how far the investigation had got and Dhaliwal’s thoughts on it. Apparently, Dhaliwal was at his wit’s end. It resembled nothing he’d ever seen before.
“Any connection to the group that attacked Parliament?” Max asked.
“That’s what Dhaliwal’s team thought at first: Harakat-ul-Ansar — they’d intercepted some of their activists a few days before; or maybe Jaish-e-Mohammed — they’re also very active in New Delhi. The police had their inside informants, moles, in fact, and at least a general notion of the jihadis’ comings and goings, but embassies and consulates weren’t on their hit list.”
“A change of strategy, maybe?” Max asked. “I mean, who’d have thought that Lashkar-e-Taiba would one day launch an attack on Parliament?”
“Sure, especially with ammonium nitrate–based explosives. They’re a favourite with terrorists,” said Jaikumar.
“Not to mention kidnapping,” Max added.
The policeman was surprised to find Max so up-to-date on what, until now, had been kept from the media, and equally surprised to discover he knew about David’s wounds from before the bomb attack, something the investigators found intriguing, needless to say.
“What, in fact, happened between the time David and his driver left the High Commission —”
“Witnesses put it at about 4:30 p.m.,” cut in Jaikumar.
“— and the car bomb six hours later by the banks of the Yamuna on the other side of town?”
Baffled, Jaikumar shrugged. “The police are leaving no stone unturned, and Lal Krishna Advani, the minister of home affairs, is following the investigation closely. You know Inspector Dhaliwal is from Gandhinagar, in Gujarat, the same state Advani represents in Parliament, and he keeps him constantly up to date, verbally, of course, as one does with politically dangerous files like this.”
Jaikumar was biding his time, holding something back till he got the price he wanted. Out of the corner of his eye, Max saw Jayesh pull out a huge roll of rupees, and he dropped some bills on the table. The policeman looked at them for a long while without touching them, then said, “The RCMP fellow searched the diplomat’s house from top to bottom, went off with his computer at the High Commission, and then scanned his appointment book, address list, and agenda.”
Jaikumar slid the rupees into a drawer under the table. Now it was time for the grand revelation. “The day before the kidnapping, do you know who the young man saw? Majid Khankashi, imam at the Kasgari Mosque, better known as Genghis Khan to the Hindi press.”
Jaikumar was proud of his scoop and happy with the money, so he added, “An opinion-maker with considerable influence in Jammu and Kashmir State, where he comes from, and Delhi, too, of course. He’s suspected of being the éminence grise of Hizb-ul-Mujahideen, perhaps even an agent of Inter-Services Intelligence.”
The policeman paused for a moment before continuing, “Did you know the Volvo exploded near Yamuna Pushta, a Muslim slum?”
Max persisted. “What was David meeting him about?”
That Jaikumar could not say. There was no way to interrogate Khankashi, because the imam had disappeared the day after his meeting with David, the day of the explosion itself. He was suspected of hiding out in Kashmir or elsewhere on the Pakistani side.
“Why?”
Jaikumar shook his head. The massacre of Hindus in Jammu, maybe, plus the killing of Ghani Lone. Khankashi was suspected of contracting it out or at least being involved in some way. Every time there’d been a flare-up of violence in recent months, fingers had been pointed at Indian Muslims. Being a Muslim in India was not good, not good at all. The slightest skirmish or lawlessness rained public hatred down on them. They were the whipping boys, the scapegoats. They’d always been suspect in this country. Were they even “real Indians”? They probably had some secret agenda in collusion with worldwide Islam, for instance. If they had to choose between India and Al-Qaeda, which would it be? The events of these past weeks spoke for themselves, didn’t they? Then again, maybe Genghis Khan was wary of meeting the same fate as the Kashmiri leader. What if he wasn’t responsible for the killing? What if he’d just taken off? That was the hypothesis of the investigators.
Genghis Khan, thought Max, our first real lead.
11
The citizens of Delhi might not be taking the threat of war seriously, but the authorities had both thumbs on the panic button. In order to protect the Canadian High Commission, the minister of home affairs had pulled out all the stops. Heavy-set and heavily armed troopers in khaki lent support to the regular security agents, casting the same wary eye over visitors at the entry point. So, this was it. Canada was now officially a member of the victims-of-terrorism club. As Max got out, the taxi made a U-turn on Shantipath and headed for the “normalcy” of downtown. Here the scope of the upheaval struck him. More of the same frenzy in the waiting room, though with less noise and fewer raised voices. Under the Canadian flag, Indians in ties and wearing perfume, with slicked-back hair, were waiting for visas or work permits. Obviously, recent events had put them in even more of a hurry to get out of here ASAP. Max went up to the counter where a young bilingual woman (“in the two official languages” according to the small blue panel on her left) accepted Mr. Brokowich’s passport — provided by Antoine — as he asked to see Raymond Bernatchez.
“Unfortunately, the high commissioner is —”
“— I have an appointment,” Max cut in. “He’s expecting me.”
Patterson had done things right: a couple of hmms and yeahs on the phone and an electronic click came from the door on the right. Under the envious gaze of the mere mortals in the waiting room, Max disappeared into the office complex.
“My name’s Sunil Mukherjee, secretary to Mr. Bernatchez.” He held out his hand. He was young with grey hair, probably in his forties. His large glasses gave him a serious, professorial look. Max followed him down a corridor of photos showing winterscapes, no doubt to help visitors cool off, then up some stairs. Mukherjee walked fast, never looking around. On the second floor was a half-open door and a desk covered with papers and a bouquet of flowers — no doubt David’s office. Max felt like going in and sitting down as he had in Philippe’s embassy office in San Salvador under similar circumstances. Mukherjee was waiting up ahead before another half-open door. That was Bernatchez’s office.
When Max went in, the high commissioner was on the phone with his broad back to the visitor. This man, Juliette had primed him, used to be a pro football player, though flabby now from lack of training. The chair swivelled round and Bernatchez waved Max to a seat, then went back to his previous position. Faced with a wall of back once more, Max discreetly surveyed the usual run of family photos: three offspring in graduation robes, smiling and full of the joy of life (“Thanks, Dad.”) and a more recent one taken in India, probably his wife, with Indian children in her arms.
“Sorry for the mess, Mr. Brokowich,” Bernatchez got up with his hand outstretched for Max to shake. “Dennis tells me you felt it was essential for us to meet.”
Now Max’s cover had to be flawless. After supposedly talking to David in Kathmandu on the phone, Brokowich had decided, after weeks of hesitation, to go over the heads of his board (“such nervous Nellies … you have no idea”) and take part in the Montreal conference anyway. Patterson was terrific and a great help, but he was worried after what happened to his contact, David (“How horrible … awfully sad”), and now this impending war as well. So, on his way from Singapore to Montreal, he had decided to stop over in Delhi to check on things.
After meeting with Juliette, then Patterson, Max realized that several businessmen had threatened to pull out in light of recent events. Though Patterson was the guest speaker, he’d advised his clients to put their investment plans on hold: “just till things settled down.” If this had been happening across the board, Bernatchez’s phone must have been ringing off the hook for a week.
Bernatchez replied