Читать книгу Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Mario Bolduc - Страница 38

Philippe and his son, two shooting stars, David, with his life before him. New Delhi, his first posting, his very own Tokyo, where he was already outshining others, just as his father had done. Max was convinced of it. Sandmill, Caldwell, and Bernatchez himself had already made their beds in Foreign Affairs with the firm intention of pursuing a career free of ups and downs to a comfortable retirement. Max was not being fair, and he knew it. He really didn’t know David any better than Langevin, Vandana, or Mukherjee. But still, the young diplomat couldn’t help but be exceptional, just as his father had been. He had to be destined for greatness, again like Philippe.

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

After Rabat, Ankara, and Bangkok, Philippe had become an ambassador himself, slipping in ahead of one of the prime minister’s protégés, a shoo-in whose mentor had promised him Thailand while he waited for a Senate seat. However, the minister of foreign affairs had played hardball, and the Asian Tiger was awakening, so a young wolf was required on the scene, not some sleepy bear who’d get eaten alive. The prime minister had agreed, finally. With the protégé gone to Lisbon, Philippe moved into the Silom Road offices. This was a coup in Canadian diplomatic circles. Philippe was one of the youngest ever named to such an important posting. Max understood better than ever the kind of precautions Béatrice was taking. The rocket was on the launch pad and she was not risking a misfire. Philippe was aimed at the upper atmosphere, and flying close to the sun.

David at ten years old. The photos Philippe sent showed him in front of Wat Phra Kaew, temple of the Emerald Buddha. Piloting a motorized pirogue in the middle of the Chao Phraya. A boy with intelligent eyes and an attentive gaze, curious, hands on his mother’s shoulders. “Manly.” Keeping his promise to Béatrice, Max answered the last messages from his brother, explaining that security considerations forced him to proceed with much more prudence and discretion from now on. So their little ads to one another in the paper became increasingly rare, till they disappeared altogether, though Max never stopped looking for them. Béatrice was surely satisfied. The break was complete.

Thus, after Pascale came Philippe.

Would anything have been different if Max had refused Béatrice’s demand at the Plaza? What if he had told her to take a hike and mind her own business? She could not possibly understand the bond that united them, or with Gilbert and against Solange. All three huddled together like players in Sunday afternoon football. Max figured it was the best thing to do at the time, but since Philippe’s death, he’d come to doubt his decision, and even more so since David’s murder. He kept replaying it in his head over and over, shuffling the deck each time, but with the same result.

What was he doing in India, anyway? Was he looking for his nephew’s killers, or was that just an excuse for setting his own house in order, or understanding it at least?

Philippe’s life took a sudden turn, Max recalled: fresh blood for the Canadian government’s electoral machine, which was badly in need of it. He was rumoured to be “ministrable.” Meanwhile in Bangkok, Philippe had not yet decided, but he’d been approached and was “interested” in this scenario. Journalists used to grazing on Parliament Hill found themselves interviewing the ambassador down by the klongs, holding their noses against the putrid stench of the water … no connection with the Rideau Canal. Bangkok was an open-air sewer.

The leak came from inside the party, of course, or else Philippe himself. He wasn’t about to jump into the lions’ den without first having an idea of what the opinion-makers thought of his change of career. At worst, it would be viewed as a meaningless “parachute-drop,” a make-up operation, additional proof that Ottawa’s opportunistic administration was dead on its feet. Well, none of that happened. For once, the media agreed that the future candidate had potential, that plus the fact that the young ambassador had sent a wake-up call, as they say. Philippe’s initiatives in Southeast Asia had shown that Canada was no longer the lapdog of the U.S. Now, it could not only bark, but bite, too. This was necessary to the country’s independence. It did not go down well with the American ambassador, but won the admiration of the French and Australians, who disliked the increasing encroachment of the U.S. in the region. Vietnam was still fairly fresh in their minds, and the Americans with their two left feet were not welcome there.

Philippe played his cards right, and his performance did not go unnoticed by the head-hunters. Today the minister, tomorrow the prime minister, and why not? Canadian diplomacy had already yielded Lester B. Pearson, and Philippe O’Brien was cut from the same cloth. The red carpet was rolled out from Bangkok to Ottawa, now it was up to him to commit, and to inform his family … all of it.

The brothers met at La Guardia during Philippe’s stopover on the way to Toronto, their first contact in months.

“So, what does David think of having the future Minister of Foreign Affairs for a father?” Max asked.

Philippe smiled. “You don’t approve?”

“Who am I to tell you what to do?”

Philippe looked ill at ease. The decision had been a hard one, of course. Max could imagine them: Philippe and Béatrice, unable to get to sleep at night, discussing it on the barred verandah of their home. David would be napping, unaware that he’d have to change schools in mid-year, yet again. Max had a hard time with ambition: having any, cultivating it, even considering it a quality in someone. In his line of work, it was a fault, a weakness, a failing, the soft spot for another crook like himself to exploit. Philippe’s, though, was not your run-of-the-mill ambitiousness.

“I’m tired of representing people I don’t respect or trust. I’d like to change things.”

From the depths of the backstage, far from the spotlight, Max could see his brother was taking his new role very seriously. He was as good at politics as diplomacy. He was photogenic, but not smug, and he knew how to play credibly to the camera without being boring or pompous. With journalists, he always had just the right word at hand, the perfect quotable phrase for headlines. He wasn’t alone in this, of course. There was an army of scribes ready with speeches and jokes, but he never gave the impression he was just reading from a script, holding forth or making people laugh on cue.

By mid-campaign, he was considered a shoo-in, but that didn’t stop him from crisscrossing his future riding with constantly renewed energy; Béatrice and David by his side: the holy family, the ideal family, once more.

“I’m here to learn,” he used to say, quoting the Russian hockey players who came to scare the daylights out of North American players in the 1970s. Well, everyone lapped that up and laughed. He was a good learner, and quicker than other diplomats. One day, though …

Béatrice was seated across from Max in a New York café, the second encounter without Philippe’s knowledge, and she’d come with a definite purpose in mind that she found hard to put into words. Finally, she came out with it. She’d had a visit from Luc Roberge, who had done his little number about how he respected Philippe and believed, like everyone else, that he’d be a great minister. Still, his job wouldn’t let him feign ignorance about the younger brother. The crook, the counterfeiter, the invisible man. Here’s what he proposed: if Max turned himself in to the police, Roberge would treat the whole thing “confidentially,” so as not to compromise Philippe’s budding political career. This is what Béatrice had come to New York to discuss with Max in secret one more time, to ask him, beg him, not to blow her husband’s dream out of the water.

“Or else?”

“The usual fanfare.”

Never had Max hated Roberge so very much, but what could he do but make the sacrifice? Once more. Was it worth it? Who could guarantee Roberge would keep his promise? What was to stop some nosy journalist from rooting around below the surface of a politician beyond reproach? Then again, what choice did Max have? Could he refuse Philippe, and, in a way the country, the career to which he was already sacrificing his own life?

Of course not. Thinking was required, naturally, over a Scotch in the Westbury on Madison, where Max had set up quarters those past six months. So, Abel was venturing into politics, and Cain was planning his exit. The lightweight but effective organization he’d built up would have to be demolished. Even the operation already underway would have to be ditched. The cadre at Consolidated Edison he’d been grooming patiently for months would have to be left twisting in the wind. Then, of course, there would be prison itself. He hadn’t been back since the zoo where he’d been when he lost Pascale, but one sacrifice deserved another, and Max gradually got used to the idea.

Then, all at once, Philippe appeared in Cobble Hill Park in Brooklyn, taking a break from his campaign. Béatrice had goofed and told him about it. He was furious at Roberge’s blackmail. She admitted to being the origin of Max’s silence in the International Herald Tribune. She drove the two brothers apart.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

Max sighed. What difference would it make?

Philippe grabbed him by the lapels. He’d never been violent with his brother before, and now this. “Blackmail is the worst cowardice of all.”

“I don’t care. I’m ready for it.”

“Well, I’m not. What more will Roberge want after this? Favours, free passes, special treatment? Today it’s you he wants, but tomorrow what? An in-ground pool, a new car, a cottage in the Laurentians, huh?”

Max broke free. Okay, so Philippe was right, but Roberge’s threat couldn’t be ignored. He moved away, and felt his brother’s arm locking with his.

“I’m not getting into politics to put myself at the mercy of the likes of Roberge, get it?”

“That’s just crazy.”

“Oh no, it isn’t. Honesty and guts …”

“Your voters don’t care about all that.”

“You’re wrong. You are so used to dealing with people’s weaknesses you’ve forgotten they have their good points, too.”

Already the politician, Philippe was gearing up for a speech, and Max reproached his naïveté, but big brother wasn’t having any of it. Did Max really want to prove that people couldn’t be trusted? He could’ve just ignored Philippe’s visit and turned himself straight in to Roberge as planned, but he’d never be forgiven, so maybe Philippe was right. What Max took to be candour was perhaps just courage and determination.

Banking on human weakness was his daily bread, his specialty. Philippe, though, was devoting his life to proving the contrary. His entire existence, it seemed, was based on the notion of pardon and redemption.

Take Kavanagh, for instance. He’d saved the man, even if he didn’t deserve it; Solange, too, and now Roberge. Philippe was not going to play the game by the cop’s manipulative rules and threats, even at the risk of losing his career.

So it was Max in shadows and silence, and his brother in the spotlight, as always. On the dais, Béatrice was silent and retiring. Wonder what she thought of all this? On TV, she was all smiles, elegance, and refinement — no way to guess what she felt — but Max knew she’d never forgive his selfishness: “You had a chance to redeem yourself.” What if Philippe was right, and he, not Max or Béatrice, was in touch with the truth about human nature? Max hoped so with all his heart, but didn’t believe it for a second.

The news seeped out discreetly, as though the journalist wanted to apologize for being such a party pooper. A short insert in an out-of-town daily hinted that Philippe had an “invisible brother.” Maybe it was worth looking into. Was the public aware that Max, the younger one, was a notorious con man, a chronic repeat offender whose comings and goings were as mysterious as his present location? An interview with Detective Sergeant Luc Roberge, economic crimes specialist, gave a few more details. Roberge painted the picture, true, alas, of an unscrupulous fraud artist, and went on to relate his endless pursuit of this international bandit whose misdeeds sapped the very basis of our society.

It was a juicy accusation that made headlines in all the dailies and news bulletins. Suddenly, Max was the one in the spotlight. Old newspaper photos revealed what had happened to some of his victims, who were only too pleased to soil the older brother’s reputation along with that of the younger. All of a sudden, “the successful diplomat” wasn’t what captured people’s attention, and his exploits in Asia seemed boring. Now what they wanted was his explanation, more information, heartfelt accusations, and fratricide. His advisers thought the same way. Philippe would have to disentangle himself from his wayward brother, a stain on the family’s reputation, or watch his rise come to a halt. Internal polls were already dipping, and the Opposition wanted his head before he’d even been elected! The lions were already on him before he even entered the arena.

Philippe insisted on continuing to believe in the power of the truth, and he went into lengthy explanations on TV. He opened himself up wide to the public, asking for their loyalty and confidence.

“If you choose someone, trust him, not those around him.” But it only made things worse. His frankness was questioned, and he was suspected of covering up even more crimes.

Official corruption and complicity were implied. What if the failure to put a stop to Max was due to his brother’s intervention with the Department of Justice, where he surely had contacts? This was the man to whom they were going to entrust major governmental responsibilities? It would surely come to light that the two brothers were partners in crime with a precise, detailed plan that had been in place for years.

Philippe couldn’t sleep. The perfect diplomat by day, he gave the impression this mudslinging wasn’t affecting him, but alone with Béatrice at night (David was staying with the Pattersons in Repentigny) he spent long hours at his work-table, haggard and wondering. It seemed that, no matter what he said and promised, his political career was in ruins.

At Dorval Airport, Philippe climbed into Max’s car, and the two drove away along the highway to the countryside without saying a word for a long time, till they got to the river’s edge, and around them nature in the form of an unattractive, untended forest that guaranteed them privacy at least. For a while, they both stared at one another, not saying a word.

“I could do it this afternoon, if you like,” Max said. “I’m already in touch with a lawyer, and he’ll make sure it attracts the least possible publicity …”

Philippe smiled sadly. Minimum publicity? There was no such thing. No maximum, either. Just publicity, period. The trap was shut around them. There was no escaping now. Too late for that. Max had been right, of course. Philippe was naive, an innocent soul who did not belong in politics.

For the sake of it, Max went on, “They’ll jump on me for sure, but you know what they’re like. In a week or two, there will be some other bright and shiny object.”

“This Roberge, do you think he’ll be content to keep his victory under wraps?”

“I’ll make sure of conditions.”

“That he’ll pay lip service to. He’d be crazy to do any different. All that matters is getting his man. The rest he doesn’t give a damn about.”

Max kicked a pebble into the river.

“Besides, what difference will it make? It’s over, anyway.”

Philippe went back to the car and got in. Max hesitated, then did likewise and got behind the wheel. Philippe looked straight ahead without a word. He just stared at the current.

“I’m truly sorry,” said Max.

Philippe turned to his brother, smiled his resignation once more, then ran his fingers through his hair the way he did as a boy. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine, my mistake. I don’t blame you.”

That evening at the Ritz Carlton, he stood behind the mic, surrounded by distraught supporters and announced his retirement from politics. The hall was deathly silent, funereal. This cadaver exhibited himself returning into the earth before the living. He never should have emerged in the first place. In mere weeks, all of his hopes had been swept away. The solitary man who remained on the stage, deprived of the role he’d prepared for since the beginning of his diplomatic career. Philippe refused to answer questions and comments that came from all sides, leaving that to a volunteer. Backstage, Béatrice embraced him tightly, the only person besides Max he could cling to in this senseless storm, and of course Béatrice hated Max and could never forgive him.

Lost among the gabbling flock of journalists drifting away to the exit, Max was a statue, though inside he felt a strange and uncomfortable sensation: the joy of being free, a joy tarnished by his brother’s sacrifice. Philippe’s decision had deprived Max of the only redemption available by putting his life in the balance as his brother had done. Philippe, as always, had taken on the entire burden, and Max actually felt cheated by his brother’s courage and generosity, by a moral strength that refused assistance.

Max spotted him when the hall was almost empty, and the staff were removing the chairs and other equipment. Luc Roberge was observing it all from a discreet corner of the room. He too seemed disappointed, cheated as well by Philippe’s sacrifice. In his world, Max supposed, nothing was free, just bought or traded. Philippe, on the other hand, had given without receiving or even wanting anything in return. He’d ruined Roberge’s plans, and Max was still free.

He, in turn, looked back and approached the exit. He hesitated to see if other cops were covering the rest , but there was no one. Roberge hadn’t realized Max was in town. He never thought his sworn enemy would be here tonight, so Max left the hotel unimpeded and went back to Mimi and Antoine’s. In his little room beneath the gable he figured this Roberge had a good lesson coming to him. The next day, his plan was all set: he’d swindle the investment fund of the Québec Police Force. Sabotage was a game two could play.