat had nothing to lose. David’s initiative would push him to the forefront, and at David’s request, he was the one who would have made the revelation to the whole world from the podium at the conference. For once, he had the opportunity to reach Philippe’s level of heroism: See, I risked my life, too.

  “David would have stayed in the background on purpose, so as not jeopardize his future in foreign affairs.”

  “So that explains Patterson’s silence to us,” Max added.

  “After David’s death, Patterson’s glory might slip through his fingers if he told us or the police.”

  “Exactly.”

  I’ve become just like him. I feel just what he felt.

  Better yet, David wanted to leave all the credit to someone else.

  46

  Floral arrangements decorated the ballroom at the Sheraton Centre, marigolds in particular. The flags of India and Canada were crossed on the walls and behind the bar. There was the usual crowd of businesspeople, predictably drab save the turbans and saris that added the occasional splash of colour; the waiters weaving in and out with non-alcoholic drinks and vegetarian hors d’oeuvres; the familiar drone of trivial chit-chat; the murmur of banalities that run endlessly through such events. In a room several stories higher, Max was dialling his cellphone, letting it ring for a few seconds, worried about having to leave a message, but at last he got an answer: a weak, barely audible “Yes” drowned by the noise in the hall.

  “Vandana, I need your help.”

  He imagined her sidling away from the crowd, looking for a quieter spot. As the noise faded, he realized she was in the corridor.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Right here in the hotel, I have to get out of the country, and you must help me.”

  Silence from Vandana. Hesitation. The fish was circling the bait, ready to bite. Would she?

  “One hour. Suite 2201.”

  She was on the hook, and Max could practically hear her wriggling down there. Too late for Vandana now. All it took was a net and a sizzling pan.

  Max ended the call and turned to the armchair Luc Roberge had comfortably sunk into, frowning nevertheless. He’d made a point of being out of the way while Max talked to Vandana. His older uniformed sidekick, Morel, cap in hand, was playing practically dead over by the window, like his boss. Bruno Mancini, the man in charge of the Patterson investigation, stood next to Max, who had called him a few hours earlier.

  “I know who did Patterson,” he’d told him. “I’ll help you arrest the killer, but you’ve g
ot to let me run this thing.”

  “And why would I do that?” asked Mancini with a slight Italian accent.

  “Because you’ll also get the killer of David O’Brien.”

  Mancini was interested but cautious. “Trust a con artist? What do you take me for, O’Brien?”

  “In exchange, I surrender to Roberge, so he can finally retire to Florida. That way you’re rid of him, too. What’s not to like?”

  Mancini hesitated, but finally agreed, Roberge, too, and now they had him covered with machine guns for eyes. Roberge spoke first.

  “Well, you got guts,” he said from the depths of the chair.

  “Aw, it’s nothing. Only doing my job.”

  Moments before, Mancini had picked up Max and Indrani from the Loblaw’s underground parking near the old Jean Talon train station, and she’d retold her story, convincingly. Indrani was to be put up in another hotel — well guarded — in case Bhargava’s men tried anything. But soon the truth would be out and she wouldn’t have to be afraid of her father anymore. In the police car, Indrani watched Max with admiration. He wasn’t used to doing this as himself, instead of one of his asssumed identities. It felt funny, and he seemed to be the most important person she knew.

  Indrani was to be put up in another one — well guarded — in case Bhargava’s men tried anything. Soon she wouldn’t have to be afraid of her father, and the truth would be out.

  Mancini had the présence of mind to move Max through the shipping entrance. When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor for an employee, Max caught a glimpse of High Commissioner Raymond Bernatchez summing up the commercial links between the two countries, and Max could imagine the enraptured attendees, slightly drunk of course, just drooling to sign a contract. Sooner rather than later, the scandal was going to hit them between the eyes, but for now they were still being jollied along.

  Mancini had turned one of the suites into his operational headquarters. This was where Max phoned Vandana. Roberge, of course, wanted to arrest him then and there, while he finally had him, but he couldn’t interfere with Mancini’s plan to catch Patterson’s killer. A simple courtesy under the circumstances. Roberge could hardly refuse him those extra moments of suspense. Still it rankled. This was Mancini’s operation.

  In turn, Max couldn’t resist a smile at Roberge’s resignation, like a child impatient to play with his Christmas toys.

  “Now,” said Mancini, “to pluck the fruit.”

  A young woman came in with a miniature recorder and mic in her hand. Max unbuttoned his shirt, helped her stick the mic to his chest, and slipped the recorder into his back pocket. Another frustrated smile from Roberge, who promptly turned his back as Mancini helped Max into his jacket. Max was eerily calm. He realized now why he’d felt uneasy in Philippe’s office in San Salvador. He couldn’t get over his own powerlessness to catch up with the killers and make them pay. This time, he was going to make it work, get David’s murderer and in a way fulfill his promise to Philippe. He couldn’t care less about prison at this point, and anyway, his sacrifice was a way to give meaning to David’s and Philippe’s sacrifices as well. Max was the final runner in this relay, and in finding Indrani he was picking up where David left off. David, who had done the same for Philippe. The three of them now reunited in Max’s efforts and dedication.

  Mancini looked at his watch. It was time to go. He took Max to the door, where Roberge’s colleague grabbed his arm.

  “I lost thirty-seven thousand dollars because of you,” Morel exclaimed. “I was supposed to retire two years ago, so if you’re blowing smoke …”

  As they got out of the elevator, Mancini looked all around, but there was no one. To the left, at one door, a meal tray with bread basket and empty coffee pot lying on its side. They turned right. Mancini had men on all four corners of the floor and the hotel’s main exits. Suite 2201 was on the left. Max glanced at Mancini, who signalled him on before disappearing. Max knocked and Vandana opened the door. She was back to that wary look she had the first time they met at the High Commission.

  She was very good at it. No wonder Max had been fooled.

  “Let’s get something straight right off, Vandana. You’r sister’s told me everything.”

  Her face fell. No more need to lie.

  “Where is she?”

  “Safe.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A deal. You give me the names of David’s murderers, and I’ll tell you where Indrani is. Your family history is none of my concern.”

  She went over to the window, while Max stayed in position by the door, not venturing in. Then she turned to him.

  “’You feel let down. I understand,” she said.

  “Why’d you make it so easy for me?”

  “What?”

  “You were the one who told me David wasn’t in Kathmandu, who told me all about the Durgas and Hindu extremism … and your father.”

  She shrugged. “You’d’ve found out about Kathmandu eventually, and one phone call to the Canadian Co­­operation Office would’ve told you I was hiding something. Same thing for the Durgas. At least this way, I could avoid suspicion and influence your search.”

  “Because of course you knew David had brought Indrani back from Srinagar, and when you realized that, and also about Patterson being his accomplice, same as Juliette and me …”

  “All he had to do was mind his own business.”

  “So you could carry on yours unhindered. You were the one who gave your father the idea of holding SCI to ransom.”

  “One way to get financing, as good as any other.”

  “Better than others, because you were already in place at the High Commission to shepherd the file through oh-so-discreetly.”

  “Well, along with yours truly,” said William Sandmill.

  Max felt the muzzle of a pistol against his neck. He turned slowly, fighting to keep his cool. A heavy guy with no light in his eyes accompanied the first secretary, who was standing slightly back. Then he stepped forward.

  “Rodger may have laid it on a bit thick with Zaheer, I agree, but at least Patterson didn’t require his attention.”

  Morency smiled.

  “Patterson unfortunately didn’t have time to answer our questions, but today it’s different.”

  Sandmill and Vandana, partners in crime, with Sandmill discreetly investing his money in a Portuguese quinta, a vineyard he planned to retire to when his tour was over, smiling as he spelled it out. Vandana, of course, was doing it in the name of her father and extremism.

  “Your perspicacity amazes me,” he went on. “Impressive, in fact. Vandana and I made the mistake of underestimating you at the outset. The first time in Delhi, I didn’t think you’d go the distance by a long shot, but when you got away from that plane, well.”

  “What do you do for an encore? Kill me outright just like that in a hotel full of conference-goers?” said Max.

  Sandmill smiled. “Obviously, unless you tell us where Indrani is.”

  “Self-defence,” added Vandana. “You broke into my room and begged me to help you get a fake passport.”

  “Which she naturally refused to do,” said Sandmill, “so you took a shot at her. Hardly surprising on the part of a murderer.”

  “It’s my own fault, Sergeant. I’m just not used to hanging around criminals, you know.”

  Another smile from Sandmill. “All in all, pretty close to the truth, really, isn’t it?”

  Max turned to him, playing for time. “The kidnapping, torture, and bomb in the Volvo were all you, of course.”

  “Bhargava’s men. All David had to do was tell us where to find Indrani, and all this could’ve been avoided.”

  Utterly false, of course, since David would be an embarrassing witness and had to be eliminated at all cost. Sandmill couldn’t possibly risk fouling the deal between
Griffith and Bhargava. He had interceded with the businesswoman and convinced her to accept the Durga chief’s proposal. In exchange, Bhargava had kicked in two million of the money he got from SCI.

  “And where did it come from?”

  “Money allocated for the relocalization of the valley residents displaced by the dam, so Griffith was playing a double game. She asked the board for twice what she promised the Indian government. The overpayment went to Bhargava, minus Sandmill’s commission, of course. Then Vandana had the idea to blackmail Griffith a second time. Being the new CEO, she could manage that.”

  “Zaheer would have sunk it all,” cut in Max, “so Griffith got rid of the journalist by sending her gorilla, Morency, after him.”

  Yet another Sandmill smile.

  “Ahmed Zaheer was not the guardian angel Indrani imagined,” he added. “On his way to Toronto, he figured that, if the CEO of SCI had enough money for Bhargava, she had enough for a journalist and inveterate gambler and playboy. He had expensive pastimes, and all he had to do was deal with Griffith, hence his phone call from the booth across from the motel, so it couldn’t be traced. He lied to Indrani. That murder was a Griffith mistake. He could have been bought. David, though, was a crusader, so harder to neutralize.” Both, all three counting Bhargava, knew Indrani was behind this trip of his to Canada, and not being able get her whereabouts out of David, they couldn’t lay their hands on Indrani.

  “We must send her back to India!” screamed Vandana. “My father will get her to be reasonable.”