“I’ve become just like him. I feel just what he felt.”
After Rabat, Ankara, and Bangkok, Philippe had become an ambassador himself, slipping in ahead of one of the prime minister’s protégés, a shoo-in whose mentor had promised him Thailand while he waited for a Senate seat. However, the minister of foreign affairs had played hardball, and the Asian Tiger was awakening, so a young wolf was required on the scene, not some sleepy bear who’d get eaten alive. The prime minister had agreed, finally. With the protégé gone to Lisbon, Philippe moved into the Silom Road offices. This was a coup in Canadian diplomatic circles. Philippe was one of the youngest ever named to such an important posting. Max understood better than ever the kind of precautions Béatrice was taking. The rocket was on the launch pad and she was not risking a misfire. Philippe was aimed at the upper atmosphere, and flying close to the sun.
David at ten years old. The photos Philippe sent showed him in front of Wat Phra Kaew, temple of the Emerald Buddha. Piloting a motorized pirogue in the middle of the Chao Phraya. A boy with intelligent eyes and an attentive gaze, curious, hands on his mother’s shoulders. “Manly.” Keeping his promise to Béatrice, Max answered the last messages from his brother, explaining that security considerations forced him to proceed with much more prudence and discretion from now on. So their little ads to one another in the paper became increasingly rare, till they disappeared altogether, though Max never stopped looking for them. Béatrice was surely satisfied. The break was complete.
Thus, after Pascale came Philippe.
Would anything have been different if Max had refused Béatrice’s demand at the Plaza? What if he had told her to take a hike and mind her own business? She could not possibly understand the bond that united them, or with Gilbert and against Solange. All three huddled together like players in Sunday afternoon football. Max figured it was the best thing to do at the time, but since Philippe’s death, he’d come to doubt his decision, and even more so since David’s murder. He kept replaying it in his head over and over, shuffling the deck each time, but with the same result.
What was he doing in India, anyway? Was he looking for his nephew’s killers, or was that just an excuse for setting his own house in order, or understanding it at least?
Philippe’s life took a sudden turn, Max recalled: fresh blood for the Canadian government’s electoral machine, which was badly in need of it. He was rumoured to be “ministrable.” Meanwhile in Bangkok, Philippe had not yet decided, but he’d been approached and was “interested” in this scenario. Journalists used to grazing on Parliament Hill found themselves interviewing the ambassador down by the klongs, holding their noses against the putrid stench of the water … no connection with the Rideau Canal. Bangkok was an open-air sewer.
The leak came from inside the party, of course, or else Philippe himself. He wasn’t about to jump into the lions’ den without first having an idea of what the opinion-makers thought of his change of career. At worst, it would be viewed as a meaningless “parachute-drop,” a make-up operation, additional proof that Ottawa’s opportunistic administration was dead on its feet. Well, none of that happened. For once, the media agreed that the future candidate had potential, that plus the fact that the young ambassador had sent a wake-up call, as they say. Philippe’s initiatives in Southeast Asia had shown that Canada was no longer the lapdog of the U.S. Now, it could not only bark, but bite, too. This was necessary to the country’s independence. It did not go down well with the American ambassador, but won the admiration of the French and Australians, who disliked the increasing encroachment of the U.S. in the region. Vietnam was still fairly fresh in their minds, and the Americans with their two left feet were not welcome there.
Philippe played his cards right, and his performance did not go unnoticed by the head-hunters. Today the minister, tomorrow the prime minister, and why not? Canadian diplomacy had already yielded Lester B. Pearson, and Philippe O’Brien was cut from the same cloth. The red carpet was rolled out from Bangkok to Ottawa, now it was up to him to commit, and to inform his family … all of it.
The brothers met at La Guardia during Philippe’s stopover on the way to Toronto, their first contact in months.
“So, what does David think of having the future Minister of Foreign Affairs for a father?” Max asked.
Philippe smiled. “You don’t approve?”
“Who am I to tell you what to do?”
Philippe looked ill at ease. The decision had been a hard one, of course. Max could imagine them: Philippe and Béatrice, unable to get to sleep at night, discussing it on the barred verandah of their home. David would be napping, unaware that he’d have to change schools in mid-year, yet again. Max had a hard time with ambition: having any, cultivating it, even considering it a quality in someone. In his line of work, it was a fault, a weakness, a failing, the soft spot for another crook like himself to exploit. Philippe’s, though, was not your run-of-the-mill ambitiousness.
“I’m tired of representing people I don’t respect or trust. I’d like to change things.”
From the depths of the backstage, far from the spotlight, Max could see his brother was taking his new role very seriously. He was as good at politics as diplomacy. He was photogenic, but not smug, and he knew how to play credibly to the camera without being boring or pompous. With journalists, he always had just the right word at hand, the perfect quotable phrase for headlines. He wasn’t alone in this, of course. There was an army of scribes ready with speeches and jokes, but he never gave the impression he was just reading from a script, holding forth or making people laugh on cue.
By mid-campaign, he was considered a shoo-in, but that didn’t stop him from crisscrossing his future riding with constantly renewed energy; Béatrice and David by his side: the holy family, the ideal family, once more.
“I’m here to learn,” he used to say, quoting the Russian hockey players who came to scare the daylights out of North American players in the 1970s. Well, everyone lapped that up and laughed. He was a good learner, and quicker than other diplomats. One day, though …
Béatrice was seated across from Max in a New York café, the second encounter without Philippe’s knowledge, and she’d come with a definite purpose in mind that she found hard to put into words. Finally, she came out with it. She’d had a visit from Luc Roberge, who had done his little number about how he respected Philippe and believed, like everyone else, that he’d be a great minister. Still, his job wouldn’t let him feign ignorance about the younger brother. The crook, the counterfeiter, the invisible man. Here’s what he proposed: if Max turned himself in to the police, Roberge would treat the whole thing “confidentially,” so as not to compromise Philippe’s budding political career. This is what Béatrice had come to New York to discuss with Max in secret one more time, to ask him, beg him, not to blow her husband’s dream out of the water.
“Or else?”
“The usual fanfare.”
Never had Max hated Roberge so very much, but what could he do but make the sacrifice? Once more. Was it worth it? Who could guarantee Roberge would keep his promise? What was to stop some nosy journalist from rooting around below the surface of a politician beyond reproach? Then again, what choice did Max have? Could he refuse Philippe, and, in a way the country, the career to which he was already sacrificing his own life?
Of course not. Thinking was required, naturally, over a Scotch in the Westbury on Madison, where Max had set up quarters those past six months. So, Abel was venturing into politics, and Cain was planning his exit. The lightweight but effective organization he’d built up would have to be demolished. Even the operation already underway would have to be ditched. The cadre at Consolidated Edison he’d been grooming patiently for months would have to be left twisting in the wind. Then, of course,