Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Mario Bolduc
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my principal collaborators.”
Max couldn’t prevent a hint of a smile. “Easy when one’s well protected.”
“Look, Mr. Brokowich, things aren’t nearly as bad as you seem to think.”
“Oh, it’s not just me, it’s also The Times, France-Soir, the Washington Post …”
“The Indians and Pakistanis have been having these squabbles for fifty-five years now.”
“I feel a bit better.”
“Believe me, there won’t be a war.”
“Still, a Canadian and his chauffeur were killed.”
“Oh, David didn’t die, and there’s no proof it was linked to Kashmir, either. We mustn’t confuse two separate issues.” Bernatchez was getting impatient, no doubt wishing he hadn’t agreed so readily to Patterson’s request that he meet this jumpy businessman. Normally, he’d leave this to some underling or Indian secretary, but it was too late now, and a mistake he wouldn’t make again. “Since 9/11, the rules have changed, and our old standbys don’t work anymore, but despite appearances, including what happened to David, I don’t believe Canada’s presence in India is …” he groped for words “… let’s say exacerbated, for either party. On the contrary, you’d be ill-advised to reconsider your intentions.”
Max sighed and pretended to be won over. Bernatchez smiled, sensing victory already, and was in a hurry to get rid of this guy.
“There are a few details to settle, of course, and David will no longer be in charge, only for the time being, I hope.” The high commissioner heaved himself out of his chair and looked to the right of the doorway to a smaller office. “Vandana. Where is she? Oh, dammit, that’s right. William, come in here.”
Moments later, a nervous, frail man appeared in a well-cut suit, quite unlike the one Bernatchez was wearing.
“Vandana’s taken over David’s files,” the commissioner explained, “She’ll be in charge of communications with Montreal and all that, but she’s out at the moment. Allow me to introduce William Sandmill, our first secretary. He’ll be organizing Montreal too.”
As soon as the underling arrived, Bernatchez made his getaway, leaving Sandmill to politely throw this bum out, his “old friend” Patterson notwithstanding.
“The Spanish Embassy,” Sandmill explained, “has decided to organize a reception in solidarity with us to defy the terrorists, as they put it, to show that we diplomats are not to be intimidated. Vandana’s there now, getting things ready.” He glanced at his Bulova. “Come and wait in my office. We’ll be more comfortable there.”
He guided Max down the hall and the stairway, bypassing the photocopy and vending machines with a smoothness his boss would probably envy, explaining on the way that the whole subcontinent was in upheaval — that was undeniable — but there was also a good side to all this. A large coming together of ideas, cultures, and religions was underway, the mixture bubbling and overflowing from the pot sometimes, but progress, finally, after centuries of stagnation. The West had a role to play in this renaissance.
Max barely listened to his spiel, as Sandmill led him into the huge, sun-filled office he shared with an Indian colleague.
“This is Mahesh Tevari.”
They shook hands. The young man was timid and self-effacing.
“Mahesh is in charge of our relations with the Indian Ministry of Commerce and Industry and of our local delegation. In Calcutta, the consulate deals with it. The same thing in Bombay.”
“Mumbai,” corrected Tevari.
“Bombay, Mumbai, I never can keep them straight. They’ve changed all the names, and it’s so confusing.” Sandmill turned to Max: “Would you like something to drink, Mr. … uh …”
“Brokowich.”
The first secretary was well informed and knew India like the back of his hand, insofar as such a thing could ever be. He was selling Bernatchez’s soap with conviction, reinforced occasionally by Tevari, who grunted or nodded his agreement. Max wanted nothing more than to believe them both. Then an older man showed up in the doorway, looking for Vandana as well, the veteran Caldwell. Mukherjee appeared once more with a glass of tea for each of them.
“Have we answered all your questions, Mr. Brokowich? Are you more at ease now?”
Max nodded. Just then, the sound of voices came from the corridor, and Langevin, head of public relations, came in, his jacket slung over one shoulder. He was talking on the phone in Spanish with his colleague at their embassy, talking about the reception and solidarity cocktails. He turned down the tea that Bernatchez’s secretary offered him.
Watching this, Max tried to imagine David functioning in such a universe and couldn’t manage it. Maybe he didn’t know his nephew well enough, or possibly he’d known him mostly through others: Béatrice, Patterson, and now Juliette. A huge sadness suddenly crept over him.
David’s name kept coming up in conversation. Max looked up and asked the 100,000 rupee question: “Who do you suppose carried it out? Who did it? Why?”
Sandmill and Tevari exchanged glances. They couldn’t open up to just any stranger without consequences. The whole commission was walking on eggshells.
“I don’t know,” said Tevari, “but nothing’s the same since …” Perturbed, he looked away.
“David isn’t just a colleague,” said Sandmill, “he’s a friend to all of us.”
“I can guarantee you one thing, Mr. Brokowich,” ventured Tevari, “Indians are as sad for this as you are.”
Touched, Max acquiesced.
“Vandana, everyone’s been looking for you!”
It was Caldwell from the other end of the corridor. When the young woman approached Sandmill and Tevari’s office, the former signalled her in. Vandana was pretty, with very long hair held by a golden comb, and magnificent, very determined eyes. “A great girl,” Juliette had said.
12
Within the four office walls, however, Vandana Dasgoswami didn’t seem so sure of herself, more like a startled young girl as she cast a nervous eye on Max. No point putting up a front with her. No need for a cover like with Bernatchez. Her friend Juliette had communicated directly with her from Montreal and explained who Max was, that he’d soon be in Delhi under an assumed name (“It’s complicated. Don’t ask.”), and would need her help. Vandana was clearly afraid and needed reassuring, warming up in a sense, as soon as possible. She was indispensable to him.
“The flowers were from you?”
“Excuse me?”
“On David’s desk.”
She seemed even more ill at ease, sad and stressed too. Max mentioned David’s visit to Genghis Khan the day before the bombing, which she didn’t know about, but his relationship with Imam Khankashi was public knowledge. They met regularly after his stay in Tihar.
“Tihar?”
“The biggest penitentiary in India,” she explained. “Ten thousand prisoners. The imam was held for a year without trial and in dreadful conditions, as you can well imagine. He was suspected of every crime you can think of, naturally. Technically, David didn’t work in the consular service, but he managed to find a lawyer and get him a fair trial.”
It finally clicked for Max. The imam had Canadian citizenship. “Eight years in Downsview, Ontario, before coming back after the Ayodhya Massacre.”
She was going too fast for him, so Max asked her to begin again, slowly, beginner-style. Vandana explained that India was a layering of civilizations, one on top of the other, with mixed results, but in Ayodhya in Uttar Pradesh, the stratification had solidified.