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The small diplomatic world of India stuck together in their mourning and wanted to prove to the Indians that the terrorist threat wasn’t going to intimidate them. On the contrary, this was an act of will, of bravery, and even of heroism. Obviously, the military Jeeps and police cars that Max saw in front of the Spanish ambassador’s residence lent courage to the guests. Yet, despite the precautions, Max had no trouble getting past these obstacles. In the immense salon, he faced an Osborne bull in a tapestry hung on the wall above a Gaudiesque bureau. Photos of Toledo and a reproduction of seventeenth-century Madrid were also on show. The Spanish did nothing by halves. The grated door, which separated the servants’ quarters from the ambassador’s family could be locked in the event of an uprising and was typically decorated with Castilian flourishes.

The ambassador, Don Miguel Ferrer, seemed built to match. His long, emaciated El Greco face was topped by a tangle of wayward grey hair that was borne every which way by the draft from a fan that seemed to pursue him wherever he went, even by the bar near the kitchen door where a group of Sikhs in evening wear stood.

Max stopped a young Indian serving girl, snagged a glass of champagne from her tray, and then went out into the garden. Some of the hardiest were out there defying any possible sniper and seemingly the more excited for it. Guests, fuelled by alcohol, were talking loudly, punctuated by the occasional belly laugh. He’d expected more restraint from David’s colleagues, but the vocal display was part of their bluff: “Terrorism won’t stop us from enjoying ourselves and indulging in curried shrimp.”

There were representatives of other embassies there, as well as Indians, all of them fully decked out for the occasion, downing Scotch and Rioja with typical Western self-assurance and good humour, as if they were saying, “We were present at the end of the world.” Around the bar were small groups of entrepreneurs who had shown up, as Max had done, without invitations in order to escape the solitude of the Intercontinental Hotel or an intimate dinner with themselves at the Parikrama. Under other circumstances, Max would have had no trouble at all choosing “pigeons” among these rootless ones and latching on to them for his own profit. For now, he had other things on his mind: finding someone, and that someone was Vandana. But she was nowhere to be seen.

He took another spin around the garden, where groups of Japanese were handing out stacks of business cards, before going back inside. The Sikhs had split up, and the ambassador was now discussing the Afghan situation with a Polish diplomat, while his wife, Ana Maria, was describing the feria in Pamplona to an enthralled Indian. Two Australian businessmen wondered if they shouldn’t leave the country like their compatriots, especially now that Pakistan had announced missile tests in order to show the Indians that two could play at that game. Their Indian companion simply smiled.

“Vajpayee is away on holiday in Manali. If it were that serious, don’t you think he’d stay here in New Delhi?”

The Australians seemed even less convinced.

A fresh glance at the door revealed that Vandana had just arrived, resplendent in a burgundy sari, and she wasn’t alone. Henry Caldwell and William Sandmill were with her in Bernatchez’s place. He was probably in Canada by now. Sunil Mukherjee brought up the rear. Max would rather have been alone with her, so, disappointed, he headed once again for the garden, where the darkness would afford him better protection. He kept his eyes on Vandana and her escorts, who were now the centre of attention. Don Miguel dropped his conversation with a chubby Argentinean to welcome the new arrivals. Renewed courage — “We won’t be cowed by terrorists.”

The ambassador took Caldwell by the shoulder and drew him to one side, treating him like an old friend from way back, a confrere at an escuela ecuestre in Madrid or Jerez. Sandmill made a beeline for the bar, while Mukherjee was cornered by an Indian journalist, judging by the notebook the man whipped out of his jacket pocket. Max took the opportunity to pounce on Vandana, who was taken aback. “What are you doing here? They know who you are now. The police were tipped off.”

It had to be Luc Roberge. He was quicker than expected. Max would have to act swiftly. He dragged Vandana behind a banana tree. He knew his brusqueness was off-putting, but there was no time for politeness and etiquette.

“What is this charade, and who exactly do you think you’re fooling?” he said.

Vandana looked up at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“David and his inner conflict, feeling torn and clamming up …”

She frowned. “What …?”

“Your little trysts at the foot of the Himalayas. Kathmandu.”

“There’s never been anything between David and me.”

“You rushed over to his place the day after the attack, and you knew about the safe under the stairs. It wasn’t the first time you’d been there.”

“What safe?”

“You were in a real hurry to open it. What were you looking for? Letters, notes, messages? Things to implicate you personally with David, things that would compromise you with the police if they started rifling through the young diplomat’s past.”

Vandana stared at him in amazement. “You’re out of your mind!” She started to leave, but Max blocked the way.

“An affair? A little slip-up, maybe? But it was still going on when you went to Kathmandu. Otherwise, David would have postponed the trip till after Montreal.”

Max heard a murmur behind him and turned to see two security agents blend into the crowd. Don Miguel was already hurrying over to them, his hair flying. Max couldn’t hear what they said to him, but he could guess: they couldn’t have been admitted without his government’s permission. They were explaining to him while sweeping the room with their eyes. There was no doubt about what they were looking for. Max. He grabbed Vandana’s arm and rushed her out to the garden.

“I want to know what happened between you and David in Kathmandu.”

“Nothing happened … nothing at all.”

“Look, David’s dead, so please stop lying to me, okay? I’m not here to preach at you.”

By now, the Indian police were being accompanied by embassy employees, as they jostled their way through the crowd, which was intrigued and entertained by it all. In a few seconds, they’d be here.

“What happened in Kathmandu?” he repeated.

Vandana stared fixedly at him and appeared to hesitate. He’d been right to insist.

“I went by myself,” she confessed after a long pause. “David didn’t come with me.”

“He stayed in Delhi?”

“I don’t know, but after the bombing, when Juliette started saying he’d changed after Nepal, I realized he hadn’t been with her as I thought.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“No. I didn’t want Juliette to get involved.”

“Another woman?”

She shook her head. “Juliette and David were in love. He’d never do that. Never. Not with me or anyone else.”

Max looked at her for a long time. He felt sorry he’d accused her.

“Does the name Tourigny mean anything to you?”

“No, nothing. Who’s that?”

Loud voices emerged from the crowd as three policemen joined the others to everyone’s delight.

“You haven’t a hope of getting out of here,” Vandana said, but Max just smiled.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to this.” And he snaked through the guests at the bottom of the garden and out to the alley by an opening he’d spotted in his previous reconnaissance. It was deserted and dark, and though he wanted to run, he settled into a brisk walk and never looked back. At the corner, he wondered which way to go, but then his attention was caught by the coughing of a rickshaw motor drawn to its potential customer.

“Aray! Rickshaw, sahib? Rickshaw?”

Max climbed inside and sat down without even dickering about the fare, something the Lonely Planet he bought at Heathrow had expressly told him never to do.

No way Max was going back to the Oberoi, of course. The cops were certainly sitting on it. It was by showing his photo to taxi drivers that they had probably traced him to the Spanish ambassador. The rickshaw skirted India Gate and headed for Tilak Marg.

“Do you want to stay at my place?” asked Jayesh over the phone. That could work, but it would compromise the young Indian. He’d thought about hiding out at the inn on Akbar Road, if it still existed, but the police would certainly check there.

“Some place discreet, Jayesh. Better if it’s one where Westerners hang out.”

After a moment’s silence, Jayesh said, “Ask the driver to let you off near the Jama Mosque. Facing it is a small alley leading to the Chawri Bazaar.”

Max relayed the address to the driver, who then branched off onto a side road. Suddenly the landscape was different, as Embassy Row and the Ministerial Quarter yielded to a true Indian city, offhand and neglected, a sort of random set of building blocks that, by some miracle, barely held together. Here, unlike the new city, the people were in control of the streets, families sleeping outdoors on charpai, a sort of bed they put away in the daytime. Then the avenue narrowed imperceptibly and became a long and winding thread of mud past the shops all barred up for the night. Occasionally they encountered a beggar, one of those who slept in the train station until the police turfed them out to wander the streets in search of shelter. This city was the complete opposite of what one saw in the daytime, astonishingly silent and tranquil, and it would stay that way until the mosques called the faithful to prayer just before dawn: “Never forget, neighbours, that Delhi, Old Delhi is, above all, Muslim!”

Max pictured Bhargava, the “James Bond of Hindu­ness,” dreaming that he could silence these muezzins forever. Send these circumcisees packing to their brothers and accomplices in Pakistan, or anywhere!

There was no missing the red door, Jayesh told him. Behind it was a bright — too bright — illumination, probably neon, and a hand-painted sign announced LIVERPOOL GUEST HOUSE: CLEAN SHEETS. CLEAN SHOWERS. The night watchman was napping on a worn-out mattress behind the reception counter, an older man with ruffled hair and teeth reddened with betel juice. Max signed the tea-stained register but didn’t even have to present his passport. The porter showed no surprise that this guest looked utterly unlike his usual customers, whom Max saw early next morning on the sun-flooded terrace. The hotel was a refuge for hippies in wraparound longyis and oversized pyjamas — escapees from the West, bigger than life, hairy, and probably fried, smoking bidis and nodding incessantly. Max smiled. Jayesh was right. The police couldn’t even imagine this place.

Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

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