The Kashmir Trap

by Mario Bolduc

  “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 inves
tment 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!”

  27

  Hari Singh was the last maharajah of Kashmir. A Hindu at the head of a mostly Muslim state, unable to choose between India and Pakistan, he had taken refuge in Jammu a few months after Partition.

  “To make himself useful to the Indians?” asked Max.

  “More like to wait and let events determine his political position,” explained Jayesh.

  Hari Singh hadn’t left Srinagar of his own volition. In the fall of 1947, the mountain horsemen of Pakistan had set out for the Kashmiri capital, intent on laying waste to it, and then, while they were at it, annexing the entire region to Pakistan.

  “So the dream of Kashmiri independence went up in smoke. An independence no one wanted them to have, for strategic reasons above all.”

  It was stuck between Islamic Pakistan (a consolation prize from the “international community” after the foundation of the state of Israel that same year) and India, victimized by the caste system and prone to anti-Muslim pogroms, not to mention Tibet to the east, soon to be occupied by Maoist China. There were sentimental factors as well. Kashmir was the entry to Hinduism from the twelfth century B.C. It was also the homeland of Nehru, who, with Gandhi, fathered the modern Indian state.

  The approach of the men from the mountains forced the maharajah to request support from New Delhi, which in exchange insisted on the annexation of Kashmir, an offer Hari Singh could not refuse. Indecision is always the worst policy of all. Still, the Indian Army did come to the rescue of Srinagar and succeeded in pushing the invaders back to a few kilometres from the capital. Then stagnation set in, as though the leaders on both sides had studied nothing but the First World War and the Battle of Verdun. This was often the problem with Third World armies, Jayesh said. They were economically too weak to support their military advances.

  Then the newly created UN got involved and established a ceasefire line, which is pretty much unchanged to this day. To the southeast lay Jammu and Kashmir under Indian control, and to the northwest, Azad Kashmir, under the Pakistanis, perpetual losers in the wars with India. Now, for the first time, both powers held equal strength due to the nuclear evil that both could deploy.

  Buses overflowing with refugees filed past the Maruti, one of many convoys the men had passed on their way out of the capital, tongas (horse-drawn carts), as well as other animals whipped on by kids. Such was the ignorance of the poor who thought they could escape nuclear hell by moving a few kilometres farther down the road. Specialists estimated the outcome at 20 million dead. Already, cameramen were in the capital to preserve the mushroom cloud for posterity, as well as the evening news, the first great nuclear boo-boo of the twenty-first century.

  Jayesh managed to weave his way between two trucks and get back to the main highway, which was now clear. They spent the night in Chandigarh, then Jalandhar and the Punjab near the crossing into Kashmir at Pathankot, which was swarming with soldiers. Next, they reached Samba, crawling along in the middle of an interminable military convoy. In the opposite direction came Kashmiris headed south in cars smothered in cheap suitcases, and more buses bulging with refugees. This was still an exodus, though different from the better-policed and more “Western” one from Indira Gandhi Airport, despite the numbers. Here, it was a total free-for-all. Only a few kilometres west lay the border of the Pakistani sector where all hell was raging.

  Jayesh’s car was practically the only civilian vehicle headed back north. Fascinated emigrants shook their heads when they saw Max, just another crazy foreigner with a death wish. Ever since he arrived in Asia, he had the feeling people had been trying to open his eyes and teach him a lesson, but perhaps it was really a distraction or a diversion.

  “Why?” he wondered aloud. “What are they hiding?”

  Jayesh shrugged. “That attack on David, pretty effective, eh?”

  “An organization?”

  “Killers are careful people, tenacious too. Nothing gets in their way.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Well, we’re a long way from our goal, so their attempt to get us off their trail is working pretty good.”

  “So we’re not a threat anymore.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “So that’s why no one has lifted a hand against us, except Roberge, of course.”

  Jammu looked like a big resort town after summer holidays were over. It felt abandoned: dusty streets and closed shops with windows boarded up. A capital without its people, mostly Hindus, who were now in flight amid the usual disorder. A ghost town inhabited only by soldiers in combat gear. The “real Kashmir” was still farther north. That was Muslim Kashmir. The wondrous valley. Max would have liked to go on, but they couldn’t because of both the curfew and the mountains. Twelve hours of twisting and weaving along the road through steep-cliffed valleys and long, deep ravines. Bad roads invaded by Indian troops sent to support the one hundred thousand already around S
rinagar. A few kilometres away from Jammu there would certainly be another roadblock. At best, they’d have to retrace their steps. At worst, they’d be thrown in jail, especially since Max had no travel papers. The counterfeit IDs Antoine had made were all seized by the cops at the Liverpool Guest House, and even if Jayesh could eventually get him a fake passport, Canadian or other, they’d never get one good enough at Jammu.

  They had a another big problem. Max was known to the Indian police now, having escaped extradition, supposing that Luc Roberge had sounded the alarm, and there was every reason to believe he had. Roberge was a proud man, and he’d just been handed a huge humiliation, but he’d still have to get the fugitive tracked down.

  The Hotel Sinbad on Canal Road had a pale-skinned manager taller than most Indians. The biggest surprise was his blue eyes and his grey, formerly blond, hair, but despite his European look, the man had an Indian accent. Jayesh told Max that some Indian Kashmiris were descendants of Alexander the Great’s troops who decided to settle here instead of returning to their native Greece, a country which, at the time, was tall and blond, not yet mixed with Balkan or Turkish people as it would be in the following centuries. According to legend, the racial purity of these soldiers had lasted to this day. Max realized how this genetic “curiosity” contributed to the Hinduization of the country. Jayesh added that Hinduism had arrived from the north and been imposed on the Dravidians in the south. Thus India was divided in two: the Brahmanic culture to the north, based on purity, and the caste system dominated the Dravidian culture to the south. It was hardly surprising, then, that Untouchables were mainly dark-skinned, and the Brahmins, priests and higher-ups, were lighter.

  Their rooms proved spartan but clean, and catered, as advertised, to tourists and travelling officials — so, really, everyone. Line of work? Journalist. What else could you say? A half-dozen of them lingered in the hall, headed, like Max and Jayesh, to Srinagar in the early morning. They were posing as hard-boiled “loose cannons” flying by the seat of their pants at their own expense.