Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Mario Bolduc

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      “The police look the other way?”

      The same good-natured roar of laughter.

      The Maruti now went down a dusty road flanked by small, modest houses, luxurious compared to the slums on the main street. Jayesh stopped in front of one, and two kids in filthy pants appeared in the doorway, but an adult male hand forced them back inside.

      Max followed Jayesh into the house. A woman in a cotton sari bade them namaste, then immediately retreated into a back room with the children. Buckets beside the table told Max the neighbourhood had no running water, at least for now. The place was clean, with minimal furnishings. A policeman’s uniform hung behind the door.

      “Ashok Jaikumar works at CBI headquarters,” Jayesh explained, as the man nodded left to right as Indians do to show agreement. “He’s in on all Chief Inspector Dhaliwal’s meetings.”

      Jaikumar ran his hand through his oily hair and invited the two men to sit at the table. He had on a kurta pyjama, as always when he was inside, was about thirty years old, his head held high, even lofty, as shorter men often do. He seemed proud at being questioned, rather like the finalist in a quiz show. He offered them tea and barfi, boiled-milk sweets, but the two visitors declined.

      “Exactly what do you want to know?”

      First, 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 СКАЧАТЬ