working on it.”
34
Max O’Brien had read and re-read the leaflet a dozen times while casting an occasional glance at the entrance to the sports club. It wasn’t overly popular, but attended by the “right kind of people” — one of those luxury gyms where clients went around in high-fashion sweatshirts and designer shoes. After leaving Hoberman, he’d immediately headed for Yorkville in Toronto, where IndiaCare had its offices. An old house had been remodelled to suit its purposes: a Victorian home camouflaged by the huge trees that lined the streets. From where he sat and without leaving his car, Max could see employees walking to and fro behind the windows. It was just as he expected: a modest-sized agency, but with luxurious quarters that inspired confidence and reassured eventual adoptive parents with the air of an impeccable organization, which it was. At first glance, one could tell it was as Hoberman described it, efficient, discreet, and industrious — qualities that had allowed Stewart-Cooper International to make its mark.
Still in his car, Max made a reservation at the Sutton Place Hotel, and then, just before five o’clock, he called IndiaCare pretending to be Hoberman from headquarters. He had to reach Mrs. Griffith, but her cellphone seemed to be off: “Would she be at the foundation by any chance?”
“I’m afraid not,” said the young woman. “Have you tried the gym?”
“You think that’s where she is?”
“Usually late in the afternoon, she is.”
“You wouldn’t have the number, would you?”
Max was now hoping that Griffith hadn’t altered her appearance too much since the photo he’d seen in the annual report.
He needn’t have worried, for around seven-thirty, a grey Mercedes with tinted windows, driven by a chauffeur, drew up near the entrance to the gym, and a few seconds later, a woman of about fifty emerged from the club and headed straight for the car. Susan Griffith was elegant and apparently determined; the kind of person who had no time to lose and was always late for appointments. Had Hoberman talked to her since his visit? Max was betting he hadn’t. He’d wait for news from the “journalist” before alerting the boss to his existence. He would be in no hurry to admit his recent indiscretions, either.
The moment she opened the car door, Max approached her. “Mrs. Griffith?”
She turned and was on the defensive, but Max smiled and held up his ID card: “Detective Sergeant André Sasseville of the RCMP.”
Griffith looked intrigued. “What’s going on?”
“Just two or three questions is all. I’m in charge of the inquiry into the death of …” Max took a card out of his pocket and pretended to read from it, ‘Ahmed Zaheer at Niagara Falls.’” He watched for a reaction to the journalist’s name, but there was none.
“What does that have to do with me?”
Max explained what had happened to Zaheer. The reception-desk clerk had heard him call SCI and ask to speak to Griffith. It was a bluff, but Griffith was now watching him with interest.
“I have an eight o’clock meeting at home,” she said. “If you like, we can discuss it on the way. Then my chauffeur will take you anywhere you like.”
Max got in with her. Bloor Street. Choked with traffic as usual, it served Max well. He’d have more time to question her.
The CEO of Stewart-Cooper knew no one named Ahmed Zaheer, nor any other Indian journalist for that matter.
“What about when you were in Kashmir?”
She was surprised he knew about that period in her life, so he quickly followed up: “I found out on the Web, and I thought he might be someone you knew at the time.”
“It’s true, I did live in India, Kashmir in particular, but I had no time to hang out with journalists.”
“Of course.” He added, “I heard about the closing of the central. A real pity.”
She registered her disgust for all that, her depression about it, too. It was obvious she cared more about that plant than any other. It would be natural, since it was her baby, her own creation, according to Hoberman. Then she had to be the one to suspend activities and lay off the personnel.
“Maybe that was what Zaheer wanted to talk to you about.”
Max saw the chauffeur was turning onto Mount Pleasant Road in Rosedale, with its cushy homes, large patios, and Hollywood pools. Griffith was now more distant and reticent, at least as far as this conversation was concerned. She repeated knowing nothing about this Ahmed Zaheer, whom she’d never met.
“Well, we’re here. I’m so sorry I can’t help you more.”
The Mercedes had pulled up in front of a sumptuous residence that outdid its neighbours. Griffith opened the door, and Max got out to walk around to her side.
“There’s just one last question. A Canadian diplomat was recently attacked in New Delhi three weeks ago, and the Indian police think he was in touch with Ahmed Zaheer. His name was David O’Brien.”
Griffith had heard about it from the papers.
“I didn’t know him, but I’m very sorry.”
“When you were in India …”
“Look, Sergeant. All this has nothing to do with me, and now if you’ll excuse me.”
Sure, thought Max. Besides, he really had no choice. She briskly walked toward the house and “Sergeant Sasseville” was already history. Then he heard the voice of the chauffeur behind him.
“Where do you want to go, sir?”
Max waved him away. “Nowhere, I need to stretch my legs.” And think.
35
The Indo-Pakistani crisis was headlined in every news outlet. Indian Prime Minister Vajpayee had shown imagination in setting up joint patrols with the Pakistanis to prevent terrorists from infiltrating into Kashmir, an idea that Musharraf found interesting. They were still on a war footing: Portugal advised its citizens to leave the region, and Air France had cancelled all flights to Delhi, though beneath the surface, the ice was beginning to thaw, but only on a very slow drip. Musharraf wanted international observers and the UN along the Line of Control, and Vajpayee refused. Then there was the troubling story of a rice truck loaded with arms being intercepted in Gujarat. The Indians said they came from Pakistan and were bound for Ahmedabad, where Hinduist militants had massacred Muslims two months before.
Juliette was right; sectarian conflict couldn’t be disentangled from Indo-Pakistani relations.
“In India, everything’s connected to everything else, she had said. “You can’t separate one event from another.”
As Max drove along the 401 in a rental car, Juliette called.
“The ‘Report on Business’ section of the Globe and Mail for November 2000,” she said.
“Yes?”
“An
