Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Mario Bolduc
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has a long list of good works. From the moment she got back to Hamilton, she started a foundation to assist Canadian and European couples in the adoption of young Indian orphans, especially those of tribal origin.”
Clearly, the communications director was in awe of her. Max imagined him on his knees before her, praising her successes and ignoring the rest, an obsequious expert in bowing and scraping. Probably this Griffith was every bit as competent and up to date as he portrayed her, and she in turn had shunted him into a dead-end job to get him out of the way.
“I guess the threat of war over there complicates things, right?”
Hoberman’s tan deepened as his good-naturedness drained away.
“I’m afraid I know nothing about it all,” Max went on, “but I suppose managing a generating plant like that in the middle of a country which …”
“Uh, it’s closed, as a matter of fact.” Responding to Max’s curiosity, he added, “Since last month.”
“Oh, but I thought …”
“Nothing’s changed officially, mind you, and we haven’t made it public, because we’re hoping to reopen it. If those morons can lay off killing one another, that is.” Was he disgusted by this or afraid he’d said too much? He turned a stern eye on Max. Some light seemed to go on in his tanned brain.
“Exactly what is it you want to know, Mr. Harrington? What’s your article about?”
Time to take the plunge. “I’m not here as a journalist.” Hoberman frowned. “I’m trying to understand what happened to my colleague Ahmed Zaheer from The Srinagar Reporter. His body’s been found at the foot of Niagara Falls.” No reaction from Hoberman. Either the name Ahmed Zaheer meant nothing to him, or he was a good actor. “I’m here for the International Federation of Journalists as their American delegate.”
“And how does this involve Stewart-Cooper?”
Max kept it short and sweet. “Well, his laptop was wrecked, but they accomplished miracles in the lab, and voilà, they retrieved his agenda and address book. Your name was in there along with your phone number.”
Max was fishing, but now Hoberman observed with interest. Had Max hooked something?
“He’s dead?” Hoberman was anxious.
“An accident at first glance, but the coroner has doubts, so they asked me to dig a bit deeper.”
“Well, why would he want to meet me?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that.” Max held out another branch. “Zaheer was from Kashmir originally. In fact, he lived there until just recently. He may have met Mrs. Griffith, perhaps talked to her about the closing down, who knows?”
Hoberman was staring at Max.
“Would it be possible to meet her?” Max inquired.
“Excuse me?”
“Mrs. Griffith. I’d like to talk to her.”
Hoberman realized he’d gone too far. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said smiling. He was back in control. “But what I can suggest is that when you get to New York you fax me your questions and I’ll turn them over to our lawyers. How would that be?”
When Max got back to the car, there was a message from Jayesh. He hadn’t wasted any time. “I think I have something. Nothing on SCI and The Srinagar Reporter, though — in the files, I mean. Same with Indian Geographic Magazine, but at noon, I hung around in the canteen at the Reporter to see if I could pick up a lead …”
“Get to it, Jayesh.”
“Yeah, yeah, I am. I met a colleague of Zaheer’s who told me he worked on pieces for the commentary magazines, as he called them. Small stuff with low circulation and high pretentions.”
“Meaning …?”
“Whistle-blowing, accusations, muck-raking …”
Max got the picture. Guys with the gift of the gab seated at a round table, passing around hot files to supply them with whipping boys. “Zaheer showed them one on the mad rush to build dams.” Since independence, he explained, Indian leaders had been obsessed with dam-building as a way to control rivers and irrigate drought-stricken land. This had been Jawaharlal Nehru’s baby. The results, however, had been so-so. Since the fifties and sixties, entire regions had been emptied of their occupants and flooded. The slums of Mumbai and Kolkata were inhabited by peasants who’d been expropriated with no notice and without receiving compensation or damages. Thus the Indian government had created an army of the homeless, and, with its economic policies, had contributed to the depopulation of the countryside and the impoverishment of its people.
The great dams had quite clearly become the rallying point of the ecological left, and that political chameleon Ahmed Zaheer had helped with his freelance pieces.
“So Zaheer would have denounced Stewart-Cooper.”
“No, praised them, more likely.”
“Say what?”
“Look, the article says the Jhelum dam was the example to follow. Respect for every norm available, both human and environmental, adequate reimbursement for damage and relocation for the peasants. If the government had respected the rest of the population as much, well …”
Max was even more astounded.
“Wait, wait, that’s not all,” Jayesh said.
Zaheer’s article quoted the engineer in charge of the project and the particular difficulties encountered during construction.
“Do you know the Jhelum? It’s a mountain river with falls and whirlpools, ravines and everything, as well as being very hard to reach. Well, that might give you some idea of what it was like to do this.”
“Jayesh …”
“Okay, okay, so this engineer starts telling him how they got this project going. There were rocks to get through, trenches to dig right through them using CK-Blast 301 to do it.” Now Max was listening, as Jayesh went on, “I thought the same as you, so I phoned our friend Ashok Jaikumar of the Indian police and got their reports on the attack.”
“Conclusive?”
“The same kind of explosive. Ammonium nitrate, basically.”
So there was a link to SCI after all.
“Can we get hold of this engineer?”
“I’m 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