Chapter 12

C HAPTER 12

"I'll be there in a few minutes," Jean-Guy replied.

Gamache had texted both Beauvoir and Lacoste to meet him at Chez Mère Grand, a hole-in-the-wall diner in the old port area of Montréal, not far from Champ-de-Mars. It was conveniently, and not coincidently, on the way from S?reté headquarters to their next stop.

Grandma's was not a place frequented by S?reté officers, most of whom preferred darkened bars even during the day. Which was one of the reasons the Chief Inspector had chosen it.

It didn't hurt that the place, and the young owners, were cheerful and the food homemade and delicious.

Normally Armand would have walked there, to get some fresh air and clear his mind on this fine summer evening. But the damaged shoe was biting into his bruised foot, and the cobbled streets of the old city would make walking even more difficult. So he'd grabbed a taxi.

Isabelle was already there when he arrived. Armand ordered grilled cheese sandwiches for the table, bulging with melted Gruyère and blue cheese, with chutney oozing out. He added an éclair for Isabelle, a mille-feuille for Jean-Guy, and a slice of tall, wobbly lemon meringue pie for himself.

While they waited for Jean-Guy, Armand described for Isabelle the search of Charles's apartment, and the missing computer, notes, and map.

"He got too close to something," she said. "We recorded your conversation, of course. I've been over it again, and two things stand out. One"—she raised a finger—"he was sure there was someone in the S?reté working with whoever's behind this. Two"—another finger—"he wasn't sure about his boss. He must have meant the head of that environmental organization."

"Who's a woman, but that means nothing. The other thing that was clear was that he was afraid, but I don't think he really grasped how much danger he was in. Or couldn't bring himself to believe it."

Most decent people could not fully see, or believe, the size of the monster.

Just then, Jean-Guy breezed in. He went up to the counter, spoke to the owner, waited, then came to the table, handing something to Armand.

"It's an ice pack, patron . And—" He held out a large bag.

Gamache opened it and smiled. Inside was a cardboard box. With new shoes. Soft-sided.

" Merci. " He held Jean-Guy's eyes. " Beaucoup. "

When, Armand wondered as he took off the offending shoe and laid the ice pack across his swollen and bruised foot, had things changed? When did Jean-Guy begin to look after him, when it had long been the other way around?

But as the pain eased, Armand realized it had always been mutual. They'd guarded and protected each other from the moment they'd met, lifetimes ago.

"What did you find out at Action Québec Bleu?"

"Not much." As he ate the sandwich, Jean-Guy gave his report.

Armand sat back and listened. Watching them.

He felt enormous pride in his people, and none more than these two, who shared second-in-command duties.

His entire department had been handpicked, not from the top of the heap but from the bottom. To his colleagues' amusement, Chief Inspector Gamache had, in effect, gone dumpster diving for his agents. Chosen men and women on the verge of being tossed out.

The homicide department of the S?reté, made up of agents no one else wanted, was the most successful in the country. Because Armand Gamache knew something his colleagues did not. That given direction, clear expectations, and encouragement, given a second chance, people could flourish.

Armand Gamache had pulled them back from the edge, then sent them out across Québec to find those who had fallen.

"What do you think, Jean-Guy?" he asked when the younger man had finished.

"The fact Langlois was investigating pollution in lakes in central and northern Québec, and not just his notes but his map are missing, points to something really shitty. It's gotta be a toxic waste spill, probably from one of the major pulp mills or mines in the area."

"Companies pollute all the time," said Lacoste, "and don't murder to cover it up."

"Unless it's huge, ongoing, and involves high-ranking politicians in a cover-up," said Beauvoir.

It was possible, thought Gamache. Certainly the most likely scenario. Though there was another possibility. One he wouldn't mention just yet. He needed to think.

"If made public, this would not just shut down their operations and cost hundreds of millions in cleanup and fines," said Beauvoir. "But they could end up in jail."

"It would cost politicians their jobs and maybe even cost the government the next election," said Lacoste.

They looked at Gamache, who'd been listening. Now he spoke. "What you describe is what should happen, not what actually does. How many heads of corporations end up in prison for pollution? How many governments are toppled?"

They were silent.

"Exactly. I'm not convinced the consequences are all that great that CEOs would resort to murder."

"What do you think?" asked Lacoste.

Instead of answering, he asked Jean-Guy, "What was your impression of Langlois's boss?"

Beauvoir considered. He'd known he'd be asked this question. "I got the impression that she and her people were sincere. Though I guess anyone can be bought off. A few million would shut most people up."

"But when she found out that Langlois was murdered, wouldn't she say something?" asked Lacoste.

"Would you?" asked Beauvoir. "If the last person who did was killed?"

Whipped cream squeezed out from between the layers of the mille-feuille as Jean-Guy took a big bite.

"It seems obvious that Charles was doing his own investigation," said Gamache. "He must've realized he'd tripped up and told someone he shouldn't have."

"And who would he tell? His boss," said Lacoste. "But wait a minute. This doesn't track. Why break into your home? Why take the jacket? If he'd found something, why not just tell you? Why all this sneaking around?"

"About the jacket, I have no idea. But he said the S?reté is compromised. He needed to meet me away from headquarters."

"But why someplace so public? And why didn't he tell you what he'd found?" said Lacoste. "That was one frustrating conversation. He kept hinting, coming close, but not actually telling you anything. Even when he was dying."

"He said he needed to make sure I could be trusted, and to confirm that his boss was not part of the conspiracy."

"I have a search warrant for AQB and Madame Chalifoux's home."

"Good," said Gamache. "Very good. We need to get a list of all major industries, mostly pulp and paper and mining, that have plants on lakes in the central and northern parts of the province, in case a huge spill is it. And we need to speak to another environmentalist to find out what they know about those specific multinationals."

"I have a biologist friend," said Lacoste. "He can be trusted."

Gamache dug into his pocket and brought out the list that had been left in his jacket.

"What're you thinking, patron ?" asked Beauvoir. "You think Langlois did put it there?"

" Non. He was genuinely surprised by this." Gamache tapped his finger on it. "But someone gave it to me to find. It means something."

Nutmeg, thyme… All fairly common household ingredients. Except.

"What's that?" He pointed to the last word on the list. "I've never heard of angelica stems."

Beauvoir brought his phone out. "Got it. It's known as archang—… whatever."

"Archangelica," said Lacoste, reading off his screen. "Archangel."

"It grows in Russia." Beauvoir caught the Chief's eye, then went back to the page. "It's used in vermouth, Chartreuse, Bénédictine. But, get this, it's often mistaken for a poisonous species."

Gamache had his hand up to his face, thinking. Poison.

"What is it, patron ?" said Beauvoir. He knew Gamache better than almost anyone.

Gamache brought out his phone and, tapping on the secure-communication app, he paused.

" Patron? " asked Isabelle.

"Give me a moment, please."

He needed to think. Gamache stared out the window. It was almost dark. Not many more minutes before the sun set completely. But what Armand saw weren't the buildings warmed in the last glow of a spent day in Old Montréal, it was a list of names scrolling by in his mind.

Men and women he'd met in his years of policing. Trusted allies, colleagues, friends.

He needed to choose one, just one. And it needed to be the right one. Rarely had one of his decisions had such consequence.

The scroll stopped on one name. While Jean-Guy and Isabelle watched, Armand stared at the name and considered, examining that person from every angle.

Then he sent off a terse message and placed his phone on the table.

"What was that about?" asked Jean-Guy. The look on Gamache's face was scaring him.

"It's probably a toxic spill into one of the lakes," he said. And paused before he went on. "I hope it is."

"Oh, God," said Beauvoir. "What're you thinking? What would be worse?"

Armand turned to Lacoste. "You said you watched our meeting several times. Did you notice the water?"

"When he spilled your glass? Yes. You think it was to try to destroy the list? You said so at the time."

"But he pointed out a little water wouldn't do that. No. I think there was another reason. He also refused water himself and made some cryptic remark about water not being all that healthy to drink."

Gamache was looking down at the list still on the table. "When I showed this to him, he said it meant nothing to him. But he said that the paper did. I had no idea what he meant, and we went on to other things. But now I think…" Armand turned the paper over.

"Water," said Jean-Guy. His brow furrowed, trying to put it all together.

"After 9/11, multinational, multidisciplinary anti-terrorist task forces were formed," said Armand. "Their job was to not just look at possible threats, but targets."

"Go on."

"I got a seat on one when I took over the S?reté. Most of the focus was on hijackings, bombs. Assassinations. But some had a different concern."

"What?" said Lacoste, her face growing paler.

"Water security."

"That's what Action Québec Bleu studies," said Beauvoir. "Pollution. Weren't we just talking about that? That Langlois discovered a toxic spill."

" Non. Not a spill in a remote lake. The attack these strategists are looking at, are afraid of, is against drinking water."

"What do you mean?" asked Lacoste, though by her face it seemed she knew exactly what the Chief meant. She just refused to see the size of the monster he'd conjured.

"I mean a deliberate attack by terrorists, foreign or domestic, on the water supply of a major city."

Jean-Guy and Isabelle looked at each other.

"God," she said. "Is that possible?"

"Possible, yes. Probable?" He shrugged.

"It would be wholesale murder of civilians," said Isabelle. "Children."

"How?" Beauvoir asked.

"If we're talking about chemical or biological weapons, neurotoxins—"

"And it looks like we are," said Lacoste.

"—then the list of threats is unfortunately long. Most are airborne, but anthrax, ricin, plague, Q fever are stable and lethal in water."

"How do we begin to guard against that?" demanded Isabelle. She put down her water glass.

Armand sent off another message to his contact, including a photo of the strange list. Then he slid his phone into his pocket.

The alarms in his head were turning into sirens, though he also knew this was all speculation. They needed facts.

"If it's terrorists, why choose us?" asked Isabelle. "Why Québec?"

"Why not?" asked Beauvoir.

"Well, for one thing, we're hardly the epicenter of world power. If terrorists were going to go to that much trouble, you'd expect them to hit the US or the UK, or, if Canada, it would be Toronto or Ottawa, the nation's capital. Attacking us is horrific, for us. But there are much bigger, more effective targets."

"Maybe they're planning multiple attacks," suggested Beauvoir. "Hoping one or more actually hit. Like with 9/11."

" Voyons. We're way out beyond our facts. This"—Gamache tapped the paper on the table beside his untouched lemon meringue pie—"might be someone's shopping list. We know nothing. Let's just take it one step at a time."

And yet both could see he was rattled.

That's the least of it.

Charles Langlois's words came back to Gamache. If the S?reté being compromised was the least of their problems, what was the worst?

This was.

"It's curious that while we were together, he never mentioned his job at Action Québec Bleu," said Armand.

"He did mention his boss," Jean-Guy pointed out.

"True. And he talked repeatedly about The Mission. That was where he met his contact."

As he spoke, Isabelle Lacoste looked from one to the other. How often, she wondered, had the three of them sat like this, discussing murder? In crappy hotel rooms, in shacks in the middle of nowhere that doubled as incident rooms. On boats. Once in a canoe in Northern Québec. In tents, as they'd camped out, searching the dense bush for a killer on the run.

Jean-Guy loved to tell her about the two-holer outhouse he and the Chief had once used as headquarters. She doubted it was true, though she enjoyed the story and was grateful she hadn't been on that case.

But her favorite was when the trail of a killer took them to Gamache's own village of Three Pines. They'd confer in the Old Train Station, set up as an incident room, or in the bistro. And sometimes in the Chief's own home. At the worn pine table in his kitchen. Drinking coffee, or iced tea, or beer, or that delicious vibrant pink lemonade the Chief claimed to make for Florence and Zora.

They'd eat sandwiches, or burgers, or grilled salmon, and go over notes. Feeding the log fire on bitterly cold winter nights and hearing the crickets through the screen doors on steamy summer days.

While Isabelle Lacoste hated murder, she loved this process. She loved these people.

She realized the two men were looking at her. " Pardon? "

"The woman who signaled the SUV," said Jean-Guy. "Any news?"

"None yet." It was her turn to report. "We have her photo on the wire. I went to the landfill to check out the body of the driver. We still don't have an ID, and it's not our case, as you know. It's Montréal homicide, but I know the investigating officer and he's happy to cooperate."

"Security video?" asked Beauvoir.

"Cameras down."

Gamache narrowed his eyes, taking this in. "The security guard?"

"Had left before her shift was over. We're trying to track her down."

"Garbage collection and the landfill are both run by the mob in Montréal," said Beauvoir. "Could they be behind this?"

"We've gone from an environmental group, to international terrorists, to the Montréal mafia," said Gamache. "What next? The National Hockey League? Let's just regroup. The mob is not interested in contaminating the water supply, or working with terrorists. It has its own agenda. It wants to hook the population on fentanyl, not kill us all off. I want to know how Charles Langlois fits into this. Whose side was he on? Was he trying to help, or was he sent to confuse?"

The voice of Charles's father drifted across Gamache's mind.

I can see he has you fooled too.

Beauvoir heaved an exasperated sigh. "Shit. Why didn't he tell us more?"

"Maybe he did," said Lacoste. "He sure seemed to think he'd told us enough."

"If he thought he was in danger, he might've hidden his notes, right?" said Beauvoir. "Maybe that's why he kept mentioning The Mission."

Gamache raised his brows. That had not occurred to him.

" Bon ," he said, leaning down to put on his new shoes. The ice pack had done its job. His foot no longer hurt, and the swelling was going down. "There's one way to find out."

As he got up, he noticed a smear of whipped cream on Beauvoir's fingers. To Jean-Guy and Isabelle's surprise, the Chief Inspector took a paper napkin and wiped it off.

Then he walked, without a limp, to the door.