and plugged into various respirators, monitors, intravenous drips, and luminous dials. David’s eyes were closed, of course, his hands by his side as though at attention.
Max spent a long time staring at his nephew, his face thickened with bruises, probably with medication too. The boy had aged since the last photos Max had seen in CanadExport, the Foreign Affairs newsletter. Max was confronted with a young adult; in fact, an adult, period.
“Are you Max?” a voice came from behind him. A young woman holding a piece of chocolate was sitting in a straight-back chair by the door. She had blond hair and blue — very blue — eyes, practically an ad for Lufthansa. This model was tired, though, worn out by long hours in front of the cameras. He went over to Juliette and held out his hand. She smiled weakly, but her hand was burning hot. He could easily see David falling for this one’s charms.
So, the family was all here: the dignified but grief-stricken mother, the devastated wife, and the unconscious son-and-martyr. And, oh yes, the American uncle. The mysterious uncle who always shows up unannounced, the one they only talk about in hints and whispers.
“I suppose the armed guards were Patterson’s idea?”
Béatrice nodded. “No point in taking chances.” She glanced in the direction of Juliette, who had her back to them and was contemplating Montreal’s buildings massed against the river, which looked like a distant grey sliver blending with the sky.
“If you had an ounce of decency, you’d go straight back where you came from. You’ve seen him. Now go.”
“I want to know what happened, the whole story. I want to find those bastards and make them pay!”
Juliette turned to look at the newcomer. This man was the first thing to make any sense since it all happened. When he’d come in, he looked like a loser in that worn raincoat. Worn out like him. Still good-looking, but oldish and running on memories and bygone days. Some globe-trotting con man hunted by the police for the last fourteen years! Somebody had it all wrong.
The conversation was starting to interest her, and she drew closer. Finally, something was happening. Strangely, though, Béatrice said, “What’s the use? Do you think that will bring him back?”
“Look, Béatrice, I’m sick of getting here too late.” He headed for the door without even a glance at Juliette, who was still intrigued and shocked by what Béatrice had said. Angry. Before she had time to catch him, he was gone. Juliette turned to Béatrice.
“Why did you —?” but Béatrice was already on the phone “— what are you doing?”
“My duty … hello, Detective Roberge? This is Béatrice O’Brien …”
5
Here Greek Avenue turned into Little India, and flags with the crescent moon or the spinning wheel replaced the blue-and-white. On Hutchison Street, a right-turn at the Al-Sunnah Al-Nabawiah Mosque, and Max was stuck in traffic taking in the scenery: a veiled woman at the bus stop, mustachioed men in conference in front of the Ratha Driving School, other men farther off buying lottery tickets. Hmmm … I thought the Qur’an forbade that. Next, a left turn onto Ogilvy. On either side, there were Sri Lankan grocery shops selling products “direct” from Colombo. The beginnings of turbans, saris, and traditional shalwar kameez, in front of a video store specializing in Bollywood films. Posters in strident colours featuring Hrithik Roshan, the latest heartthrob, and his star-struck leading lady Kareena Kapoor, had replaced the purple curtains announcing the Cretans’ Association — long gone, along with the pastry window displays — piles of baklava engorged with dripping honey.
Max parked the Taurus near Athena Park on Jean Talon. Soulless blocks of grey concrete with fake windows just for decoration, called the Labyrinth to please its former Greek tenants, now served an Asian diaspora. Here were the offices of immigration lawyers, temp agencies, schools that taught languages, a tae kwon do academy, and Thai restaurants, and, naturally, import-export agents. Among them was the workplace of Dennis Patterson. Max had tried calling him, but he was at lunch, his secretary said. Max would not take no for an answer and was told Patterson always ate at noon in the ground-floor cafeteria.
“I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he gets back.”
Those who worked in the Labyrinth could eat their way around the world every lunch hour. The kitchen had a fast-food version of just about everywhere, with steaming vats standing out in the open for those in a hurry. You could go from China to North Africa to Mexico to Italy without jet lag, just some heartburn. Behind the counters, caterers in colourful costumes bustled constantly. A long lineup could cost them faithful customers who might not come back to New Orleans once they’d been to Polynesia and its sauces. You had to shake a leg, get excited, and convince the customer he was getting some serious effort.
Max scanned the room: the white spots of tae kwon do outfits everywhere — the students ate there, too — and in front of the Mughal Palace, advertising vegetarian food, a young Indian woman was barely managing the daily specials. Dishes of masala vada and roti orbited her under the menacing eye of the turbaned boss, who was stationed behind, making the lemonade. Two other employees, both male, did hardly any better. Sooner or later, all three of them would probably be shown the door by the lemonade-maker.
But Max wasn’t here with the hungry throng to feel sorry for the immigrant proletariat. He’d just spotted Dennis Patterson sliding his tray along in front of the Indian girl. The former diplomat had aged, and his breath probably smelled of Scotch, as usual. They’d first met when Philippe brought his classmate from the University of British Columbia home with him. Patterson had drunk all night long, even then, and Max recalled Philippe mentioning it. He even overheard a conversation between them years later. Philippe was warning Patterson about his habit, saying it could hurt his career.
His brother had predicted correctly. Philippe had charged up through the ranks in fourth gear, whereas Patterson, after a distinguished beginning, had marked time. Parked in Ottawa behind a desk on Sussex Drive while his friends were posted around the world, he had left Foreign Affairs mid-career and wandered from one law firm to another — he’d trained as a legal adviser — before opening a consultancy in international relations in the basement of his bungalow in Repentigny.
That was the best decision of his life. There was a real, concrete need for Canadian companies just waking up to the opportunities of “emerging markets,” as the jargon had it. There couldn’t be any gaffes or approaches to the wrong people. In this blind uncertainty, Patterson was their seeing-eye dog. It wasn’t his job to tell them which country to go to, but simply how to get there with as few problems as possible.
Though a poor bureaucrat, Patterson turned out to be a dynamic entrepreneur; he hired other defrocked functionaries from the department and unceasingly developed his manic attention to significant details: You’re invited to visit a Japanese colleague. Do you wear a tie or not? Jacket? By virtue of his effort and eighteen-hour days, he became indispensable in his domain, and now he employed twenty people on the eighth floor of the Labyrinth, drove two Mercedes — one sport, one not — and owned a summer home in Sutton. All this did not stop him from enjoying the chicken curry special at $5.99, soft drink included.
“Luc Roberge is after you. He’s already met Béatrice.”
Max already knew where the emergency exits were and that a second elevator was located on the south side of the building. He also knew there was an alley behind some stands beyond the storage room. From where he stood, he could also see the saloon door to the kitchen in the Mughal Palace, which was in constant activity with employees going back to the storage to fill up on beef bhuna or shrimp biryani.
