Chapter 17

C HAPTER 17

"Oh God, oh God, oh shit."

Armand felt the grip tighten on his forearm and placed his large hand over Jean-Guy's claw.

"It's all right. We'll be fine."

"We're fucked."

Armand did not completely disagree. And he suspected the insincerity of his reassurance was obvious, in the tremble in his own voice. And the fact it was about an octave higher than usual.

Even seeing that SUV heading toward him hadn't scared him this much. Probably because he hadn't had time.

Now he had time. To see the crash. To wonder how much it was going to hurt.

The tiny single-engine float plane was not so much floating as being flung. They were flying through, or trying to, battering wind and torrential rain. And now there was a huge flash of light and an explosion.

For an instant, Gamache thought the plane had blown apart. Hit by lightning. But the flash had been off to their left. And now there was another, to their right. They were in the middle of a thunderstorm. It was like tines of a gigantic fork trying to skewer a pea.

They were the pea.

They should never have taken off, but the pilot had assured them there was a break in the weather and he could quickly get above it.

"How far above?" Jean-Guy had shouted over the noise. "Did he mean Heaven? Oh God, oh God, oh shit."

The plane dropped several hundred feet, the pilot fighting for control and height.

"Hang on," he yelled as the plane plunged sideways, almost flipping over.

Ooooh , thought Armand, as he splayed his hand on the ceiling to keep from hitting it. Ooooh, God. Not like this. Please let us be found. Let our bodies be found. Reine-Marie, I'm sorry…

The grey waves rushed up at them, so close now he could see the frothing white caps. Hitting the water at this speed would be like hitting concrete. He braced himself and held his breath, while Jean-Guy gripped his hand. And he held Jean-Guy's.

Then the engine roared and they gained height, zooming up. Into the clouds. Into the storm.

"We need to turn around," Gamache yelled at the pilot over the noise.

"Too late."

"What do you mean, ‘too late'?"

"We've gone too far. We have to keep going. We'll be out of the weather soon."

That would have been reassuring had it not been for the blind panic in the pilot's voice and another crackling, then bang of thunder so loud the small craft shook.

Gamache thrust himself back against the seat and continued to brace as the craft and their bodies were flung to the left and right, up and down. This was a S?reté plane and a pilot he'd used many times before, including on his recent trips to Les ?les de la Madeleine and the Saguenay, to investigate what still seemed to him to be mob executions.

He'd contacted his investigators on site that morning when he'd arrived at S?reté headquarters, having gone straight there from Three Pines.

Ruth had gone over to their home and relieved Reine-Marie and Annie and the others of the need to babysit. Somehow the mad old poet cast a spell over children and they behaved with her.

Armand tried not to think of what had happened to Hansel and Gretel.

He'd last seen Reine-Marie and the others in the bistro, staring wide-eyed into the mumbling fire. Gripping mugs of coffee and recovering their wits.

He now thought they'd probably been muttering, Oh God, oh God, oh shit.

Armand, Jean-Guy, and Isabelle had split up when they'd arrived at the S?reté. Beauvoir to take the envelope and note to forensics and get an update, while Lacoste called the phone number Dom Philippe had put on his B&B reservation.

Armand sat at his desk and made some calls, including to the S?reté hanger at the airport, while he looked out at the rain streaming down his window. Then he used a secure app to send a message.

Can we meet?

Yes. When? Where?

Ninety minutes. Broken Kettle in Vankleek Hill.

There was no reply and none needed.

Before heading out, Armand called his officers investigating the murders on Les ?les de la Madeleine, and in the Saguenay region.

"Sorry, patron , no progress yet," said the senior investigator. "No connection between the murders, and nothing I can find to link the dead guy here to the mob. But we'll keep looking."

He got virtually the same report from his lead investigator in the other execution-style killing, this one in Chicoutimi, in the Saguenay area north of Québec City. No leads. No apparent connection to the other murder, or the mob.

"Talk to her colleagues again. Someone knows something."

On his way out, he dropped in on Evelyn Tardiff, who ran the Organized Crime division.

"Anything?"

"Nothing, Armand. None of my informants report hit men traveling to either area. Doesn't mean there weren't any."

"The killings are too similar, Evelyn. Hands zip-tied. Shot to the base of the skull. Same caliber, though not the same weapon. Neat, efficient, effective. These were executions."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I can't find any evidence of a mob hit."

"No evidence? It has all the hallmarks."

"Okay, if it was, what did these two do to make them targets of the mob?" She sat back and stared at him.

"We can't find any reason they'd be hit," he admitted. "And there's no connection to the mob, or between them, that we can see. But there's something there, Evelyn. And I think you agree."

"You hear agreement in this conversation? What must disagreement sound like to you? Look, what would the mob be doing with two middle-aged people who have led blameless lives? Doesn't make sense. Besides, there's nothing up in the Saguenay but lakes and trees."

"There's aluminum."

Tardiff laughed. "You think the Sixth Family is now trafficking in tin foil?"

She'd used the nickname for the Moretti family. After the five leading mob families in the US, this Montréal mafia family was considered the sixth. Powerful and ruthless, it had consolidated its hold on territory after the paterfamilias had died.

Armand managed a smile. "It seems unlikely, I agree."

He decided not to pursue it. As he left, he wondered why Tardiff was being so obtuse. Almost defensive. As he pressed the down button, he wondered if she was telling him everything.

As he walked out of the elevator, he wondered why he was wondering when he knew the answer to that. It was no. She was not telling him everything.

And now he wondered why.

"David."

"Armand."

Gamache stood up to greet his friend and colleague from the RCMP. "Thank you for meeting me. Coffee?"

"I'll get it."

He came back to the small table shoved against the brick wall with a mug and a blueberry muffin. Sitting down, he stared at Gamache.

"I got your text yesterday."

"But you didn't reply."

He fiddled with the handle of his chipped mug. "It's delicate."

"To say the least, yes."

"I needed to do some research."

Gamache waited.

"Your message didn't have any information," said Commissioner Lavigne. "No context."

"True. Do you need it?"

"I think what we need is an exchange of information."

They were sitting at the back of the small restaurant, invisible to anyone walking by.

Vankleek Hill was a village in Ontario, almost exactly halfway between Ottawa and Montréal. An hour's drive for each of them. It was outside S?reté jurisdiction. He would not run into anyone who worked with him.

David Lavigne wasn't just a colleague in law enforcement, he was the assistant commissioner of the RCMP. And a friend. His specialty, over twenty-five years, was domestic and international terrorism.

"You asked about recent movement in the biological or chemical weapons sector."

"And?"

He sat back and considered for a moment. "There're rumblings out of Rome and Paris, about something, some target in North America. We're trying to get a handle on it. It's vague. Our informants are scampering for cover."

"Which means it's big."

"Or at least different. Anything outside the regular playbook gets people nervous. And not just us, also the terrorists." He smiled. "When terrorists get scared, we get terrified. Do you have information?"

"I don't honestly know. Is it possible it's a biological weapon?"

"Could be. Might be chemical. Even nuclear. Might be nothing."

"Never nothing," he said.

Both veterans knew that, at any given moment, hundreds of plots by international and domestic terrorists were at various stages of gestation.

"Is there a reason you mention bioweapons, Armand?"

Instead of answering, he said, "I hear there's a new boss at GAC."

"You've heard?" he said. "Of course you've heard. Hasn't been announced yet, but yes, Marcus Lauzon has been given that portfolio by the PM. He's been acting head for almost a year now."

"What do you think of that?" He tried to keep his tone neutral.

"I think it's both worrisome and good, like most things politicians do. Worrisome because I think Monsieur Lauzon is an opportunist, and doesn't give a shit about the Canadian people, or even his party."

"He's already the Deputy PM," said Gamache. "And holds Environment. Now, with this new responsibility—"

"His power is almost limitless."

"And the good?"

"Well, when power's concentrated in one hand, it's easier to monitor for abuse. But also, on a more macro front, the environment and foreign affairs are becoming more closely aligned. It's quite a strategic move on the part of a Prime Minister elected to act on climate change."

"But why would the PM give it to Lauzon?" asked Gamache. The of all people was implied.

"I learned early on not to try to figure out why politicians do anything. Circles within circles. Their logic, such as it is, is tortured. You know that."

"What worries me is the other part of the portfolio. International trade is more and more connected to international terrorism. And domestic too, for that matter. A way to funnel money from one country to another. From one entity to another."

"Very true, Chief Inspector. I see you've been reading your briefing notes."

"I keep them in the bathroom. Money laundering, getting funds to where they need to be through legitimate businesses. A complex international organization, with ambitions to disrupt, needs a lot of money. Lauzon is now in charge of monitoring, even policing, that flow of money."

Gamache raised his brows and waited for his companion to say something.

Lavigne pushed his muffin aside and leaned across the table.

"You knew all this before coming here. That's not why you wanted to meet. Come on, Armand, I haven't got all day. Tell me." He paused and studied him, then threw himself back in the chair. "My God. You're trying to decide if you trust me. Twenty years we've worked together. You invited me here and now suddenly you're not sure?"

He was right.

This was the moment for his beau risque . The leap of faith. Armand Gamache knew he and his core group of trusted officers couldn't investigate on their own. At the very least, after seeing Jeanne Caron on the tape, he knew he needed someone on the federal side. If a player as powerful as the Deputy PM was involved, he needed powerful help.

He needed David Lavigne, the leading expert on domestic and international terrorism, who also had a seat on the GAC committee.

But the same thing that made him a perfect choice to help in the investigation also made him the perfect choice to be recruited by whoever was behind this. Caron? Lauzon?

Was this man in one of those circles? Was he part of the inner circle?

Could he be turned? Could he be trusted?

All the way up in the car, Gamache had agonized over this. Hoping he'd know when he saw him. Spoke to him. Hoping some instinct would kick in. So far, he'd met with two senior cops, top S?reté officers, and dismissed them both as suspicious. How would he feel about Lavigne?

"Do you remember when Idola was born?" he said.

"Your granddaughter. Of course I do." He was clearly puzzled by this aside.

"You sent a gift and wrote a note for Annie and Jean-Guy. You described how your wife's sister, Charlene, has Down, and that you can't imagine life without her."

"Yes, so?"

"So, I trust you."

"Because my sister-in-law also has Down syndrome? I'm not saying you're wrong to trust me, but that reasoning seems pretty flimsy, Armand, even for you."

Gamache gave a small grunt of amusement. "I trust you because of that kindness to my daughter and Jean-Guy. You could not be that empathetic and be party to a mass murder that would include children."

"Mass murder?" His voice had risen, then suddenly dropped to a hoarse whisper. "What do you know, Armand? You have to tell me."

He took a breath, then took the leap. He told the assistant commissioner of the RCMP everything. There was no going back now. When he finished, there was a long, long silence.

"I think you're wrong. It must be the toxic spills." Despite his denial, he'd become very still. The way a hunted animal became when it senses a predator. "Doesn't that seem much more likely? I mean, really, Armand. Why poison Montréal's drinking water?"

There was a plea now, in his voice. He was begging Gamache to agree with him.

"Let me ask you a question," said Armand. "What happens if the drinking water is poisoned? Not the deaths, I know about those, but the political fallout."

"What happened when the FLQ kidnapped and killed a politician, and set off bombs in Montréal back in 1970?"

He was referring, of course, to the October Crisis. It was a rhetorical question since both knew the answer. But still, he said it.

"The Prime Minister invoked the War Measures Act."

" Oui. And this PM would too. Would have to."

"Civil liberties would be suspended," said Gamache. "The Charter of Rights and Freedoms frozen. Québec, all of Canada, would become a police state."

"The federal government would have unlimited power."

"Unbridled power," said Gamache. "A coup de grace followed by a coup d'état ."

"Are you really saying"—Lavigne lowered his voice—"that the PM is behind this? I'm not a huge fan, but even I stop at thinking he's a tyrant willing to kill thousands to make himself dictator."

When Gamache just stared at him, he shook his head and grinned.

"Sorry, that was na?ve. Just look at world leaders today. Insanity rules. Would this PM do it? I don't know. Maybe. But still, I can't believe it. I think you're wrong."

Lavigne reached into his pocket and brought out a small bottle of extra-strength aspirin. "You've given me a headache." He tipped it toward Armand, who shook his head and watched his companion down two.

"I hope to God I'm wrong, but you might want to keep that bottle close. David, you've run the scenarios. How easy would it be to poison our drinking water?"

"It's one of our top concerns. It wouldn't be easy, but it could be done. My God, Armand, if you're right—" His eyes widened. "Montréal? That would mean—"

" Oui. "

The shock was wearing off. Lavigne's mind was engaging.

"We can't issue a warning to the population," he said, ticking through the options. "Certainly not until we're sure. And if it's true, a civil warning would also warn whoever is behind this. They'd either move up their plans or put them on hold and go to ground."

He looked at Gamache, who nodded but remained quiet.

"Our only hope is to catch them. Rip it out, root and branch. Jesus, Armand, how deep are the roots? How high up does it go?"

Now it was Armand's turn to lean across the table. "That's what you need to find out."

"And you?"

"I need to find the Abbot."

"Really? That's your first move? Find some old monk with a partial recipe for an obscure liqueur? Don't you think there're more promising leads?"

"My people are looking into others, and you're right, had it been just Dom Philippe and a ripped piece of paper, I wouldn't have given him a second thought, but it isn't. Not when the other part of that paper was sent to me by Jeanne Caron."

Lavigne nodded. "That's a good point. Somehow the two are related."

"I don't know how, but I think Dom Philippe found out about this and is afraid."

"Or involved."

" Non. " Armand shook his head. "I know the man. He couldn't be."

"And yet, by your reckoning, he knows about an imminent attack that could kill tens of thousands and he doesn't say anything. Is that the act of a decent man?"

"I'll find out soon enough. I'm heading to the monastery. I think he's gone back there."

"Won't he know you'll come looking?"

"Maybe that's what he wants. It's where he feels safest, in control. There's something else," said Armand. "Two others I need to know about. I can't do it, for reasons that will be obvious. One is Evelyn Tardiff—"

"The head of your Organized Crime division?" said David, not hiding his surprise. "You think she's involved?"

"And Madeleine Toussaint."

"Are you shitting me?" He dropped his voice and all but rasped, "The head of the S?reté? Jesus Christ. If those two are involved, then who's flying your plane?"

David Lavigne meant it figuratively, but at that moment Armand had the same question, only his was real and urgent.

Who was flying the plane? The tiny single-engine craft bobbed and tossed and dropped and jerked. It shuddered and twisted, and Armand expected to see parts flying off. Was the pilot in control, functioning or panicking? Was he even still conscious?

At that moment there was a shout, at least confirming the pilot was alive, if not in control. There were no words, no instructions. Just a sort of cry from the cockpit.

Jean-Guy, never happy in confined spaces anyway, was almost comatose.

Armand, never happy with heights, was not much better.

This was never going to be a fun flight. Add in the fact they were almost certainly about to die, and neither man was functioning all that highly.

Armand was afraid to open his mouth now, in case he threw up. He swallowed hard and tasted bile and a burning in his throat. He looked over at Jean-Guy, who was pale, almost green. His face glistened with sweat. His eyes were wide and staring straight ahead. Helping the pilot fly the plane. Afraid to break focus, in case only his hypervigilance was keeping them aloft.

They'd both been in terrible, life-threatening situations. Shoot-outs. Firefights. But always with the ability to do something. To fight back. Even to run away. By now they were powerless. Strapped into the rear seat of a prop plane. With nothing to do. Except wait.

We wait. We wait.

Armand had taken his phone out and managed to type a message to Reine-Marie, just saying, I love you. I'm sorry. But he didn't send it. He didn't want to scare her. But now his finger hovered over the send icon.

The plane banked suddenly, lunging onto its side, throwing Armand against the window. His phone flew out of his hand and his cheek squished against the glass. He was forced, like it or not, to look down. There he saw not water but forest. A thick canopy of evergreens and then, below them, shrouded in mist, a familiar building came into sight.

Armand placed his hands on either side of his head and tried to push away from the window, but the force was too great. Jean-Guy's body was pressing into his, trapping him.

Out the steamy window Armand could just make out the four wings of the monastery.

The plane was on its side, descending. The wings of the plane getting closer and closer to the wings of the building.

He wanted to shut his eyes, but did not. More than hiding from what seemed inevitable, Armand wanted to see as much of this world as possible, before…

The plane gave another mighty convulsion and flipped over to the other side. Armand's body smashed against Jean-Guy's. He put his hands out to brace himself against the fuselage and push away from Beauvoir.

Then the plane lurched again and, in the chaos and confusion, Armand was no longer certain if it had righted itself or if they were now upside down. Then he saw the whitecaps just feet away and threw his arm across Jean-Guy's chest. As one would a child's, anticipating a sudden stop. It was useless but instinctive.

The pilot screamed, "Look out!"

There was a violent thud and the rending of metal. Jean-Guy and the pilot shouted as they were all thrown forward. Armand thought he shouted too. A sort of cry.

And he waited. Numb now.

Nothing.

Opening his eyes, he could see water all around. But the plane bobbed on top of it, on its pontoons, not in the water, sinking.

"Oh shit," exhaled Jean-Guy. "Oh, God."

Up front, the pilot seemed to be weeping.

Armand blinked a few times and caught his breath. If he was ever going to have a heart attack, this would be it. He waited. But his heart, thudding in his chest, began to calm.

"You okay?" he asked the other two, and got silent, stunned nods.

Wiping his sleeve across the window to clear away the vapor and the smudge from his face-plant, he saw two monks standing on the shore, like apparitions. In unison they made the sign of the cross.

Dear God , thought Armand.