LITMIR.BIZ

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the purple curtains announcing the Cretans’ Association — long gone, along with the pastry window displays — piles of baklava engorged with dripping honey.

      Max parked the Taurus near Athena Park on Jean Talon. Soulless blocks of grey concrete with fake windows just for decoration, called the Labyrinth to please its former Greek tenants, now served an Asian diaspora. Here were the offices of immigration lawyers, temp agencies, schools that taught languages, a tae kwon do academy, and Thai restaurants, and, naturally, import-export agents. Among them was the workplace of Dennis Patterson. Max had tried calling him, but he was at lunch, his secretary said. Max would not take no for an answer and was told Patterson always ate at noon in the ground-floor cafeteria.

      “I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he gets back.”

      Those who worked in the Labyrinth could eat their way around the world every lunch hour. The kitchen had a fast-food version of just about everywhere, with steaming vats standing out in the open for those in a hurry. You could go from China to North Africa to Mexico to Italy without jet lag, just some heartburn. Behind the counters, caterers in colourful costumes bustled constantly. A long lineup could cost them faithful customers who might not come back to New Orleans once they’d been to Polynesia and its sauces. You had to shake a leg, get excited, and convince the customer he was getting some serious effort.

      Max scanned the room: the white spots of tae kwon do outfits everywhere — the students ate there, too — and in front of the Mughal Palace, advertising vegetarian food, a young Indian woman was barely managing the daily specials. Dishes of masala vada and roti orbited her under the menacing eye of the turbaned boss, who was stationed behind, making the lemonade. Two other employees, both male, did hardly any better. Sooner or later, all three of them would probably be shown the door by the lemonade-maker.

      But Max wasn’t here with the hungry throng to feel sorry for the immigrant proletariat. He’d just spotted Dennis Patterson sliding his tray along in front of the Indian girl. The former diplomat had aged, and his breath probably smelled of Scotch, as usual. They’d first met when Philippe brought his classmate from the University of British Columbia home with him. Patterson had drunk all night long, even then, and Max recalled Philippe mentioning it. He even overheard a conversation between them years later. Philippe was warning Patterson about his habit, saying it could hurt his career.

      His brother had predicted correctly. Philippe had charged up through the ranks in fourth gear, whereas Patterson, after a distinguished beginning, had marked time. Parked in Ottawa behind a desk on Sussex Drive while his friends were posted around the world, he had left Foreign Affairs mid-career and wandered from one law firm to another — he’d trained as a legal adviser — before opening a consultancy in international relations in the basement of his bungalow in Repentigny.

      That was the best decision of his life. There was a real, concrete need for Canadian companies just waking up to the opportunities of “emerging markets,” as the jargon had it. There couldn’t be any gaffes or approaches to the wrong people. In this blind uncertainty, Patterson was their seeing-eye dog. It wasn’t his job to tell them which country to go to, but simply how to get there with as few problems as possible.

      Though a poor bureaucrat, Patterson turned out to be a dynamic entrepreneur; he hired other defrocked functionaries from the department and unceasingly developed his manic attention to significant details: You’re invited to visit a Japanese colleague. Do you wear a tie or not? Jacket? By virtue of his effort and eighteen-hour days, he became indispensable in his domain, and now he employed twenty people on the eighth floor of the Labyrinth, drove two Mercedes — one sport, one not — and owned a summer home in Sutton. All this did not stop him from enjoying the chicken curry special at $5.99, soft drink included.

      “Luc Roberge is after you. He’s already met Béatrice.”

      Max already knew where the emergency exits were and that a second elevator was located on the south side of the building. He also knew there was an alley behind some stands beyond the storage room. From where he stood, he could also see the saloon door to the kitchen in the Mughal Palace, which was in constant activity with employees going back to the storage to fill up on beef bhuna or shrimp biryani. Even if Roberge found his way here, Max was sure he’d be able to sneak out. He might be Public Enemy Number One, but only to the cop. They’d have given Roberge a partner, two at most, but ones better suited to working on a computer than tailing anyone in a car. Photocopying would be more their style than high-speed chases through the city streets, so nothing much to worry about in that department, at least for now.

      In Max’s absence and after Philippe’s death, Patterson had been David’s surrogate father. This way, Béatrice was sure he had everything he needed and his inheritance handled properly. Money management wasn’t Béatrice’s thing. Spending it was. From the U.S., Max had discreetly kept an eye on things via some contacts in brokerage houses, and amazingly, he found absolutely no misdoing on Patterson’s part. He administered Philippe’s pension with complete honesty, leaving no room for reproach on investment matters. So, despite his alcoholism, Patterson was a much better guardian than Max, though Béatrice had never given Max a chance to prove himself.

      Patterson seemed to read his thoughts: “Love abhors a vacuum,” he said. “I simply stepped into the space that was available.”

      Béatrice had David in Rabat, Morocco, but Max first saw him at age three. He’d been living in New York and only came back to Canada incognito, always at great risk, but never encountered any serious problems. He and Philippe had arranged a code to be printed in the International Herald Tribune want ads. Their get-togethers seemed more like secret meetings, always furtive, always in a crowd: in the middle of a park, on the Metro. Two big kids having fun unknown to anyone close to them, but Max had to be more and more careful. Roberge had realized how close they were and was sure to use this “weakness” to grab Max one of these days. Family reunions became more dangerous. That didn’t stop Max from sending birthday presents to David via Philippe, but this, too, had its risks. Young David had been fascinated by this American uncle who rarely showed up, and when he did it was unannounced, quickly and on the sly. What else could they say to the boy? That Max was on the run from police in three U.S. states and two Canadian provinces? Of course, this couldn’t go on forever.

      In December 1987, when David was nine and the little family was back in Ottawa for the holidays, Max and his brother set up a meeting at the Plaza in New York. But Béatrice showed up instead, the International Herald Tribune in her hand … quite a surprise for Max. Over smoked salmon and under the loudspeakers moaning a disco version of “Jingle Bells,” she asked Max not to try to see his brother again. Béatrice wasn’t going to let her husband risk his career on these escapades.

      “So why didn’t he come and tell me himself?” Max was annoyed.

      In fact, Philippe didn’t know about his wife’s manoeuvring. He thought she was in Montreal to finish up her Christmas shopping, and she was not about to clue him in either. She wanted Max alone to make this decision and bear the brunt of the blame for the estrangement.

      “And if I refuse to go along?” he said unconvincingly.

      “You won’t.” She smiled sadly, placing her hand on his. “You love Philippe too much to make him risk his future.”

      She was right, and he knew it. The sacrifice was his to make, and he only wished he’d been the one to take the initiative. In a way, it was humiliating that it came from Béatrice, but being cut off from Philippe meant being cut off from David, too. She pushed away the untouched salmon and reached into her purse, pulling out a gift-wrapped box with a red ribbon that Max recognized. The Walkman he had sent his nephew. Every year he sent a present. She held it out to him and he slipped it into his pocket. This, too, he understood, and he nodded.

      “This will be our little secret.”

      He nodded again.

      “Thanks, Max, for Philippe.”

      Central Park was covered in snow. The hack drivers took him for a tourist. The sky was grey, so more snow was coming. Max and Béatrice had parted inside the hotel: she was booked on the four o’clock flight to Montreal

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