Chapter 25

C HAPTER 25

Gamache was met at his office door by his assistant. "The Super wants to see you. She's pretty pissed off."

Gamache dropped his satchel and locked the map in his desk before heading up to the top level for what he knew would be another scolding. This suited him. He also wanted this meeting. It was why he'd returned to headquarters.

It was ten to two. He'd have to hurry along his thrashing if he was going to make the meeting with the Archbishop.

"Where have you been?" demanded Superintendent Toussaint.

"Chasing my tail." He dropped into a chair, as though weary. "Took a plane up to the Gilbertine monastery, but they wouldn't let us in."

"What? Why would you go there?" She seemed genuinely baffled.

"Accch, don't ask."

"Well, I am asking. You took a S?reté plane and disappeared."

Gamache was glad he'd decided to tell at least part of the truth. The part they could verify and clearly had.

"The young biologist I met with who was killed worked for an environmental group. Action Québec Bleu." As he spoke, he studied her, though he kept his face placid, almost disinterested. "One of the lakes he'd tested was up there. I recognized it as the one with the monastery. I thought the monks might be able to help. Maybe he'd stayed there. Told them something. But they hadn't seen him, and they sure didn't let him in."

"So you have no idea why he was at the lake?"

"He seemed to be testing lakes at random for pollution. Acid rain, mercury, that sort of thing. It was a waste of time. Apologies."

He stood up and noticed the Chief Superintendent was looking at him strangely.

"It's not like you to waste time and resources like that, Armand. Is anything wrong?"

He heaved a sigh. "Honestly? I'm at a loss why he was killed. There must be a reason. I keep thinking he must've told me something, or hinted at something. But I can't think what. I feel responsible, and I'm not sure where to turn next. Any thoughts, Madeleine?"

He looked like an older man who was perhaps slightly beyond it now. No longer the investigator he once was.

"I think you should go home, get some rest. Things will be clearer tomorrow. There's no hurry."

"I think I will. Merci. "

It did not escape his notice that the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté had essentially told him to slow down his investigation. As he walked to the elevator, nodding vaguely to colleagues, Chief Inspector Gamache made sure to look just a little hangdog. Not too much, but enough so that gossip would start and spread.

Several turned and watched him go. A shadow, really, of the once authoritative officer they'd known.

Gamache closed his office door and quickly retrieved Langlois's map. It was twenty past two. He'd be late for the appointment with the Archbishop. Stuffing the map into his satchel, he strode across to the door. There he paused, then backtracked and stood in front of the huge map of Québec on his office wall.

Time was ticking, but still he took precious moments to contemplate it.

Then he snapped several photos. As he left, he glanced at the framed poster he'd hung by his office door. The last words of the poet Seamus Heaney.

Noli timere.

Be not afraid.

"I need to get to DC, patron ," said Beauvoir.

Gamache was driving across town to the archdiocese when the call came in.

"This isn't to avoid going back to Three Pines, is it?"

Armand had called Reine-Marie from the car, and he'd heard, in the background, screaming. The sort of eardrum-splitting shrieks only children could make.

"Why would I do that?" asked Jean-Guy. "You aren't saying six kids under the age of ten might be a problem?"

He'd also spoken to his wife, and Annie seemed on the verge of weeping.

"They found the marshmallows, Jean-Guy," she'd told him. "Ate most. The rest, somehow, have ended up stuck to the ceiling. How is that possible?" She lowered her voice. "They're monsters."

"Okay, why DC?" asked Armand.

"I think I've found our guy."

"Which one?"

"Sébastien. It's his real name, by the way. Sébastien Fontaine. He's from La Tuque. There's a photo of him from when he took his vows as a Dominican. It's a few years old, but still recognizable."

"Make sure Isabelle has it."

"I'll send his file to you both. He taught at the main seminary in Washington. I think that's where he met our other Dominican. I need to interview teachers and staff and see who Frère Sébastien hung out with. I'll focus on men whose names begin with the letter B ."

"Excellent. While you're there, there's someone else I need you to meet. I'll set it up. It's someone who knows about missing biotoxins."

"Missing from where?"

Armand had arrived. He pulled into the parking lot of the diocese and filled Beauvoir in.

There was a pause while Beauvoir absorbed the information. "I'll get on the next flight and get back as quick as I can. I just hope by the time I get home Annie's managed to scrape all the marshmallow off the ceiling."

Armand raised his brows. This was new. But surely Jean-Guy was joking…

" Patron , doesn't it seem more likely that Charles Langlois was murdered because he found out that the Deputy PM approved not just the pollution, but the sales of Canadian primary industries to Americans? Probably for kickbacks. It would ruin him if it came out."

"It's possible, yes. We have to follow both trails."

"But…?"

"But I'm thinking of a stalking horse."

"Of course you are. What in the world does that mean?"

Both he and Lacoste were used to the Chief throwing out odd phrases. And at least this one didn't rhyme. Stalking horse / but of course.

"It's something hunters hide behind to conceal the real purpose."

"A smoke screen or diversion?" Beauvoir considered. "It's possible."

Gamache had had time to think about it, and he knew that if domestic terrorists wanted to poison drinking water, they'd make damned sure attention was as far away as possible. Like on the illegal sale of primary industries.

"Okay, but if that's the case," said Beauvoir, "and they wanted those deals to become public to divert attention, wouldn't that fuck with Lauzon? He'd be screwed. And why kill the biologist? Wasn't he set up to be the whistleblower?"

These were valid points. Either way, Marcus Lauzon, That Politician, was vulnerable. Was it possible Caron was setting her boss up? The Deputy Prime Minister of Canada shown to be involved in illegal sales of companies for kickbacks would be one plump stalking horse.

"Let me know what you find."

He was already late for the meeting with the Archbishop, but Armand took time to send off a secure text to his Washington contact, asking him to meet with Inspector Beauvoir. Then, before going in, he placed a call to David Lavigne, the assistant commissioner of the RCMP.

"David, it's—"

"Yes, I know. I was about to call you. Just waiting for one more confirmation. Listen, Armand, that meeting I was called to with Caron? The Deputy PM has taken me off GAC. I no longer have access to the committee's information on domestic and international terrorism. I can get them through back channels, but it takes more time."

"Do you think they realize we're asking questions?"

"How could they? I think Lauzon is stacking the committee with his people. I've found something else. It looks like he made a covert trip to Ste. émiline."

Gamache paused. This was news. "Are you saying the Deputy Prime Minister is involved with the mob?"

Ste. émiline was in the lower Laurentians, north of Montréal, and was a known mafia town.

"Isn't that a bit on the nose?" Armand asked. "If he really is connected to organized crime, would he drop by the country home of one of the bosses?"

"These politicians are arrogant. I think he believes he can do whatever he wants."

Gamache wasn't so sure. A person, however arrogant, didn't reach the Deputy PM without also having smarts and a keen survival instinct. This would be stupid beyond measure.

Though so was approving huge excesses in industrial pollution, and the illegal sale of companies to Americans. With his own name attached to both.

Maybe Lauzon was both stupid and arrogant. The two so often went together.

"Is it possible Jeanne Caron is setting him up?" he asked. "She makes his schedule. Maybe she sent her boss there knowing he'd be clocked."

"That's possible, Armand. I'm just beginning to look into her. I don't want to trip any alarms."

That reminded Gamache of his other reason for checking in with the deputy commissioner of the RCMP.

"There are six water-treatment plants in Montréal. I need to know which one is the most likely target, and who has the ability to get into the control systems."

"Well, I can tell you that. Any good hacker could do it. If it can be designed, it can be hacked."

"Names, I need names. One more thing. Are you aware that approval has been given for the sale of some key resource-based industries in Québec to American corporations?"

"That's impossible. According to federal law, controlling interest needs to remain in Canadian hands."

"Well, I think Charles Langlois uncovered proof that some significant exceptions have been made in the last few months. Could this be done without GAC knowledge?"

There was silence down the line as David Lavigne thought.

"I guess it could. GAC's a consultative committee, not policy-making. Our main focus is anti-terrorism."

"But it would need the Deputy Prime Minister's approval."

" Oui. "

While Jean-Guy rushed to the airport to get on the next flight to Washington, and Lacoste was over the Atlantic, on her way to Rome, Chief Inspector Gamache once again stood before the young priest at the diocesan headquarters.

" Désolé, mon père. I'm a few minutes late."

"That's okay. The Archbishop is looking forward to seeing you. Did you know that you've met before?"

"Yes. I remember."

It was never far from his mind. When Archbishop Fleury had officiated at the funerals of Gamache's agents, killed in the raid on the factory.

Gamache himself had been badly wounded, and Jean-Guy even worse. Both had survived, and Armand had even managed to make the funerals. He was determined to walk at the head of the cortège as it wound in slow march through the city. He only faltered, slightly, on the last few steps up to the cathedral.

Once inside, the congregation stood with a rumble that echoed around the huge open space. And then there was silence. Complete and utter silence.

Chief Inspector Gamache, in full dress uniform, paused at the entrance, all eyes on him as he removed his hat and looked down the endless aisle. And wondered how he'd make it. But then he thought of his agents. Those dead. The suffering of the wounded. And the families.

He took a deep, ragged breath and gathered himself. His left hand clutching his hat, his right hand trembling, Armand Gamache managed a genuflect. As he did, Isabelle Lacoste moved to stand slightly behind him. At the ready.

Just in case.

Then, straightening up fully, Armand Gamache stepped forward to lead those young agents, in caskets behind him, one last time.

Yes, he remembered.

The actual meeting with the Archbishop had been brief. A handshake at the end of the funeral. But the more significant, the more intimate, had not been a meeting at all.

As Armand Gamache had started down the long. Long. Endless. Aisle. With the coffins behind him, followed by his officers in the homicide division, and behind them representatives from forces provincial, national, and international, he'd locked eyes with Archbishop Fleury. Waiting at the front. Watching.

The two men held each other's stare, and Armand had the sense that the Archbishop was willing him forward. Supporting him in that agonizing journey to the altar.

Armand did not break step, did not break that stare, until he was in his place at the front, gripping the pew for support as the flag-draped coffins with the bodies of the young agents he'd mentored, led into that factory, and held as they'd died were placed on the dais. The silence was broken then. The cathedral was filled with the sobs of their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Wives and husbands and partners and children.

Only afterward, when he'd seen a photo in the newspaper, did he realize his face was wet with perspiration. Or tears.

"Chief Inspector." Archbishop Fleury's voice brought Gamache back to the present.

"Your Grace."

Gamache shook hands with the robust and jovial cleric, then followed him into his private office. Armand had wondered how he'd feel, seeing the Archbishop again. Looking into those eyes. Would it be a trigger?

But the fact was, he thought of those young agents all the time. Carried them with him, every step of every day. He did not need to be reminded.

And indeed, seeing the Archbishop now brought only a sense of calm.

The senior S?reté officer was waved to an armchair as the senior cleric sat across from him in the comfortable, bright, somewhat chaotic office.

"Forgive the mess. I can't think if everything is too orderly. Between us, I find that intimidating. Father Thomas"—he tilted his head toward the door and the young man on the other side—"scares the hell out of me."

The Archbishop's handsome face cracked into a smile. He was, Armand knew, in his mid-seventies, and as active and engaged as people half his age.

"He tells me you were asking after Dom Philippe. How can I help?"

The smile disappeared, and those shrewd eyes remained on Armand. Thoughtful and still kindly. But there was so much more there. As there was in Armand Gamache's eyes.

"I need to know something of his background."

"Is there a reason?" The voice was no longer quite so warm.

"I just have a few questions. He's done nothing wrong, I promise you that."

"Then why don't you ask him?"

"I prefer to be discreet. I hope you understand. We both need to guard confidences, Your Grace."

The Archbishop nodded. "I'm not sure you know that Philippe and I studied together, centuries ago. In the Grand Séminaire de Montréal. I didn't know him well, but I can tell you that his name wasn't Philippe. He took that when he took his vows."

"Can you remember his birth name?"

"No. As I say, I didn't know him well. The only reason I remember him at all is that he was a strange character even then. Eccentric. Of course, his accent didn't help."

"Accent?"

"Yes. He had a broad accent and a strange vocabulary."

"Joual?" Gamache felt a stab of excitement. Is that how Charles Langlois knew the Abbot? How he came to hide the map in the monastery? Were they related? Or perhaps from the same quartier ? Different generations, but both growing up on the streets, speaking joual?

" Non , not that. I know joual. This was odder. And yet quite musical. Of course, even then he was making a name for himself for his singing voice."

"What years were you together in the seminary?"

The Archbishop told him. "Philippe was very bright. It came as a surprise when he chose the monastic life instead of the priesthood. It was even more surprising when he decided to join the Gilbertines. To be honest, most of us didn't realize that order still existed."

"Why do you think he did?"

"Where better to hide than in an all but forgotten cloistered order in the middle of nowhere."

"You think he was hiding? From what?"

"Perhaps from that voice inside most young men that whispers they're unlovable."

"Not just young, and not just men."

"True. But some, when they realize God loves us no matter what, choose to build a wall round themselves. Hiding behind it for fear if they leave, that voice will be waiting."

Gamache thought of the high, thick walls of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

Armand wondered if this cleric knew more than he was letting on. But then, he did too. Yes, they were both good at keeping secrets.

"Do you have a yearbook?"

The Archbishop smiled. "No, Chief Inspector. The seminary didn't have a yearbook club. But I can put you in contact with the priest who was, if I remember correctly, Philippe's best friend. He'd know more. He's retired."

After asking Father Thomas to look up the information, the Archbishop got to his feet.

"I hope you find what you need. Go in peace, Armand."

"And you, Your Grace." Once again, he held those eyes. " Merci. "