got to piss off the Americans,” Max replied.
“Sure.”
According to the media, Washington was preparing an evacuation plan for its sixty-four thousand citizens in both India and Pakistan.
There would be escalation of paperwork at desks and victims at the front. Twenty dead in Kashmir overnight. Poonch, a town on the Indian side, had been bombarded by Pakistani artillery, leaving seven dead and thirty wounded, and of course the Indians had to counterattack. All along the border, losses were piling up, not to mention the jihadists, who had taken over three Indian police stations, including Doda, north of Jammu. Intervention by Indian forces followed a hostage-taking. Blood and more blood. In Azad Kashmir, Pakistan, schools were closed early for vacation due to the bombardments, or was it so the kids could die in the mountains instead?
Violence reigned through the rest of India, too. Perhaps in tribute to the Nazi SS they admired, Sri Bhargava and a hundred Durgas — heads shaved and tattooed with snakes — had set fire to a store full of Muslims, including some children. The doors were locked, so most could not get out. Later, the Durgas danced in the streets.
But what did all this have to do with David? Well, Max had to go back to the beginning and outline everything he knew or thought he knew. First certainty: David had gone off to a place unknown a few days before he was due to leave for Montreal; like James Bond and Genghis Khan, he had disappeared into thin air. His destination was so secret that no one close to him knew where it was — not Juliette, not his colleagues, least of all his boss. Why such secrecy? Second certainty: the day before the attack, David showed up at Imam Khankashi’s place. There was a friendship, or at least a connection going back to his prison days. Khankashi had disappeared, too, or rather, as Jayesh put it, was being hunted by his nemesis Bhargava …
Why all this sneaking around? Not to mention the safe, which was his third certainty. Someone had opened it without forcing it. Who and why? What about the name Tourigny on the airline ticket? What was the connection there, exactly? This was no former employee of the High Commission — Max had verified that. Nor did it have anything to do with the Canadian Co-operation Office in Kathmandu. No mention of a Tourigny on the list of participants at the Montreal conference either. A brick wall. Every clue led to a dead end. Max had spent the night backtracking to pick up the trail afresh. No dice. Each certainty cancelled out the others. It was a set of interlocking traps that yielded nothing. He had to find out where David had gone instead of Kathmandu.
“Any news from Indian Airlines?”
“Nothing,” said Jayesh. “No mention of a passenger named David O’Brien for Kathmandu or anywhere else.”
“What about the competition … any quick visits to Pakistan, for instance?”
“No. There have been no India–Pakistan flights since the attack on Parliament.”
“Natch.”
“I could check Air India.”
“No point.”
“Trains? Buses?”
“Maybe, but we’d never know unless he travelled first class, which he wouldn’t if he didn’t want to be traced. He didn’t mention the trip to anyone. The only thing left is the Volvo.”
“The car was in Delhi the whole time. Juliette and Béatrice used it.”
“He could’ve asked Luiz to drive him somewhere for a few days then bring him back.”
“He’d have to take Luiz into his confidence, but not Juliette or Vandana.” Jayesh seemed doubtful.
“Depends what he was hiding.”
20
Flags and flowers, heavy, downcast faces and dark suits — Juliette didn’t know how long she could keep this up: hand extended to receive condolences from people she didn’t know and whose sincerity she couldn’t gauge. The ritual was just one more “must” for the ants on the diplomatic sandhill, all of them anxious to show the public how big-hearted they were. The funeral home on Laurier was the place for one to “be seen” this week, if one was to convince one’s superiors of one’s superior character and attachment to one’s country’s values.
Other majorettes and cheerleaders inhabited this senseless parade. Béatrice, for one, was reliving the death of Philippe. So was Bernatchez, who held Juliette close the moment he got there with his wife, Geneviève, and they stood on either side to keep her from collapsing or committing some gaffe or other, which would be understandable but better-avoided just the same. More crying? No way! She held herself erect, not shedding a tear, despite her pain.
After her chaperones had left, Juliette couldn’t take it anymore and fled outside. The vibration of her cellphone distracted her from her anguish while she walked around the block.
“We’re on the edge of a hint of a trail,” Max said. “David didn’t go to Kathmandu with Vandana.”
Juliette was lost.
“I haven’t got a theory about that yet, but trust me. What about your end?”
Juliette told him about her visit to Madeleine Morency. Maybe the cops were right after all. This Rodger was none too bright. He was capable of landing in a hospital without getting up to speed, not knowing if this was a good time or not for one of his amateur capers. It was tough to imagine murderers, organized perfectionists without a doubt, recruiting such an underachiever to finish off David when he didn’t have a prayer. There was silence at the other end.
“Max?”
“I’m thinking about this Rodger Morency character.”
“He’s a red herring.”
“Maybe not. Put yourself in their place. They’re led to believe David is at death’s door and will never regain consciousness, but really, in secret, he gets gradually better …”
“Yes,” said Juliette, “but they still wouldn’t have sent that jerk. He’d spill it all, wouldn’t he? He’d tell the cops, ‘Someone paid me to kill David O’Brien.”’
“Not necessarily. The cops figured it the same as you, so they’re expecting an Al-Qaeda hit team, and instead they get Johnny Jellybean. Their mistake was letting their imagination guide the questioning.”
“So Morency’s smarter than he looks.”
“That’s one possibility among many. He realizes pretty quickly that the cops don’t think he’s capable of anything like this, so he plays up the stupidity. He’s made for the part, and he’s got his bumbling record to back him up: ‘So I’m not that dumb, eh? You’ve seen my file.”’
“A barrel of laughs, but why go through all this to get rid of David? What’s the point?”
“Anything else you learned?” asked Max.
“Luc Roberge knows you’re in India and what name you’re using.”
Max was unconcerned. “They can’t find me now. I’m safe.”
“This guy seems like a tough one.”
