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:
