Then …”
Traffic jammed all of a sudden, turning the road into a huge parking lot. Kids from the neighbouring jhopadpatti took advantage of the bottleneck to peddle knick-knacks. Max watched them wave their rags, running from one car to another. At least for them the threat of war was a boon, a real business opportunity. He thought about the Pakistani school kids in Kashmir on forced holiday in shelters and refugee camps.
Sandmill turned on the radio. “Maybe the airport’s closed.”
Roberge suddenly woke up. “Is there another one?”
“For local flights only,” Walkins said. But the Indian authorities had assured him there wouldn’t be any problems.
“Yeah, but they’re swamped, your authorities.” Roberge was irritated now.
Back to the pen?
Then, fortunately, traffic started moving again. On to the next slum. The radio talked about Kashmir and exchanges of mortar fire along the Line of Control. The dead were piling up, and already the clinics were flooded with wounded. Max couldn’t figure why on earth David had travelled up there for just a few days before Montreal, when the situation was critical even then. Maybe his intuition was right: going to Kashmir and taking part in a conflict that wasn’t his went way beyond David’s mandate. Maybe that was the reason “they” had got involved.
After the Kashmir junket, was it the Hindus or the Islamists? James Bond or Genghis Khan?
“I’ve become just like him. I feel just what he felt.”
So David was up to something there: some move, some kind of action, probably heroic and/or risky. He was just like Philippe, bound for the same life and the same destiny. His initiatives had been tolerated up to that point, but then he apparently crossed the line for some group or other. What was it? What hornets’ nest had David stuck his nose into? Max tried dredging his memory of the papers at the time. He vaguely remembered articles in the New York Times and other U.S. dailies, about the tension in Kashmir and renewed conflict between the two countries … some event. Whatever it was, Max couldn’t remember, but one thing was certain: David had chosen that very moment to sneak in. Was there any connection between this secret trip and the upcoming mission in Montreal expressly to reassure Canadian investors? There was no way to tell. There was no one left in the know. He could imagine Roberge’s sarcastic reply if he broached the subject. The best he could do was pass his information along to the Indian police, which meant the BJP, who would diligently hide it away or use it for their own purposes.
Close by the airport, traffic was snarled again, but planes were taking off with reassuring frequency. Roberge was in a good mood again. It would soon be time to ditch him, Max figured — in the confusion on the way to the counter in the departure lounge, maybe. But how? Roberge was younger and in better shape, especially given Max’s rough time in jail. Max was starving, and his head still seemed about to burst with every movement. Then there was Walkins, too, certainly armed. Sandmill was less of a problem, but he still needed to be dealt with. Three against one was a tall order.
The car pulled into the terminal parking area before he could properly gather his thoughts and work out a plan. The two cops, on the other hand, already had things mapped out. Walkins had arranged for their Air India baggage check in the VIP room of Terminal 2, out of sight of nosy passengers. A young woman guided them through a crowd of Westerners gathering in front of the counters of their respective airlines. Kids lounged on the floor with their Game Boys, their parents vaguely anxious but relieved to be at the airport. Max recognized some of the diplomats from the party the other night — flashing the middle finger of defiance to the terrorists. They weren’t quite so sure of themselves anymore. This was to be a quiet, uneventful slinking away.
At the far end of the waiting room, in a stuffy area stinking of cigarettes, a chubby government official stood waiting for them with a sheaf of papers. Roberge quickly scanned them, while Sandmill and Walkins watched from the sidelines. Walkins kept one eye on the prisoner, and Sandmill couldn’t stop looking at his watch, likely waiting for the cops to tell him he could go back and finish packing. Would there even be a plane out the next day, or would he have to barricade himself with the other late-leavers in the High Commission?
The papers were signed, and Roberge tied his tie; one more step completed. He looked at Max. “This is the moment I’ve waited fourteen years for. You have no idea how happy this makes me.”
Max saw the Indian official leave, and past him was the hall where passengers were ready to depart. It was the only way out, and led nowhere.
“You know, I’m gonna miss you,” Roberge said. “Your picture’s still on the wall behind my desk. Reminded me to keep hunting you. Yessir, that picture …”
“How about I send you another one? More up to date?”
Roberge burst out laughing, got up, stretched completely, then noticed the mini-bar. He bent down for a look: two cans of Pepsi and plenty of peanuts in case Air India ran out. Roberge sat down facing the prisoner and offered him one of the Pepsis. Max declined.
“Yes, I wish they’d kept you in one of their jails. Ten years times, say, five, the way things are. I’d make sure our union boys sent you a postcard every single day. Whaddya say? A card for a prisoner, now that’s depressing, am I right?”
Geez, five hours on the plane listening to this kind of sarcasm, not to mention the stopover in London; Max felt nauseated already. Was this his chance? Nope, Walkins and Sandmill were chatting right by the door. That would be straight-up suicide.
An Air India flight attendant in a sari of the company colours arrived to guide Roberge and Max to the plane. There was good news: the company had upgraded the two of them to first class. Roberge was as excited as a kid in the front row of a puppet show. All the peanuts he wanted and more he could take back to his family.
The waiting room was empty now that everyone was on board, and Max said goodbye to Walkins and Sandmill. What would he do now? Grab the flight attendant as a hostage and drag her into the concourse? That was going too far, even for a Bollywood movie script. Gentlemanly, Max shook hands with the two men. Then came the long corridor, a welcome from the cabin crew, and the smell of disinfectant. The 747 was full, but two places in first class awaited Roberge and his guest, and the cop had the decency not to make a display of his hunting trophy. The people around them paid no attention. Roberge pushed Max over to the window seat.
In a blasé voice, the captain apologized for the delay (probably because of Roberge and his prisoner), then announced still another, a shorter delay. The flight attendant asked them, “Would you like a drink?”
“Mineral water all around,” replied Roberge. “I’m on duty, and so’s he!”
She got it, of course. She never drank alcohol herself.
This was going to be a long trip, really long. Roberge was positively glowing.
“At least admit you regret all these stupid stunts you pulled,” he said a few moments later as he sipped his Bisleri.
“That would change what exactly?”
“Maybe get it off your conscience. Always helps.”
“Look, if there’s one thing I’m sorry for, it’s not doing even more damage. I let you off easy, really. I mean eight million isn’t so much.” Max had absolutely no intention of feeling sorry for himself or playing the sad little puppy to try to soften up his jailer. In a way, the cop was right
