The Kashmir Trap. Mario Bolduc

Fifth Avenue across from the Metropolitan Museum. At a distance, a homeless man lay asleep on the sidewalk, his whole life contained in the torn and scattered plastic bags around him. Max got out the Walkman and slipped it into one of the bags, unnoticed, then continued on his way to nowhere.

      6

      “What identity did you come under?” Patterson asked.

      Max wasn’t in the mood to regale him with stories from his travels. Maybe some other time, so he got straight to the point.

      “What happened in New Delhi? Who’s responsible?”

      Patterson wiped his mouth, then took another swig of beer. The former diplomat was worn out. His eyes were red, glassy, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “No idea here, either,” he replied after a while.

      “Did you talk to David just before it happened?”

      Max shook his head, disappointed. “No. I knew he was busy.”

      Patterson sighed loudly. “Ha, we thought globalization was a one-way street. For trade, maybe. Not violence. Take that crapfest in Singapore, for instance, which unleashed a horror show in Caracas, then a catastrophe in St. Petersburg.”

      Max wasn’t there to hear the day’s headlines from an international-relations consultant.

      Patterson turned to him. “David was in the wrong country at the wrong time.”

      “Look, Patterson, I’m not one of your clients, okay? Explain.”

      “It could be any one of five groups, from what I could get out of my CSIS contacts.” Patterson considered the Canadian Security and Information Service diligent in its handling of the incident. “First, there’s the Hizb-ul-Mujahideen. They’re the biggest. A thousand Muslim fanatics, very highly trained, probably in Pakistan. Great planning …”

      “Like the Indian Parliament attack?”

      “No, that’s another Islamic group, Lashkar-e-Taiba, at least according to the Indians and CSIS. Their trademark is suicide missions, preferably spectacular. They’re based in Pakistan, but India, especially the disputed state of Kashmir, is their playground.”

      “And the other three?”

      “Similar style. This is a contest in violence of the most raw kind. Jaish-e-Mohammed, Harakat-ul-Ansar, and Al-Badr, all of them active in Kashmir, naturally. One of those is responsible, I’m certain. Remember the Hindu victims the other day in Jammu?”

      Max couldn’t see the connection with David. Why attack Canada? Why a diplomat … and not even the most important one, a rookie? An isolated, desperate move. It made no sense.

      Patterson shrugged. He had no idea either. No one had come forward, and even if they did, it might not mean anything. Often two or three groups claimed the same action so as to cover their tracks.

      “India’s a powder keg these days, because of Kashmir,” Patterson went on. “Poisonous Kashmir: a conflict left over from the dismantling of the British Empire in 1947. Since Partition, the Indians and Pakistanis haven’t let a chance go by to get at each other. Three wars already. Three times India has won, once in 1947 and 1948, once in 1965 — both wars over Kashmir — then again in 1971. Nothing changed for the locals. They were still cut in half by the demarcation line with the two armies facing off at the foothills of the Himalayas: a million soldiers and sixty-five thousand dead in over fifty-five years.

      “In the wake of September 11, and with Al-Qaeda, the conflict took on more resonance. A new scope, too. Before then, the only victims were in Kashmir. The rest of what went on up there stayed there: jihadist and Kashmiri rebels versus the Indian Army — homemade carnage. But now India is accusing the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence, the most formidable secret service in all of Asia, of covering for Islamic terrorists and helping them deploy all over the country. So, you might say things are tense.” Patterson paused, then added, “Especially now they both have the bomb. Sure, our minister of foreign affairs tried to cool things down, without taking sides, of course. As far as Kashmir’s concerned — like any other conflict of this type — Canada has to keep on good terms with both countries.”

      “So David was just an unlucky victim? No Italian or Japanese diplomats out on the street that day — oh, hey, wait, a Canadian!”

      “I can’t think of any other reason.”

      “What do we hire security people for, then?”

      “When in doubt, it’s good to be prepared for the worst. You never know … a Hizb-ul-Mujahideen hit man shows up at the General Hospital with an AK-47 slung on his shoulder —” Patterson looked up “— I know it’s crazy, but I wanted to reassure Juliette.”

      “The Mounties questioned her?”

      Patterson looked at Max a long while. “Béatrice is right,” he said ironically, “you’re going to stick your nose into this, aren’t you?”

      Max glanced at the half-open door to the Mughal Palace storage area, just as some Indian employees opened another one onto the street. Just for a moment, with both doors ajar, Max saw through to the other side of the building: parked in the alley was a police car with removable flashing light on the roof. No one was at the wheel. Could this be Roberge already? Again Max’s eyes roamed over the cafeteria. It was less busy now. Employees had finished lunch and were headed back to their offices. He looked around for Roberge’s profile, but didn’t see him. This time, Patterson picked up on his nervousness. No point in pretending.

      “You called them, didn’t you?” Max asked, but Patterson just smiled.

      “I have absolutely no interest in making life easier for Roberge. You know that.”

      That left Béatrice. Why had she turned him in?

      A man in a uniform shirt appeared at the north exit and another one at the south. They seemed to be looking for someone: it had to be him. So they hadn’t spotted him yet.

      “Look, I need an intro to the high commissioner, Bernatchez.”

      “Don’t get involved in this, Max. Stay away from it.”

      A third agent emerged from among the stands, a flabby guy pretending to be engrossed in the Mexican menu. And another among the tables. Then a bustle of activity behind the display of chalupas and enchiladas. There were shouts and the sound of a plate shattering, then a struggle on the ground. When the agents got up, they were firmly grasping a young Latino. Screeching of walkie-talkies followed — a successful raid right there in the Labyrinth.

      Another illegal on his way back to Chihuahua, courtesy of Her Majesty, thought Max. One more broken dream.

      The cops ignored Max and Patterson as they went off with their prize, looking proud, shoulders straight.

      Patterson resumed the conversation. “The situation there’s explosive. Way beyond our abilities, and yours, anyway.”

      “I don’t give a damn.”

      “You’re going to take off after Islamist terrorists all by yourself?”

      “Sure, why not?”

      Patterson shook his head hopelessly. “These guys are even worse than the Salvadoran army, Max, harder to get hold of.”

      Max closed his eyes. He could see Philippe’s office on Avenida Las Palmas, the chalk outline on the floor, the Policia Nacional officer by the door, pretending to be somewhere else, not wanting to disturb Max’s reunion with ghosts. I’ll see it through to the end, he told himself. I’ll keep my promise to Philippe.

      7

      The last of the trees had been cut down, or would be soon. The dirt roads had been cleared and marked out. Cranes, tractors, a giant Meccano set. From his window, the young Max could see the first construction sites, the first wounds. Houses going up as far as the eye could see; all identical, lining up like fresh scars.