is just looking on?”
“Imagine if it was the other way round and an Indian diplomat in Ottawa got bombed on Elgin Street. What would people say if the Indian police took charge?”
Juliette couldn’t care less what people thought. She remembered incidents with American or British diplomats and the squads of FBI or Scotland Yard that showed up. The Mounties, however, were just leaving one officer on site to get eaten alive by the CBI.
“That’s the way things are done, Juliette,” said Patterson.
“The way things are done?”
Bernatchez had promised: “The Canadian government would not let these monsters get away with it.” Words, words, words. “You know people in the department. You could do something. I’m sure a call to the right person in Ottawa would get them more involved.”
“Look, Juliette. It’s frustrating, I know, and I agree, but there are bilateral agreements …”
“Do something.”
“I’ve talked to the minister, and he’s not against the idea of offering, say, additional logistical help to the Indian police.”
“Additional logistical help? How about a pen-and- pencil set with John A. Macdonald on it?”
Patterson sighed and made Juliette look at him. “Look, the important thing is for David to get better, stay alive. He’s going to need both of us for that. You especially.”
Hallmark, Hallmark, Hallmark.
She felt abandoned, coddled and silenced, cut off from reality.
It was night again, and Juliette had hardly slept since her arrival in Montreal: just short periods of agitated sleep, awaking in sweat, stunned and disoriented. She wanted to be set up next to David, in the same room, at all times, but for both medical and security reasons, Patterson had explained, they couldn’t let her. She no longer felt like fighting and obediently followed Béatrice home.
On her way out of the hospital, she chatted briefly with two Mounties from the airport who asked her the same questions as the Indian police before they left. What were they doing here anyway? Shouldn’t they be in New Delhi helping out their fellow officers?
“Look at them pretending to be useful,” she yelled as she climbed into the taxi. “Good for what … raking in their pay?”
“Do you remember those old films?” Béatrice replied, “The Indians. Not your kind, the others with feathers: Apache, Comanche, Cheyenne, who knows? When they attacked the pioneer wagon trains headed west, rows of them appeared on the mountaintops, menacing in their war paint, and fell on the poor settlers for no reason. We were never told why. No need. It just happened, like rain. No one justifies rain, do they?”
What was she getting at? Juliette thought.
“Well, terrorism is just the same, like Indians in the movies or rain in summertime. No need for a motive or a rationale. The goal of terrorists is to terrorize. That’s all there is. In other words, why even bother to investigate? What is there to find out? In any event, tomorrow or any moment now, three or four groups will claim responsibility for the attack, most likely Lashkar-e-Taiba. David was just one more statistic, and mere statistics don’t get investigated, they just pile up, nothing to get upset about. Then they get shuffled to the bottom of the pile. Vague, impersonal statistics. Open it,” said Béatrice, pointing to the glovebox.
She did, and inside was a firearm, very small, a .25 calibre of the kind you might slip into a handbag. Juliette was surprised to see Béatrice had one.
“In El Salvador I was constantly afraid, so I took shooting lessons without saying anything to Philippe. Go ahead. Pick it up.”
“I’ve never used a gun.”
“Easier than a tube of lipstick. You’ll see.”
Juliette closed the glovebox. Enough violence. Why make more?
Along Route 87, Max, now travelling as Peter Flanagan in a rented Ford Taurus from Kennedy Airport, heard on the radio that his nephew hadn’t regained consciousness after the attack but the surgeons were hopeful they could bring him back: “His heart is solid, and he’s strong, so he’ll pull through.” Max also learned that David hadn’t travelled alone from Delhi; Juliette was with him, bent over the stretcher, in tears, naturally. Max knew his nephew was married but hadn’t met the young bride yet. After the death of Philippe, his son David had cut Max off, or rather he had fallen into oblivion.
He crossed the border at Rouses Point using one of his American passports. The customs officer, already blasé about the security measures introduced after 9/11, barely glanced at it, cellphone in hand, more interested in lecturing his eldest daughter about letting everything lie about the house than hunting potential terrorists. Max then went directly on to Montreal. He thought about stopping at Mimi’s first, but the pain, like the curiosity, was unbearable. He just had to know, to understand.
David’s mother lived in a building, the Rockhill, in Côte-des-Neiges, where she’d moved after Philippe died. Béatrice could have gone back to Ottawa to be near her son when he was recruited by Foreign Affairs, but Montreal was more her style.
“Do you know how many years I’ve spent in boring capitals, practically going to bed at curfew? Ottawa’s pretty and calm, but no thanks!”
Juliette fell asleep fully dressed, and it was the doorbell that cut into her dreamless sleep. It was daylight, and she heard voices. This is it. They’ve come to tell me it’s all over, she thought. In the kitchen she came face to face with a bulky, grey-haired, uniformed policeman who respectfully stood aside, surprised to see this little thing appear from behind him. A second man sat at the table, a smaller, younger plainclothes officer. He got up when he saw her and offered a cold, hairy hand, very official.
“Detective Sergeant Luc Roberge, Quebec Police Force. I’m very sorry to bother you. This is Officer Morel.” The officer nodded. Juliette turned to Béatrice, who was leaning on the counter and paying no attention to her.
Why did she let these two in?
“What’s happened is absolutely horrible,” Roberge continued. “Since 9/11, it’s as though everything’s upside down. Totally.”
Juliette said nothing, so he went on.
“I hope he makes it through. Sincerely.”
Hallmark Plus.
He coughed. “I realize this is a delicate moment, but you may be getting a visitor …”
“Visitor?”
Roberge turned to Béatrice, looking for encouragement and getting none. “We have good reason to believe that Max O’Brien will soon be back in Montreal,” he went on. “He’s sure to know his nephew’s in a coma from the media. We think he’s bound to show up.”
Roberge was stickhandling, so Béatrice came to his rescue: “Sergeant Roberge is from the Economic Crimes Squad.”
“I thought I’d already mentioned that.”
“They want to arrest Max. End of story.”
“We’ve
