Читать книгу Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Mario Bolduc - Страница 31

The only way to get past this is to look straight ahead, to project myself into the future, thought Juliette. From now on, I’m unshakeable; I won’t let anything stand in my way. I won’t let David disappear, no, never. He entrusted me with his memory, and I won’t let him down. The basilica was packed, obviously. It smelled of rain all the way to the altar. Everyone was wet and uncomfortable. Juliette turned toward the choir and saw Deborah Cournoyer — whom she’d met briefly in Patterson’s office — near the organ. One more glance at the body. The Canadian flag was wet, too. Droplets evaporated with the incense. In a trembling voice, Raymond Bernatchez was describing to all a David who was truer than life. Everyone held back tears.

They carried out the coffin, and Juliette fell in behind, accompanied by Béatrice. The younger woman raised her head. Deborah Cournoyer was no longer in the choir, though Juliette spotted her a few moments later getting into the back of a Subaru parked on Saint-Sulpice. Patterson closed her door, and the car rolled toward the Old Port. When Patterson turned around, he saw Juliette. He hesitated. It was as if Juliette had noticed something she wasn’t supposed to or been found somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.

Juliette went over to the consultant. “Who was that woman?”

“Excuse me?”

“Deborah Cournoyer, who is she, really?”

Patterson reacted to the question like a slap in the face. He sighed, looking around for a way out, and then sighed again to signal that he didn’t want to talk about it. But Juliette stared him down without blinking, and he had no choice.

“She was Philippe’s mistress for a number of years. In fact, right up to his death.”

“I don’t want this business suddenly coming out in public.” Now I know what she meant.

The prime minister’s favourite caterer had the young waitstaff from the Institut de l’hôtellerie slinking around on cat-feet. There were more flowers, bouquets of them, and a large photo of David, a holiday picture at least, and guests around the buffet table, hesitating between the sauerkraut and the tandoori chicken. Dennis Patterson had done things up grand, as always. Despite her grief, Béatrice was slipping from guest to guest like a bee among flowers: it was just another cocktail party really, a bit tragic of course, but the same rules of etiquette applied, nevertheless. Bernatchez fluttered from one businessman to another with his customary ease. Was this to be a last tribute to David or a chance at privileged access to the high commissioner? To ask the question was to answer it.

Juliette couldn’t stop thinking about what Patterson had said a few minutes before and about Deborah Cournoyer’s discreet presence at the funeral. Béatrice must have suffered from their relationship. Juliette watched her mingling with the guests and saw her in a new light. She forgave her mother-in-law’s insistence, her hurtful comments, her condescending attitude toward people in general, especially to Juliette. Must be a defence mechanism built up over the years. Was David in the know? Surely not. Béatrice could have used this woman to tarnish her deceased husband’s reputation, but obviously hadn’t. It was to her credit.

Suddenly, Juliette felt she’d had her fill of deconstructing the past, and she took advantage of the general melee to slip discreetly away to the kitchen. The fridge — there had to be some ice. Then her cellphone began to hum. This time it was really crackly on the line.

Max brought her up to date on what he’d found out about David’s fear and nervousness from Luiz and Adoor, the watchman; the call from Srinagar in the heart of Kashmir as war threatened between India and Pakistan; David’s return to Delhi with his well-kept secret most likely increasing his nervousness and fear. David apprehended what was about to happen: the kidnapping and torture, the explosion under the used Volvo.

“What do you get from that?”

“The attack wasn’t a blind, gratuitous, or isolated act. David was not simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, as Patterson and the High Commission people think.” David had been selected from among all the diplomats in Delhi for a reason. What that was, Max did not know, but he was going to find out, of that he was sure.

“Kashmir?”

“Maybe.”

That Indo-Pakistani wasps’ nest, where both terrorist groups operated — Hizb-ul-Mujahideen and Lashkar-e-Taiba. Home of Jaish-e-Mohammed, of Harakat-ul-Ansar, and Al Badr martyrs. “A violence- and-horror competition in its rawest form.” Sponsored by Genghis Khan and his jihadis? Sure, why not?

“Maybe the Indian cops were right after all.”

“Khankashi plays the moderate, denounces 9/11, and pretends to distance himself from Al-Qaeda, while secretly fanning the flames. David’s his buddy, his confidant, so he gives him one more mission … in Kashmir, the lion’s den.”

Now it was Juliette’s turn to be puzzled, as her old theory surfaced again. “So David was charmed by the imam? But that’s not like him, not at all.” She was wondering more and more how well she really knew her husband.

“From here on, one of two things will happen,” said Max. “Either David comes back disillusioned, convinced he’s been used for his ‘diplomatic neutrality,’ and there’s a shouting-match in the mosque (‘I’m going to turn you in publicly, Khankashi’) — but denounce him for what? — no idea, maybe referring to the recent spate of terrorist attacks or his links to ISI. Genghis Khan is walking on hot coals, and David’s a troublesome witness, so there’s a phone call to one of his nut jobs.”

“Or …?”

“Or the Hindu extremists — say, Sri Bhargava, James Bond, for instance. The Hindutva fanatic.”

So far extremists on both sides have been banging away at each other while foreigners look on complacently. Maybe David violated this “convention of indifference.” Maybe.

“I have to get to Kashmir and retrace his steps,” said Max, “see what he saw, pick up his trail in Srinagar at the Hotel Mount View.”

Juliette no longer knew what to think.

“Be careful,” she said.

The porter at the Liverpool Guest House seemed to be as sleepy in the day as at night. Leaning over a greasy samosa that stained his receipts, he held the room key out to Max without even looking at him. On the terrace, travellers in pyjamas drifted to and fro in slow motion like lily pads floating lazily on a swamp. Not quite the same ones as the day before, but popped out of the same mould. Max was about to slide the key into the lock when he noticed something to his right, or rather someone. An Indian was looking over the message board where the hippies exchanged tips and news or exhibited their poetic talents. Discouraging to read.

Something about this Indian didn’t fit. He wasn’t an employee. Max was sure of that.

Despite his typically Indian look — shiny pants and belted shirt — he was peering hard as though searching for a jalebi recipe or a travelling companion to Annapurna, but what caught Max’s eye was the fact that he was too normal. That stood out. Something was definitely off.

Instead of going in, Max pretended to have forgotten something in the lobby. The porter had finished his samosa and was perusing the register with the energy of one halfway between life and death. At the bottom of the stairs, however, just in front of the door to the street, was another Indian, definitely not a beggar or a shoeshine boy, but dressed the same as the other and with the same fake debonair attitude. This one had something else going on that Max would have recognized anywhere, anytime … he was a cop, just like the terrace guy. There were probably two more already in his room with guns drawn.

Max was just able to slip past the counter without being seen and dive for the stairway on his left. It led to the roof. Being painfully silent, he climbed the stairs one by one till he faced a door. He pushed it open and was blinded by the sun. After shielding his eyes, he saw five more of them in khaki uniform, and, as he turned to go back down, he found himself face to face with the plainclothes cop from the street. That was it. The only possible way out was to bluff.

“Look, sahibji, you’re making a serious mistake. It isn’t what you think.” Then lightning forked through his head and everything went black. Another blow sent him to the floor. The cop he hadn’t seen coming gave him a massive blow without even taking a wind-up. Max tasted blood and tried to protect his face with his arm, but it didn’t help. It was raining hammer blows non-stop.

Lying on the terrace floor, Max didn’t even have the strength to moan. The beating had happened without a word being spoken, almost like a ritual. He was barely conscious. He saw boots approaching, probably a havaldar, his footsteps echoing on the tiles as though his head were jammed inside a church bell. He waited for the boot to finish him off, but the voice said, “Okay, the masquerade’s finished, O’Brien.”