LITMIR.BIZ

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      Max was now hoping that Griffith hadn’t altered her appearance too much since the photo he’d seen in the annual report.

      He needn’t have worried, for around seven-thirty, a grey Mercedes with tinted windows, driven by a chauffeur, drew up near the entrance to the gym, and a few seconds later, a woman of about fifty emerged from the club and headed straight for the car. Susan Griffith was elegant and apparently determined; the kind of person who had no time to lose and was always late for appointments. Had Hoberman talked to her since his visit? Max was betting he hadn’t. He’d wait for news from the “journalist” before alerting the boss to his existence. He would be in no hurry to admit his recent indiscretions, either.

      The moment she opened the car door, Max approached her. “Mrs. Griffith?”

      She turned and was on the defensive, but Max smiled and held up his ID card: “Detective Sergeant André Sasseville of the RCMP.”

      Griffith looked intrigued. “What’s going on?”

      “Just two or three questions is all. I’m in charge of the inquiry into the death of …” Max took a card out of his pocket and pretended to read from it, ‘Ahmed Zaheer at Niagara Falls.’” He watched for a reaction to the journalist’s name, but there was none.

      “What does that have to do with me?”

      Max explained what had happened to Zaheer. The reception-desk clerk had heard him call SCI and ask to speak to Griffith. It was a bluff, but Griffith was now watching him with interest.

      “I have an eight o’clock meeting at home,” she said. “If you like, we can discuss it on the way. Then my chauffeur will take you anywhere you like.”

      Max got in with her. Bloor Street. Choked with traffic as usual, it served Max well. He’d have more time to question her.

      The CEO of Stewart-Cooper knew no one named Ahmed Zaheer, nor any other Indian journalist for that matter.

      “What about when you were in Kashmir?”

      She was surprised he knew about that period in her life, so he quickly followed up: “I found out on the Web, and I thought he might be someone you knew at the time.”

      “It’s true, I did live in India, Kashmir in particular, but I had no time to hang out with journalists.”

      “Of course.” He added, “I heard about the closing of the central. A real pity.”

      She registered her disgust for all that, her depression about it, too. It was obvious she cared more about that plant than any other. It would be natural, since it was her baby, her own creation, according to Hoberman. Then she had to be the one to suspend activities and lay off the personnel.

      “Maybe that was what Zaheer wanted to talk to you about.”

      Max saw the chauffeur was turning onto Mount Pleasant Road in Rosedale, with its cushy homes, large patios, and Hollywood pools. Griffith was now more distant and reticent, at least as far as this conversation was concerned. She repeated knowing nothing about this Ahmed Zaheer, whom she’d never met.

      “Well, we’re here. I’m so sorry I can’t help you more.”

      The Mercedes had pulled up in front of a sumptuous residence that outdid its neighbours. Griffith opened the door, and Max got out to walk around to her side.

      “There’s just one last question. A Canadian diplomat was recently attacked in New Delhi three weeks ago, and the Indian police think he was in touch with Ahmed Zaheer. His name was David O’Brien.”

      Griffith had heard about it from the papers.

      “I didn’t know him, but I’m very sorry.”

      “When you were in India …”

      “Look, Sergeant. All this has nothing to do with me, and now if you’ll excuse me.”

      Sure, thought Max. Besides, he really had no choice. She briskly walked toward the house and “Sergeant Sasseville” was already history. Then he heard the voice of the chauffeur behind him.

      “Where do you want to go, sir?”

      Max waved him away. “Nowhere, I need to stretch my legs.” And think.

      35

      The Indo-Pakistani crisis was headlined in every news outlet. Indian Prime Minister Vajpayee had shown imagination in setting up joint patrols with the Pakistanis to prevent terrorists from infiltrating into Kashmir, an idea that Musharraf found interesting. They were still on a war footing: Portugal advised its citizens to leave the region, and Air France had cancelled all flights to Delhi, though beneath the surface, the ice was beginning to thaw, but only on a very slow drip. Musharraf wanted international observers and the UN along the Line of Control, and Vajpayee refused. Then there was the troubling story of a rice truck loaded with arms being intercepted in Gujarat. The Indians said they came from Pakistan and were bound for Ahmedabad, where Hinduist militants had massacred Muslims two months before.

      Juliette was right; sectarian conflict couldn’t be disentangled from Indo-Pakistani relations.

      “In India, everything’s connected to everything else, she had said. “You can’t separate one event from another.”

      As Max drove along the 401 in a rental car, Juliette called.

      “The ‘Report on Business’ section of the Globe and Mail for November 2000,” she said.

      “Yes?”

      “An article about Brad Thomassin and his small family from Downsview moving to Rashidabad. Here’s an engineer who’s never been out of the neighbourhood, and he’s worried about spending three years without Harvey’s, Walmart, and McDonald’s, but fortunately Brad had the advantage of some sessions of familiarization with daily life in Asia given by …”

      “Dennis Patterson.”

      “Hired by SCI so their employees know the difference between a Shiite, a Sunni, a turban, and a Sikh.”

      Max smiled. Some results at last.

      “And that’s not all,” Juliette added. “I asked Vandana about IndiaCare.”

      “Susan Griffith’s outfit?”

      “Who do you suppose she got the idea from? Geneviève, Raymond’s wife.”

      Juliette went on to talk about what Vandana called “the budding friendship” between Susan Griffith and Geneviève Bernatchez as the months went by, their common feeling about the unfortunate orphans in this country, their worthy cause taking shape under the benevolent eye of the high commissioner.

      Max remembered seeing a photo of Geneviève with Indian babies in her arms on the desk in Bernatchez’s office, but something else about Juliette’s news bothered him, the orphans, more specifically the orphan girls. The little girls Sister Irène had been forced to abandon.

      Suddenly, two worlds collided.

      “You still there, Max?”

      “Yeah, yeah.”

      The picture was beginning to resolve itself, even if the content didn’t yet add up.

      A dam in the heart of Kashmir; the friendship of the woman responsible for the dam and the high commissioner’s wife; an international adoption programme; a journalist, now accidentally killed; and his links to David, though cloudy for the moment.

      Three hours later, and Max was in Montreal, in the Labyrinth to be exact. Farther off, at the Mughal Palace stand, the nervous young Indian girl of his first visit had gained experience. No more hesitation and gaffes, and she was heating up the bowls of dal and curry dishes with the skill of a Culinary Academy of India graduate, as well as sliding the papadums and naan bread out of the microwave with the ease of a chef at the Taj Mahal Hotel, all of which tickled the boss as he slicked back his moustache behind the cash.

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