in Srinagar, debts all over town, not to mention his attitude. He annoyed the staff royally with his spoiled-child act. “Why he even showed up at the office dead drunk, and quite often too.”
Vashnirian frowned. “You Westerners imagine them all on hands and knees toward Mecca with a machine-gun slung across their shoulders, as though most Christians are members of the Ku Klux Klan!” He sighed once more his face becoming sad. “Ahmed was the best journalist this paper had. The most formidable …”
“The kind Indira would have loved to throw in jail.”
More poisonous looks from Max to Jayesh, who raised his arms in surrender, “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up.”
“Ahmed had, I don’t know, fifty years of vacation piled up, and he said one morning, ‘I’m going to Sri Lanka for a few Adonises, then …’ ”
Max looked puzzled, so he explained: “I didn’t tell you he was gay? No one knew except for everybody. I mean he wasn’t officially out of the closet and not the slightest intention of even opening the door. And Islam, well, that’s a closet inside a closet.”
“Sri Lanka? I thought he died in Canada.”
“Yes, you’re right, Niagara Falls.”
Now Max was beyond puzzled.
“He changed his travel plans at the last minute, I suppose,” said Vashnirian, then. “A stupid accident, really. He fell, and they only found his body at the bottom of the falls next day.” Vashnirian paused. “I suppose he should have gone to Sri Lanka after all.” He went on to ask them the reason for their interest in Ahmed Zaheer, and Max improvised a story about insurance contracts Zaheer had signed. The editor showed them the journalist’s office, now occupied by a serious young intern with large glasses and curly hair. Anything that might have been of interest had been scattered or destroyed, hardly surprising. There was no hope Zaheer would be careless enough to leave anything the least bit compromising lying around, anyway. Next, Vashnirian invited his visitors to eat in a local café (“if it isn’t closed for the bloody war!”). He just had to make one telephone call while they waited in the entrance hall.
Niagara Falls, huh?
A Muslim homosexual, barfly, gadfly, and gambler. What kind of nutbar had David got himself in with?
Jayesh was thinking the same thing. “Maybe your nephew was gay.”
Max had wondered that, too. Perhaps all this secrecy was just in aid of an ill-fated love-affair. Zaheer would be the inconsolable lover at the foot of the falls. David rushes over to his place to erase all evidence of their liaison. Sure, why not? Naah. “David would never do anything like that with me or anyone else,” Vandana had said. What if she were wrong?
It was a tempting theory nevertheless, but didn’t lead anywhere. David’s trip to Srinagar was nearly two weeks after Zaheer’s death, so why wait that long before rushing off to “save his reputation”? And who would then be responsible for the bombing? Come to think of it, there was no proof of any kind of link between David and Zaheer at all. The lady at the Mount View and Shabir, her handyman, could have invented anything for a few rupees more. Even if what they said was true, there was no evidence that David went to Zaheer’s apartment that night. Possibly any other apartment for any number of reasons.
The more Max thought about it, the more he had the impression his investigation was founded on hypotheses and witnesses who weren’t reliable, starting with Adoor Sharma, the amateur pimp. It was all a house of cards that the slightest breeze could bring down in a heap. Niagara Falls. Adoor Sharma. The strongbox. Max thought and thought, racking his brain, till an intuition, rather an image, took form in his mind. He rifled through his memory — Tourigny and the phone number he’d tried in vain to identify. He thought for a second and looked up. Why not?
Max went over to the reception desk and asked the young lady if he could use her phone. She pointed to an empty room a little way off, and he went in, dialled the number for Canada Direct. The young Acadian woman asked if she could help him. He read her the phone number kept in David’s safe “… in the Niagara Falls area code, please.” One ring, then two, three, and someone answered the phone brusquely. It was a woman’s voice, melodious, professional.
“Niagara Parks Police, Joan Tourigny speaking. How can I help you?”
Part Three
KLEAN KASHMIR
30
Philippe and his son, two shooting stars, David, with his life before him. New Delhi, his first posting, his very own Tokyo, where he was already outshining others, just as his father had done. Max was convinced of it. Sandmill, Caldwell, and Bernatchez himself had already made their beds in Foreign Affairs with the firm intention of pursuing a career free of ups and downs to a comfortable retirement. Max was not being fair, and he knew it. He really didn’t know David any better than Langevin, Vandana, or Mukherjee. But still, the young diplomat couldn’t help but be exceptional, just as his father had been. He had to be destined for greatness, again like Philippe.
“I’ve become just like him. I feel just what he felt.”
After Rabat, Ankara, and Bangkok, Philippe had become an ambassador himself, slipping in ahead of one of the prime minister’s protégés, a shoo-in whose mentor had promised him Thailand while he waited for a Senate seat. However, the minister of foreign affairs had played hardball, and the Asian Tiger was awakening, so a young wolf was required on the scene, not some sleepy bear who’d get eaten alive. The prime minister had agreed, finally. With the protégé gone to Lisbon, Philippe moved into the Silom Road offices. This was a coup in Canadian diplomatic circles. Philippe was one of the youngest ever named to such an important posting. Max understood better than ever the kind of precautions Béatrice was taking. The rocket was on the launch pad and she was not risking a misfire. Philippe was aimed at the upper atmosphere, and flying close to the sun.
David at ten years old. The photos Philippe sent showed him in front of Wat Phra Kaew, temple of the Emerald Buddha. Piloting a motorized pirogue in the middle of the Chao Phraya. A boy with intelligent eyes and an attentive gaze, curious, hands on his mother’s shoulders. “Manly.” Keeping his promise to Béatrice, Max answered the last messages from his brother, explaining that security considerations forced him to proceed with much more prudence and discretion from now on. So their little ads to one another in the paper became increasingly rare, till they disappeared altogether, though Max never stopped looking for them. Béatrice was surely satisfied. The break was complete.
Thus, after Pascale came Philippe.
Would anything have been different if Max had refused Béatrice’s demand at the Plaza? What if he had told her to take a hike and mind her own business? She could not possibly understand the bond that united them, or with Gilbert and against Solange. All three huddled together like players in Sunday afternoon football. Max figured it was the best thing to do at the time, but since Philippe’s death, he’d come to doubt his decision, and even more so since David’s murder. He kept replaying it in his head over and over, shuffling the deck each time, but with the same result.
What was he doing in India, anyway? Was he looking for his nephew’s killers, or was that just an excuse for setting his own house in order, or understanding it at least?
Philippe’s life took a sudden turn, Max recalled: fresh blood for the Canadian government’s electoral machine, which was badly in need of it. He was rumoured to be “ministrable.” Meanwhile in Bangkok,
