Читать книгу Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Mario Bolduc - Страница 33

The pain in his face, especially his nose, was excruciating. The cops had really done a number on him. He still had on the same clothes, and his shirt was stained brown with dried blood. Any glimpse of daylight blinded him. Max O’Brien turned his head just a few centimetres, and the effort it required was colossal. He could make out a white wall and a solid door. He thought he was in hospital, but the hammering of boots on the metal floor brought back to him a reality he knew only too well. He was in prison, not a hospital.

An Indian prison.

Here in these cells they piled up foreigners and fed them disgusting slop they had to pay for out of their own pockets. Corrupt guards and bureaucrats — he felt abandoned by all. Soon he’d find out if all those clichés in movies were actually true. He was probably in Tihar, the same place they’d imprisoned Genghis Khan. At once, he stopped struggling. What was the point? When he woke again a few hours later, it was night. It had to be the next day, and the cell was lit by a naked, yellowish bulb, which made everything seem like a funeral wake. He could hear boots in the corridor once more, but muffled this time. Near the bed was a tray of food that had become a playground for cockroaches, overpopulated like the whole country.

His head still hurt, but the pain had become more diffuse and came in waves like the sea when the tide ran out. At least now he could breathe, and he could smell curry. He retched for a good long time, hoping he could drown all the parasites. He knew he wasn’t alone, even before his eyes were fully open. He raised the lids, which, surprisingly, didn’t hurt anymore. A familiar silhouette sketched itself against the white of the wall. An unseen guard announced that he was awake, and the silhouette turned round. He made out William Sandmill of the High Commission, not knowing if that was a good thing or bad. What did it matter, anyway? Another man appeared behind him, sweaty and wiping his brow. Sandmill bent over Max, smelling of cologne and wearing a Bulova with a metal bracelet, striped tie, and wrinkled suit. Little splashes of colour and light here and there showed that reality was imposing its presence. Max tried to get up, but his head throbbed. Sandmill put a hand on his shoulder as a signal to stop moving.

He smiled. “Mr. O’Brien. Have they been treating you well, not caused any trouble?”

Treated well? How would he know? He’d been unconscious since … um … when, exactly?

“Two days.”

Sandmill pointed to another man putting away his handkerchief. “Josh Walkins, RCMP.” So this was the Canadian government’s token presence kept on the sidelines by the Indian police. “I’ve got some good news,” Sandmill went on, “You’re being shipped home. The High Commission’s reminded the Ministry of Home Affairs that our two countries have an extradition treaty, so it got fast-tracked.”

This was Walkins’s cue. “You’re lucky, O’Brien. Here in India, counterfeiting and fraud are serious crimes, especially in a country on the verge of war and all that …”

Max still didn’t get it. “So why am I being sent home?”

“Because you belong to us,” said a third man from behind the other two, “and you won’t be going anywhere after that.” Max would have known that voice anywhere, as Sandmill and Walkins stepped aside to let the third party look him over with a triumphant grin. Max closed his eyes and his headache returned, worse than ever. There was something more repulsive than an Indian prison, after all: Luc Roberge.

The detective pointed across the cell to his suitcases. “I picked them up for you at the Hotel Oberoi. You can’t say I don’t look after you.”

The traffic was sheer hell. The road to the airport was jammed with taxis, trucks, government cars, and all sorts of vehicles — destination “some place peaceful.” The word was out since morning from every embassy. Washington, London, Berlin, and Auckland had all ordered their diplomats and expats to leave; the same with Ottawa.

“Visa-hunting season is open,” declared Sandmill, who was at the wheel. “People will do anything to get out of here.”

This explained the choked roads, cars filled with anxious families, kids jammed into backseats, suitcases hastily crammed inside and pushing up against the roof of every car in a fanfare of horns from impatient drivers.

Walkins was sitting in the front, and he swivelled round to address Roberge. “Can’t really blame these poor buggers. In Almaty, Vajpayee and Musharraf never even spoke to each other, no matter what Beijing or Moscow say.”

“China’s kicking itself for helping Pakistan build the bomb in 1998,” explained Sandmill, “and now the place is so unstable that no one’s in charge, least of all President Musharraf.”

“And that’s before you add in Kashmir as well.”

More dead, tens of dead, hundreds of dead, even thousands or millions if the two countries carried out their nuclear threats.

The day before, Minister Advani adopted a harsher tone. If Pakistan wished to avoid being bombed, it would immediately hand over twenty terrorists they were holding — extremists whom Musharraf and Inter-Services Intelligence were protecting.

Roberge shrugged. He couldn’t care less. He finally had Max O’Brien sitting right next to him. So what if the world went up in a mushroom cloud? He had his man and nothing else mattered.

“The Americans can’t do a thing,” Sandmill shot back. “There’s no point in trying to cool the situation down. It won’t happen. It never does.”

Walkins frowned. “Strategically, they need to get involved because of Afghanistan. The Pakistanis mustn’t abandon their western frontier to go fight India on the other side of the country.”

“Still, there’s no way their mediation can work. On the one hand, India wants Pakistan to stop jihadis from crossing into Kashmir …”

“As if Islamabad could control anything in the country anyway, especially in Azad Kashmir!”

“… and on the other hand, they deny even having any terrorists in their country in the first place.”

“So it’s a war of wasted words.”

“Still doesn’t stop the Americans from begging India and Pakistan to settle things without going nuclear.”

“I get why the Indians are antsy,” Walkins went on. “On the ground, they’ve got every advantage, but missiles, well …”

“All the Pakistanis have to do is take the offensive. Then …”

Traffic jammed all of a sudden, turning the road into a huge parking lot. Kids from the neighbouring jhopadpatti took advantage of the bottleneck to peddle knick-knacks. Max watched them wave their rags, running from one car to another. At least for them the threat of war was a boon, a real business opportunity. He thought about the Pakistani school kids in Kashmir on forced holiday in shelters and refugee camps.

Sandmill turned on the radio. “Maybe the airport’s closed.”

Roberge suddenly woke up. “Is there another one?”

“For local flights only,” Walkins said. But the Indian authorities had assured him there wouldn’t be any problems.

“Yeah, but they’re swamped, your authorities.” Roberge was irritated now.

Back to the pen?

Then, fortunately, traffic started moving again. On to the next slum. The radio talked about Kashmir and exchanges of mortar fire along the Line of Control. The dead were piling up, and already the clinics were flooded with wounded. Max couldn’t figure why on earth David had travelled up there for just a few days before Montreal, when the situation was critical even then. Maybe his intuition was right: going to Kashmir and taking part in a conflict that wasn’t his went way beyond David’s mandate. Maybe that was the reason “they” had got involved.

After the Kashmir junket, was it the Hindus or the Islamists? James Bond or Genghis Khan?

“I’ve become just like him. I feel just what he felt.”

So David was up to something there: some move, some kind of action, probably heroic and/or risky. He was just like Philippe, bound for the same life and the same destiny. His initiatives had been tolerated up to that point, but then he apparently crossed the line for some group or other. What was it? What hornets’ nest had David stuck his nose into? Max tried dredging his memory of the papers at the time. He vaguely remembered articles in the New York Times and other U.S. dailies, about the tension in Kashmir and renewed conflict between the two countries … some event. Whatever it was, Max couldn’t remember, but one thing was certain: David had chosen that very moment to sneak in. Was there any connection between this secret trip and the upcoming mission in Montreal expressly to reassure Canadian investors? There was no way to tell. There was no one left in the know. He could imagine Roberge’s sarcastic reply if he broached the subject. The best he could do was pass his information along to the Indian police, which meant the BJP, who would diligently hide it away or use it for their own purposes.

Close by the airport, traffic was snarled again, but planes were taking off with reassuring frequency. Roberge was in a good mood again. It would soon be time to ditch him, Max figured — in the confusion on the way to the counter in the departure lounge, maybe. But how? Roberge was younger and in better shape, especially given Max’s rough time in jail. Max was starving, and his head still seemed about to burst with every movement. Then there was Walkins, too, certainly armed. Sandmill was less of a problem, but he still needed to be dealt with. Three against one was a tall order.

The car pulled into the terminal parking area before he could properly gather his thoughts and work out a plan. The two cops, on the other hand, already had things mapped out. Walkins had arranged for their Air India baggage check in the VIP room of Terminal 2, out of sight of nosy passengers. A young woman guided them through a crowd of Westerners gathering in front of the counters of their respective airlines. Kids lounged on the floor with their Game Boys, their parents vaguely anxious but relieved to be at the airport. Max recognized some of the diplomats from the party the other night — flashing the middle finger of defiance to the terrorists. They weren’t quite so sure of themselves anymore. This was to be a quiet, uneventful slinking away.

At the far end of the waiting room, in a stuffy area stinking of cigarettes, a chubby government official stood waiting for them with a sheaf of papers. Roberge quickly scanned them, while Sandmill and Walkins watched from the sidelines. Walkins kept one eye on the prisoner, and Sandmill couldn’t stop looking at his watch, likely waiting for the cops to tell him he could go back and finish packing. Would there even be a plane out the next day, or would he have to barricade himself with the other late-leavers in the High Commission?

The papers were signed, and Roberge tied his tie; one more step completed. He looked at Max. “This is the moment I’ve waited fourteen years for. You have no idea how happy this makes me.”

Max saw the Indian official leave, and past him was the hall where passengers were ready to depart. It was the only way out, and led nowhere.

“You know, I’m gonna miss you,” Roberge said. “Your picture’s still on the wall behind my desk. Reminded me to keep hunting you. Yessir, that picture …”

“How about I send you another one? More up to date?”

Roberge burst out laughing, got up, stretched completely, then noticed the mini-bar. He bent down for a look: two cans of Pepsi and plenty of peanuts in case Air India ran out. Roberge sat down facing the prisoner and offered him one of the Pepsis. Max declined.

“Yes, I wish they’d kept you in one of their jails. Ten years times, say, five, the way things are. I’d make sure our union boys sent you a postcard every single day. Whaddya say? A card for a prisoner, now that’s depressing, am I right?”

Geez, five hours on the plane listening to this kind of sarcasm, not to mention the stopover in London; Max felt nauseated already. Was this his chance? Nope, Walkins and Sandmill were chatting right by the door. That would be straight-up suicide.

An Air India flight attendant in a sari of the company colours arrived to guide Roberge and Max to the plane. There was good news: the company had upgraded the two of them to first class. Roberge was as excited as a kid in the front row of a puppet show. All the peanuts he wanted and more he could take back to his family.

The waiting room was empty now that everyone was on board, and Max said goodbye to Walkins and Sandmill. What would he do now? Grab the flight attendant as a hostage and drag her into the concourse? That was going too far, even for a Bollywood movie script. Gentlemanly, Max shook hands with the two men. Then came the long corridor, a welcome from the cabin crew, and the smell of disinfectant. The 747 was full, but two places in first class awaited Roberge and his guest, and the cop had the decency not to make a display of his hunting trophy. The people around them paid no attention. Roberge pushed Max over to the window seat.

In a blasé voice, the captain apologized for the delay (probably because of Roberge and his prisoner), then announced still another, a shorter delay. The flight attendant asked them, “Would you like a drink?”

“Mineral water all around,” replied Roberge. “I’m on duty, and so’s he!”

She got it, of course. She never drank alcohol herself.

This was going to be a long trip, really long. Roberge was positively glowing.

“At least admit you regret all these stupid stunts you pulled,” he said a few moments later as he sipped his Bisleri.

“That would change what exactly?”

“Maybe get it off your conscience. Always helps.”

“Look, if there’s one thing I’m sorry for, it’s not doing even more damage. I let you off easy, really. I mean eight million isn’t so much.” Max had absolutely no intention of feeling sorry for himself or playing the sad little puppy to try to soften up his jailer. In a way, the cop was right to resent him: those millions the Sûreté du Québec union had been forced to take off the books of its investment fund, the incredible promise of huge returns, and the risk-free investment Max and his team had peddled to those suckers. This trap had finally closed on him, just like all the others, but the sound was sharper this time … and what about their union head who’d wanted to invest even more in it? Eight million, period. Max could just picture the meeting afterward, the anger of the police officers, drained by the naïveté of their broker. All our savings to Max O’Brien!?

“Don’t you wonder how I caught you?” inquired Roberge, taking another sip of mineral water.

“Béatrice and Patterson.”

“Juliette wasn’t so easy. Still, a charming kid, just the same. I bet she doesn’t know the part you played in Philippe’s death.”

“SHUT UP, ROBERGE!”

Passengers whipped around in surprise. Roberge was content just to smile. Max wished he hadn’t got carried away.

“Delhi was child’s play,” Roberge went on, “the night watchman at the Liverpool Guest House is a police informant.”

Of course he is.

Max stared out the window. At the edge of the runway there were more slums, people living just feet from the planes and breathing their fumes all day long, never able to talk above the constant roar of 747 engines. Max reclined his seat and closed his eyes so as not to have to listen to Roberge, then willed himself to sleep. Philippe in El Salvador; Philippe the martyr. He finally did sleep. He had no idea how long. Then a voice stirred him.

“Excuse me, sir.” The flight attendant, no longer smiling, held out her hand as he opened his eyes. “This way.”

Max turned to look at Roberge. He was fast asleep with his bottle of Bisleri spilled all over the tray. The plane was still on the runway, so Max had only dozed a few minutes. He followed the stewardess to the front of the plane. Passengers vaguely glanced at them before returning to their newspapers. The door was still open on the opposite side from the embarking platform. Airport employees were almost through loading food trays on carts with multiple shelves. One of the employees turned toward Max: it was Jayesh. He guided Max down the sloping platform to the catering truck parked next to the plane. The flight attendant followed them. Once inside the truck, Jayesh gave Max some coveralls and an ID badge. The flight attendant also changed clothes as the truck drove to the storage depot. The inside of the truck smelled of industrial chapati and stale fried food, but for Max it was the sweetest smell in the world.

“Thanks, Jayesh,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.”

When the door opened at the depot, Max saw the pilot finally get the plane moving at the far end of the runway. Ragged kids were hanging around the tarmac, but they weren’t at all interested in the 747. They were completely preoccupied with just surviving for one more day. That was real poverty; kids who didn’t enjoy watching a plane take off. Max imagined Roberge’s face when he awoke ten thousand metres in the air, alone with nothing but an orgy of peanuts to comfort him.

Jayesh put a hand on Max’s shoulder: “Have you heard the news? The Canadiens have re-signed José Théodore!”