not about to let things go, and Ayodhya became the symbol of a cause and a rallying-cry.
“Then, in December 1992, all hell broke loose. A bunch of Hindu crazies took apart the Babri Mosque stone by stone. But that wasn’t enough for them. Next, they emerged from the dust cloud that remained and headed into town, pillaging and massacring to their hearts’ delight. Sectarian violence then spread all across the country.
“The Islamic Hizb-ul-Mujahideen was bent on vengeance,” Vandana continued, “and attacks occurred all over, especially in Kashmir. Back in Canada, Genghis Khan didn’t miss an opportunity to spew his hatred of Hindu nationalists. He was the perfect target, the ideal bad guy, and easy to scoop up.
“He was in prison on and off. The last time was in the fall of 2001. Alone, isolated, and helpless, he had no illusions about Indian justice, least of all the hope for a trial. He was bound to lose anyway, and he was already paying through the nose to the RSS guards.”
“RSS?”
“Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, an association of national Hindi volunteers, extremists — fascists, in fact. They are paramilitary and have existed since 1925 — one of them killed Mahatma Gandhi. They’re fanatics who get off on trashing Muslims whenever they can, and aren’t ashamed to look up to the way Hitler tried to solve ‘the Jewish question’ in Europe.
“With thirty million militants, they’ve supported the Bharatiya Janata Party of Prime Minister Vajpayee, were in on the founding of it, in fact, and the government appreciates their support big-time,” Vandana said. “Benign neglect and willful blindness, complicity, as a matter of fact, and all it wants from the BJP it gets. The RSS spreads terror with impunity wherever it goes. The Ayodhya Massacre couldn’t have happened without the connivance of local authorities.
“Once Genghis Khan was free, the RSS pressure never let up. The one in charge of neutralizing him was Sri Bhargava. He’s the most violent member of the RSS, and he has no political ambitions,” she said. “His sole objective is simply to kill all Indian Muslims, or at least throw them out of the country, starting with Genghis Khan.
“In Hindu mythology, Durga is a merciless goddess on the warpath against ignorance; hence Bhargava’s name for his outfit, Durgas, even more radical then RSS. And this gougat won people over. Hindus saw him as the answer to Islamic terrorists, a kind of James Bond of ‘Hinduness.’
“As a result, all over the country, Bhargava and his Durgas took control of the terrorism. They used Islamist methods — bombs, martyrdom, et cetera, without ignoring the old methods, such as boycotts of Muslim shops, demolition of mosques, or pogroms in Muslim neighbourhoods. They even opened dozens of specialized schools — shakhas — focused on anti-Islamic doctrine, which followed the lead of madrassas, Qur’anic schools that sowed the seeds of radical Islam across Pakistan and elsewhere: similar methods, indoctrination, even misinformation.”
“Genghis Khan versus Agent 007; extremists in a struggle to the finish … would this Bhargava go so far as to kill a foreign diplomat?” Max had gradually been building toward a theory. “If David was buddy-buddy with Imam Khankashi,” he continued, “James Bond might have found out and wanted to teach him a lesson. See what I mean? Maybe not just him, but also the other Western diplomats who might be tempted to side with the bearded boys.”
Vandana recoiled slightly. She was sick about this whole thing, and it showed. Despite a very professional effort at masking it, she felt terrorized, too. Her position at the High Commission and her Western clothes made one forget she was Indian, that she lived here. She had a husband, family, perhaps children, all perfect prey for extremists. Max had read somewhere the story of a Hindu grandmother disfigured by acid simply for offering a glass of water to a Muslim labourer. Acid in the face was also the reward bestowed by an enraged Islamist on a young girl for wearing jeans on a bus in Srinagar.
“What files was David working on the last few days, apart from visiting the imam?”
Vandana sighed. She’d already been asked this a dozen times by Josh Walkins of the RCMP and his Indian colleagues. “Active and current files, I forget which,” she responded wearily. “He was preparing to leave for Montreal … the conference.”
“Lots of meetings with colleagues, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Did he make any phone calls, receive any visits?”
“Phone calls, but no appointments that I remember. I took care of it at Mr. Caldwell’s request. The few days in Delhi before his departure weren’t enough to finish up the Kathmandu files along with the run-up to Montreal.”
Kathmandu again.
This trip had been playing on Max’s mind. He put himself in David’s place — having to go home in the middle of the night after preparing the Montreal conference. Endless meetings with Bernatchez, Caldwell, and company. There were a thousand details to attend to and time was running short. The investors had to be reassured, fussed over, and given tender loving care; a huge job. Still, David had to go to Kathmandu in the shadow of the mountains … with Vandana along, too. Two fewer pairs of hands to do Bernatchez’s bidding.
That didn’t take into account Béatrice’s impromptu visit. David hadn’t seen his mother for months, and yet he chose that very moment to leave town.
Odd.
“Kathmandu — what exactly happened there? What did you do?”
“Meetings and get-togethers.”
“What about?”
“A literacy project we’ve been on for months with CIDA, the Canadian International Development Agency.”
“Even during a civil war?”
“The situation’s calmed down a bit,” she replied unconvincingly.
Max sensed she was hiding something, but what was it? He’d felt it from the beginning. A professional liar himself, he knew how to spot an amateur who’d never make it to his level of the game. The ones with no talent for it, like Vandana, didn’t have the skills for his kind of work.
“You’re right,” she said, changing the subject, “I left the flowers.”
13
David lay hidden beneath layers of therapeutic materials, and Béatrice hovered over him with a facecloth, which she used very tenderly to bathe his face, afraid of hurting him further. I feel like Virgin Mary at the foot of the cross in a half-tone Renaissance painting, thought Juliette. Outside the door, security agents kept watch. She was a member of their group now. She knew their habits, their tics, and their first names. They shared the same routine. The fountain at the end of the corridor, for example, was their turf. When they came into the room, however, it was always on tiptoe, but it was more for her and Béatrice than for David. He’d become part of the furniture, a thing, a pall.
At first, the two women had taken turns at his bedside, but now they left together in the evenings. Once in the apartment at the Rockhill, Juliette found Béatrice crying alone in the dark. Then they hugged each other tight. Juliette had just decided to tell Béatrice about her pregnancy, but she was no longer brave enough.
There was a long, plaintive ring of the phone in the night, and Juliette ran to pick it up before Béatrice had time to ask “Who could that be at such an hour?” Juliette knew somehow it was Max on the line.
“How’s David?”
His voice was surprisingly clear, though it came from the other side of the world.
There was so much to tell him, but she couldn’t get a thing out. Like a bashful young girl, she got all tangled up in polite phrases. I must sound like an idiot.
Max, genuinely polite, pretended not to notice.
Since yesterday, David had become feverish and developed pneumonia. She told him about her last discussion with Dr. Dohmann, the EEGs he’d shown her. Barring a miracle, there was no hope,