“Chief Inspector Lacoste is on site?” Gamache asked.
“She’s monitoring the head of the Québec cartel, and will let us know any movement,” said Toussaint.
“Bon. Inspector Beauvoir, you have the tactical plans?”
“I do.” He pointed to the ordnance maps on which he’d laid out where each of them would be positioned and what their objective would be. Plans every person in the room was very familiar with.
Their lives, and those of their comrades, depended on knowing exactly what would be expected of each of them. What each of their targets and objectives would be. Both primary and secondary.
They’d be a small force, so each agent had to be perfectly placed. Every person, every movement, precise.
The tactical team had been alerted, briefed, weeks ago, without being told the objective.
The Sûreté had two great advantages. They knew, after months of monitoring, exactly where the drugs would cross the border. And the syndicates had been lulled into believing the Sûreté was completely useless.
There was, though, another great advantage, Beauvoir knew. One perhaps less obvious. Motivation. Desperation even. Their backs were to the wall, to the ocean. This had to work.
But now something unexpected, though not unwelcome, had been added.
The head of the East Coast syndicate would also be there, and would no doubt bring his own small army.
A series of unknowns had been thrown into their carefully constructed plan.
The stakes had just gone higher, and the rewards had become almost inconceivable. But so had the dangers.
“They might not be relevant anymore,” Beauvoir warned, gesturing toward the maps.
“The American head might change the drop-off point,” Toussaint said. “There might be another one they prefer.”
Gamache could feel the tension rising. And he could sense the mammoth efforts each agent was making to keep their anxiety under control.
“They might. Or they might not. We can’t know. All we can do is go with what we do know, and be prepared to pivot. D’accord?”
“D’accord, patron,” they said as one.
Gamache thought for a moment, going over the strategy laid out in the plans. Then he turned to Beauvoir. “Do you think there’s a better way to do this?”
Beauvoir had also been quickly reviewing the plans, now indelibly in his head.
“I’ll need to adjust it,” said Beauvoir. “With the head of the syndicate there, there’ll be more security. And they’ll be more alert. But”—he thought about it—“I think the plan is still solid. As long as nothing else changes.”
“Your informant is with them?” Gamache asked, and Toussaint nodded.
“Bon,” said Gamache, getting to his feet. Everyone in the room rose with him. “If we have to makes changes on the fly, well, it won’t be the first time, will it?”
That brought laughter and knowing nods. Though the more veteran members of the team weren’t laughing so much anymore.
“I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”
As soon as the Chief Superintendent left, Beauvoir bent over the plans he’d worked on at home, for months, hoping this day would come.
When Honoré awoke in the night, he’d fed and soothed him while Annie slept. Rocking his son gently, and poring over the map, murmuring plans of attack.
How to hunt, arrest, and if necessary kill.
Not exactly Winnie the Pooh. Or Pinocchio. Not the bedtime story he’d hoped for his child. But if they were successful, it did increase Ray-Ray’s chances of growing up healthy and safe. Of never having to find out what happens when the straight road splays.
“All right.” Beauvoir got the attention of the assembled agents. “Let’s go through this.”
He glanced again at the large clock on the far wall.
Twenty to six.
Then he looked at the closed door. He had to speak to Gamache, before whatever was going to happen that night happened. There could be nothing left unsaid between them.
* * *
Armand Gamache loosened his tie and he pulled his damp shirt out of his slacks. Going over to his desk, his hand went to the drawer where he kept his clean shirts.
But then he hesitated and, instead, he dug into his pocket, and bringing out a key, he unlocked the top drawer. Sliding it open, he saw the notebook and napkin.
It had been a while, months in fact, since he’d looked at either.
Many lifetimes ago, many lives ago, he’d written those words on the crumpled napkin.
How many had died since then, because of them? Because of him? He hadn’t turned a blind eye to the drugs and violence. He’d seen perfectly clearly what was happening. Had asked for reports every day. Had counted the cost of lives ruined, lives lost. Because of what he’d let happen.
And still, he hadn’t acted.
But tonight he would.
Setting the napkin aside, Armand opened the notebook and forced himself to read what he’d written, what he’d begun, that cold November evening with Henri and Gracie curled by the fire, and Reine-Marie beside him on the sofa.
When he’d looked into that fire and considered doing the inconceivable.
He wondered if the Spanish conquistador Cortés had done the same thing, on the long journey to the New World. When had the thought first come to him? Had he considered the consequences, when he considered those fateful orders? Burn the ships. Did he know what slaughter lay ahead, for his soldiers and sailors and for the Aztecs, whose entire civilization was about to be wiped out?
And Gamache wondered if, when the conquerors’ feet hit the sand, and smoke filled the air, some other creature had come on shore with them.
Had the conquistadors noticed a dark figure following them? A terrible witness to the terrible deeds.
But, of course, the deeds would not be considered terrible for hundreds of years. Cortés was a hero, to everyone but the Aztecs.
In his quiet moments, later in life, as his own death approached, did Cortés wonder what he’d done? Did doubt creep into the room? Was an ageless cobrador standing at the foot of the bed?
And Churchill? Did doubt tickle him awake, the night Coventry was bombed? Or the night the great city of Dresden was firebombed, in retaliation for something that was not their fault?
Gamache picked up a pen and, turning to a blank page, he started to write.
He wrote about the huge shipment of drugs he’d let through the border the night before. When he could have stopped it.
He wrote about the lives that would be lost, because of that decision. His Coventry. His Dresden.
He wrote about Monsieur Zalmanowitz, and his career in tatters. He wrote about Judge Corriveau and the censure she would suffer, for letting them go instead of having them detained. As the law said she should have.
He wrote about the men, and women, and children who’d suffered as he’d ordered that only the minimum be done to arrest criminals. To focus their resources on the main target, but to also give the impression of complete and utter incompetence.
Armand Gamache wrote it all down. Sparing nothing. And when he’d finished with what had already happened, he went on. To what was about to happen. That night.
And when he stopped, Gamache laid down his pen, and closed the notebook. And placed the napkin carefully on top of it.
Then he went into his bathroom and had a shower, washing away the dirt and grime, the water salty to the taste. From the sweat. And something else rolling down his face.
* * *
“Patron?”
Beauvoir looked into the Chief Superintendent’s office. It was empty. But he heard the shower.
Jean-Guy stood there, unsure what to do. Go in. Go away?
He didn’t want to see his boss, his father-in-law, coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Or worse.
But neither could he leave without saying what needed to be said.
So he stepped into the room and closed the door and wa
s about to take a seat when he saw the notebook out on the desk.
Curious, Jean-Guy approached. The shower was still on and, emboldened, Beauvoir opened the notebook and started reading. When the shower turned off, he quickly closed the book, replaced the napkin, and sat in the chair across from the desk.
The chief came out dressed in clean clothes and rubbing his head with a towel.
He stopped instantly upon seeing Beauvoir, who’d jumped out of his seat.
“Jean-Guy.”
“Patron.” He stood rigid, slender shoulders squared. “I’m sorry I left the courtroom today.” His voice was formal as though making a report, or reciting rehearsed lines. “It was unforgivable.”
And then the formality broke down and his shoulders loosened. “I don’t even know why I did it. We’ve been through worse. But I just…”
Armand stood there, listening. Not jumping in to finish the sentence. Neither rebuking, nor saying it was all right.
He gave Jean-Guy the space he needed, to say what he needed. In his own words and time.
“I got scared.”
There it was. A grown man, a senior officer in the Sûreté du Québec. Admitting he was afraid. And that, Gamache knew, took courage.
“Of what?” he asked.
“I was afraid I’d scream, ‘Don’t do it.’ Up until then, I knew we could go back. A line had been stretched, but hadn’t yet been crossed. You outright lying in court, perjuring yourself, was something that could never be undone. I knew there was really no choice, but I couldn’t watch.”
Gamache nodded, taking it in before he spoke. “I think there’s more to it.”
“Maybe,” admitted Beauvoir, intensely uncomfortable under the gaze.
“I think you lost some respect for me today. I don’t think you believed I would actually do it. Lie under oath, under any circumstances. It breaks every law that you and I believe in. It makes me a hypocrite.”
Was that it? Beauvoir asked himself. Did that explain it? Because the truth was, he couldn’t really explain it to himself. Even saying he couldn’t watch Gamache destroy his career didn’t justify his leaving. The Chief Superintendent had never put career first.
So what was it?
And he knew, at that moment, that Gamache was right. He’d left because he couldn’t watch this fall from grace. This sullying of someone who’d always been a mentor, an example. Who’d stood by his principles, stood by the law when most others were bending it to their own benefit.
But today, Gamache had done the same thing. And not just bent it, but broke it.
He never really believed this man, of all people, would lie under oath. In a courtroom. For any reason. When it came down to it, Jean-Guy had seriously thought another solution would be found. The Mounties would miraculously appear and all would be well.
But instead, in that hellhole of a courtroom, Armand Gamache had perjured himself.
Gamache watched Jean-Guy, and knew he’d hit the target. He hadn’t wanted to, had hoped he was wrong. But he could see now that there was another victim, another body in the ruins.
The respect Jean-Guy had for him. Not the worst of the corpses, for sure, but there was no denying the pain it had caused. In Jean-Guy’s eyes, he was now corrupt. No different from so many other senior Sûreté officers who’d sworn to uphold the law, but had broken it instead.
The fact the others had done it to amass fortunes, and Gamache had done it to bring the drug trade to its knees, did not really matter. The fact was, he’d proven himself no different from them.
Corruption starts small, often justifiable. A white lie. A minor law violated for the greater good. And then the corruption, like a virus, spreads.
“I hate to break it to you, Jean-Guy, but I crossed that line the first time I ordered that we step back and not make an arrest. I am being paid to uphold the law. It was an oath I’d taken, a duty entrusted to me. But I chose not to. Today, in court, I simply made my transgressions provable.”
“Does Judge Corriveau know? Is that why she called you into her chambers?”
“She suspects. She asked if the real murderer is still out there.”
“And what did you say?”
“I assured her that the defendant was the real murderer, but I’m not sure she believed it. She’s taking the night to think and will decide what to do about Monsieur Zalmanowitz and me in the morning.”
“But she let you go,” said Beauvoir, seeing what really mattered.
His brows drew together as he considered what the chief had said. He felt a heaviness in his chest. But then something occurred to him.
“If you crossed that line when you issued the orders, then I crossed it with you when I followed them.”
Gamache knew that was true, of course, but had chosen not to say anything. This night would be long enough, hard enough, without that weighing on Jean-Guy.
But the younger man had arrived there on his own. And now Gamache saw something unexpected. Far from adding to Beauvoir’s burden, he seemed lighter.
“I’m equally to blame,” Jean-Guy said, his face opening, the distress vanishing.
And Armand realized that the problem wasn’t so much that he’d fallen from grace in Beauvoir’s eyes, but that a chasm had opened up between them. But now they were at least in it together. The outhouse. The two-holer.
“We’re both in big shit.” Jean-Guy felt almost giddy with relief.
“Up to here.” Gamache lifted his hand over his head and returned to the bathroom to brush his hair, then came back, doing up his tie. “Everything’s ready?”
“Oui. Isabelle hasn’t called yet, but we need to be leaving now. The rest of the team’s getting their equipment together. I have your vest.”
“Merci.” Gamache went to his desk and, unlocking another drawer, he brought out his holster and gun and attached it to his belt before putting on his suit jacket. Rumpled, but dry at least.
The assault van would go down separately, and when it was dark the agents would get into position.
And wait.
He considered replacing the notebook and napkin in the drawer, and locking it. But realized it didn’t matter. And if something happened, and it all went south, the notebook would help investigators understand. If not agree.
The two men walked down the long corridor to the elevators. The gun felt uncomfortable, foreign, on the Chief Superintendent’s hip. He hated firearms. Their only purpose was to kill people. And he’d seen enough death to last many lifetimes.
“I should’ve stayed with you in the courtroom,” said Jean-Guy, as he punched the down button. Then he turned to Gamache. “Are we okay?”
“We were never not okay, Jean-Guy.” The elevator came and they got in. Just the two of them. “Did I ever tell you about my first tactical assault?”
“I don’t think so. You haven’t written a poem about it, have you?”
“An epic verse,” said Gamache, clearing his throat. Then he smiled. “Non. This is more prosaic. I was an agent, but not exactly a rookie. I’d been in the Sûreté for a couple of years. We were going after a street gang. Heavily armed. A full assault on their bunker.”
As he spoke, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at the floor numbers above the elevator door.
“I passed out.”
“Pardon?”
“As soon as the first shots were fired. Woke up with a medic slapping me.”
“Pardon?” Beauvoir repeated, turning to Gamache, who continued to stare at the numbers.
“I blamed it on heat stroke. The heavy equipment, the waiting, the sun beating down. But it wasn’t that. It was terror. I was so scared, I fainted.” He paused. “Though passed out sounds a little better.”
Now he turned to look at Jean-Guy, who was staring at him, incredulous.
“Only Reine-Marie knows that story. Knows the truth.”
Jean-Guy continued to stare, openmouthed.
“That episode forced me to take a hard look at myself,” s
aid Gamache. “At whether I was really cut out for this, or if my fears would always get the better of me, and endanger those around me. But I loved the work and believed in it. And I realized I couldn’t be afraid and do what needed to be done. And so I worked on the fear.”
“Is it gone?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
Jean-Guy did.
It never went away completely. Not even for the Chief Superintendent.
As the elevator descended to the lowest level, Beauvoir remembered the predictions in the notebook, and the napkin laid so carefully on top of it.
The name of the restaurant was printed in cheerful red letters across the top.
Sans Souci. Without a care.
And below that, in black ink, Burn our ships.
He followed Gamache out of the elevator.
It wasn’t really, he knew, about less fear. It was about more courage.
CHAPTER 30
The bistro in Three Pines felt cool and calm to Isabelle Lacoste, compared to the throbbing heat of the terrasse, where patrons relaxed and sipped lemonade and beer.
She took off her sunglasses and waited for her eyes to adjust. She preferred to be inside, for any number of reasons.
“I’d love a good stiff drink,” Isabelle called to Olivier as she made her way across the bistro toward the long wooden bar. “A gin and tonic, I think. Oh, make that a double. I’m off duty.”
“Long day?” Olivier asked, as he poured Tanqueray over the ice cubes.
Isabelle reached the bar and nodded as she opened one of the candy jars and took out a licorice pipe. She bit off the red candied embers first, as her kids had taught her to do, and as Monsieur Gamache had taught them.
“How’s the trial going?” he asked.
Lacoste tipped her hand back and forth. Comme ci, comme ça.
Olivier shook his head as he cut the lemon, the fresh scent momentarily hanging in the air.
“So sad,” he said, pointing the paring knife toward St. Thomas’s chapel. “But at least there’s finally justice for Katie.”
Isabelle turned and looked through the bistro window, past the patrons on the frying pan patio, sipping their cold drinks. Past the children playing on the vivid village green, running in and out and around the three huge pine trees, as though the trees themselves were companions. Past the fieldstone and brick and clapboard cottages with their perennial beds of china blue delphiniums and old garden roses and mallow and lavender. Gardens planted by great-grandparents and tended with care.