Читать книгу Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Mario Bolduc - Страница 17

The citizens of Delhi might not be taking the threat of war seriously, but the authorities had both thumbs on the panic button. In order to protect the Canadian High Commission, the minister of home affairs had pulled out all the stops. Heavy-set and heavily armed troopers in khaki lent support to the regular security agents, casting the same wary eye over visitors at the entry point. So, this was it. Canada was now officially a member of the victims-of-terrorism club. As Max got out, the taxi made a U-turn on Shantipath and headed for the “normalcy” of downtown. Here the scope of the upheaval struck him. More of the same frenzy in the waiting room, though with less noise and fewer raised voices. Under the Canadian flag, Indians in ties and wearing perfume, with slicked-back hair, were waiting for visas or work permits. Obviously, recent events had put them in even more of a hurry to get out of here ASAP. Max went up to the counter where a young bilingual woman (“in the two official languages” according to the small blue panel on her left) accepted Mr. Brokowich’s passport — provided by Antoine — as he asked to see Raymond Bernatchez.

“Unfortunately, the high commissioner is —”

“— I have an appointment,” Max cut in. “He’s expecting me.”

Patterson had done things right: a couple of hmms and yeahs on the phone and an electronic click came from the door on the right. Under the envious gaze of the mere mortals in the waiting room, Max disappeared into the office complex.

“My name’s Sunil Mukherjee, secretary to Mr. Bernatchez.” He held out his hand. He was young with grey hair, probably in his forties. His large glasses gave him a serious, professorial look. Max followed him down a corridor of photos showing winterscapes, no doubt to help visitors cool off, then up some stairs. Mukherjee walked fast, never looking around. On the second floor was a half-open door and a desk covered with papers and a bouquet of flowers — no doubt David’s office. Max felt like going in and sitting down as he had in Philippe’s embassy office in San Salvador under similar circumstances. Mukherjee was waiting up ahead before another half-open door. That was Bernatchez’s office.

When Max went in, the high commissioner was on the phone with his broad back to the visitor. This man, Juliette had primed him, used to be a pro football player, though flabby now from lack of training. The chair swivelled round and Bernatchez waved Max to a seat, then went back to his previous position. Faced with a wall of back once more, Max discreetly surveyed the usual run of family photos: three offspring in graduation robes, smiling and full of the joy of life (“Thanks, Dad.”) and a more recent one taken in India, probably his wife, with Indian children in her arms.

“Sorry for the mess, Mr. Brokowich,” Bernatchez got up with his hand outstretched for Max to shake. “Dennis tells me you felt it was essential for us to meet.”

Now Max’s cover had to be flawless. After supposedly talking to David in Kathmandu on the phone, Brokowich had decided, after weeks of hesitation, to go over the heads of his board (“such nervous Nellies … you have no idea”) and take part in the Montreal conference anyway. Patterson was terrific and a great help, but he was worried after what happened to his contact, David (“How horrible … awfully sad”), and now this impending war as well. So, on his way from Singapore to Montreal, he had decided to stop over in Delhi to check on things.

After meeting with Juliette, then Patterson, Max realized that several businessmen had threatened to pull out in light of recent events. Though Patterson was the guest speaker, he’d advised his clients to put their investment plans on hold: “just till things settled down.” If this had been happening across the board, Bernatchez’s phone must have been ringing off the hook for a week.

Bernatchez replied accordingly, “There’s really nothing to be worried about, I assure you.”

“You are pulling out, though.”

“Absolutely not. Just the families and non-essential employees. I’m staying, and so are 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.