Chapter 27

C HAPTER 27

It took Jean-Guy a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim bar in the basement of the storied Hay-Adams hotel. At least, he suspected there were stories, though he himself didn't know any.

The Hay-Adams had a front-row view of the White House. It was, in theatrical and professional-wrestling terms, in the "spit zone."

The bar itself was windowless. Perhaps, Jean-Guy thought, because the men and women who frequented it would rather forget about the building looming right there. Or maybe there was a more practical reason. It was private. No one could see out, but neither could anyone see in.

There was a reason it was called Off the Record. He could see by the photos on the walls that this subterranean haunt was a discreet meeting place for Washington's political class.

It was where apparent adversaries downed stiff drinks and shared bowls of peanuts and information.

Where journalists met contacts.

Where intelligence agents met informants.

They sat in the blood red chairs, surrounded by burgundy walls, and whispered their confidences.

"I'll have a Shirley Temple, please."

The waiter, who'd clearly heard and seen it all, merely asked if Beauvoir wanted one maraschino cherry or two.

"Two please."

The waiter brought it, placing the perspiring glass on the face of the President of the United States. Beauvoir picked up the coasters strewn on the wooden table and saw that each had a caricature of a famous politician. Most American, but some foreign. None, that he could see, Canadian. Since Canada, as far as America's political elite knew, did not really exist. And if it did, it was merely an inconvenient extension of their nation. A sort of annoying younger sibling that sometimes tried to assert itself but could always be put in its place.

Jean-Guy was early. Which was good. He needed to send an update to Gamache. He looked up when his peripheral vision alerted him to someone approaching.

"Monsieur Beauvoir?"

Jean-Guy stood up. " Oui. Yes. General Whitehead?"

The two men shook hands. Whitehead's grip all but encased Jean-Guy's hand.

The handshake, like the man, was robust. But not, Beauvoir felt, designed to dominate.

Tall and solid and clean-shaven, with trim white hair, the General would have been distinguished no matter what he wore, but the fact he was in the most impressive uniform Beauvoir had ever seen made him even more so. Other patrons were looking over and, recognizing the man, were trying to catch his eye. But the General remained focused on the stranger in their midst.

Albert Whitehead had met Armand Gamache when the Chief had been, for a short but significant time, the head of the S?reté du Québec. General Whitehead was the Chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for the United States. The most senior soldier in the world.

The Chief Inspector and General had formed a fast friendship that went beyond their jobs. But encompassed, like the handshake, what each did for a living.

"I won't be much use to Armand soon," said Whitehead as he took a seat. "I expect to be replaced before long. Change of government."

"You think the President will lose the upcoming election?"

"I do. Most in this room do too." He glanced around. "But a year is an eternity in politics, so who knows. That looks good." He turned to the waiter. "John, I'll have the same. Shirley Temple with two cherries."

Whitehead turned back to Jean-Guy. "I developed a taste for it when taking my grandchildren out. My grandson tells me that a Roy Rogers is the boy version, but I still prefer to ask for a Shirley Temple. Old school."

Again, he smiled in a way that was, and was meant to be, disarming. It was the secret weapon of the man who controlled so many actual weapons.

Whitehead raised his glass. "To your very good health, sir."

"And yours, sir."

"Please, call me Bert. Armand asked for this meeting but didn't say what it was about." Now the jovial man in the impressive uniform became less jovial and even more impressive, as Jean-Guy was treated to a glimpse of the force behind the smile.

Armand had advised Jean-Guy to tell Whitehead everything.

"Everything, patron ?"

" Oui. If he's going to help us, he needs to know. We're asking him to give us classified information. We can't be seen to be holding back ourselves."

" D'accord. "

And so, in the dim basement bar, as secrets floated all around them, Jean-Guy Beauvoir sipped his Shirley Temple and added to the confidences, while the Chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff sipped his Shirley Temple and listened to a tale of impending slaughter.

"Don't look up."

Reine-Marie had stepped away from their embrace and held Armand's eyes.

It was, of course, impossible now for him not to.

Raising his gaze, he saw a series of lumps stuck to the living room ceiling.

"Were those there when we bought the place?"

"Yes, Armand. Yes, they were." She was smiling as she watched her husband's brows rise, then his eyes narrow.

"How? Why?" He found it difficult to formulate a question. "What?"

"Papa." Florence had taken her grandfather's hand and was dragging him farther into the room. "That one's mine."

"No!" her little sister shouted. "It's mine. So's that." Zora pointed to one of the many marshmallows stuck to the ceiling. As though it were a trophy.

The room descended into pandemonium. Armand looked at Reine-Marie, who wore a blissful smile.

"Are you drunk?"

"I wish. I've just given up. There's a kind of freedom that comes with surrendering. I'm going to put a down payment on a home in Yukon and maybe open a bookstore there. Want to come? We can return when they're in their twenties."

"She started it," Honoré was yelling. He was pointing to Ruth, who was not denying it.

"Please don't leave me behind," Armand whispered, then looked around. "Have Annie and Daniel gone ahead?"

"The traitors jumped ship. Said they were going to the bistro and would bring back dinner. That was two hours ago."

"Well, sauve qui peut ."

Reine-Marie laughed. "It's good to have you home." Her face turned serious. "What can I do to help?"

Clearly, the crisis he was dealing with was far from over.

"You're going to kill me, but I need to go to the bistro. I have to look at the bottle of Chartreuse Dom Philippe left behind."

"Why?"

"I think he might've been trying to tell me something. I'll just grab it and come right back."

"Promise?"

Now Henri, who rarely barked, was barking, as was Fred. Little Gracie was on the sofa, bouncing up and down, while the children leaped on the cushions, and Ruth held little laughing Idola securely on her lap.

The sound of his flesh and blood, and some fur, shrieking and barking followed Armand across the quiet village green.

The day was cooling down, and those on the terrasse outside the bistro wore sweaters as they drank their beers and wine, and ate cheese and paté.

Once inside, he spotted Annie and Daniel along with Roslyn, Daniel's wife, and Isabelle Lacoste's husband. They were sitting with Clara and Myrna.

Armand waved hello to Olivier behind the bar, but before heading there, he walked over to his family.

"You two deserters"—he pointed to Daniel and Annie—"will go relieve your mother." He lowered his voice. "I'll give you five dollars to do it."

They stood up.

"We were just about to go anyway," said Annie, clearly lying as she gave her father a hug. But still, she held out her hand for the money.

Daniel also stood and greeted his father. Armand hesitated, then said to him, "We need to talk. Maybe a walk after dinner?"

"Can you give me a hint?"

"I'll tell you later."

" D'accord. You okay?" His father looked tired. Stressed.

Armand smiled. Was a time, many years in fact, when Daniel wouldn't have noticed, and if he did, he would not have cared and certainly would not have asked after his father's well-being.

That had changed. But Armand feared it could still slide back.

"I am. Now go rescue your mother. She has marshmallow in her hair, children under her skin, and Ruth up her nose."

Daniel laughed. That full-bodied, full-throated laugh that lit up a room and always lightened his father's heart, since the moment of Daniel's first breath.

Armand walked to the bar, his eyes scanning the rows of bottles on shelves behind Olivier.

" Salut, patron ," he said. "I'd like to see that bottle of Chartreuse that was given to you by your guest."

"Don't have it. No room on the shelves, and honestly, no one around here drinks it anyway. I offered it to Ruth, but even she didn't want it. What?"

Armand's face registered alarm. "What did you do with it?"

"I poured the liquid out and put the bottle in recycling."

Armand's mind worked quickly. The pickup was that day. He left the bistro, got in his car, and drove to the bin, which was at the crossroads outside the village. As he leaped out, he could hear a familiar rumble. The recycling truck.

Was it coming or going?

Opening the large container for glass, Armand saw that it hadn't yet been emptied. He heaved a sigh of relief, then heaved himself over the edge. Dangling there, his body half in and half out of the smelly bin, he began digging.

It took just a minute or so. Thankfully, while some were broken, the Chartreuse bottle was intact.

Sitting in the car, he examined the label for a message from the monk. A drop of blood hit the label, and he realized the broken glass had nicked his finger. He quickly wiped it off and wrapped his handkerchief around the finger.

Putting on his glasses, he looked more closely at the bottle. Anything? Anything at all?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

He'd been so hopeful, almost convinced that Dom Philippe had left him a message. Though perhaps the message was the bottle itself.

He was just about to turn the car around and head home when he had an idea.

Jean-Guy could see why Bert Whitehead was the Chair of the Joint Chiefs.

Even being told that an attack might be imminent on the water supply of a major North American city, using a biotoxin perhaps weaponized by the United States, he was not fazed. He absorbed the news and was quickly breaking it down.

"I'll send over a list of organizations, foreign and domestic, that might be behind this. The list is, of course, not just confidential but classified. For a reason."

"I understand."

Whitehead held Beauvoir's eyes, making sure Jean-Guy did understand the risk he was taking.

"I haven't heard anything, though we're constantly stopping threats," the General continued. "More than anyone realizes. A disconcerting number of them domestic. If this is really happening, whoever's behind it isn't your garden-variety crazy. They're clever and connected. They've managed to keep it quiet for this long. Fortunately, someone's left you a mud map."

"I'm sorry, sir, but a what map?"

He could see why Whitehead and Gamache were friends.

"A mud map. Comes from when explorers or settlers would meet each other on the trail and ask directions. They'd take a stick and draw a map in the mud. Not detailed, but better than nothing."

Beauvoir nodded. It was what Dom Philippe had left Gamache. A bottle. A torn page from an old recipe. A slight shove toward Frère Simon, who opened letters and knew more than he should.

But there must be more to the map. Other signposts to get them to where they needed to go.

"I'll see what I can find out," Whitehead was saying. "The target doesn't have to be Québec, or even Canada. Though the thinking is solid. Montréal or Québec City would be a soft target, easier to achieve than New York or Washington or London, and still have a huge knock-on effect internationally."

Whitehead's mind was moving rapidly over terrain he'd studied but hoped never to have to visit. Like a vulcanologist, intimately familiar with volcanoes, who never wanted to be inside one when it erupted.

But General Whitehead could smell sulfur and feel the ground shifting beneath his feet.

"Does ‘Chartreuse' mean anything to you, sir?"

The General looked at Beauvoir as though he'd lost his mind. "The drink?" His eyes shifted to the bar, where, on the shelves, there was indeed a bottle of the liqueur.

"Yes, maybe. We keep running into it."

"I'll look, but I don't know of any organization that uses it as a code name, or any slang for a poison, though it would be a good one. Have you ever tried it?"

" Non. "

Whitehead leaned toward Beauvoir. "I hope and pray you're wrong about the drinking water. We've gone over and over this scenario. Contaminating a city's water is one of our top fears. Just below a nuclear attack."

Beauvoir raised his brows. "Surely another 9/11 or—"

"No." Whitehead shook his head. "The thing about poisoning the drinking water isn't just the deaths, it's the knock-on effects. Hundreds of thousands would fall sick at the same time. Civilians, yes, but also essential services like police, firefighters, health care workers. Hospitals couldn't cope. Not to mention the fact that millions would be without drinking water. How long can people last without it?"

He stared at Beauvoir, who did not have the answer, but knew it wasn't long.

"Panic then spreads to other cities as they fear that their water is poisoned too. Rioting breaks out across the country to get what little bottled water, what little food is available. All authority breaks down. Businesses are vandalized. Misinformation, conspiracy theories, are everywhere, often planted by the terrorists. People don't know what to believe, what to do, who to turn to for help. Who to trust. There's chaos. Imagine a sudden, all-encompassing, catastrophic event. That we do to ourselves."

Whitehead was drawing his own mud map, leading Jean-Guy through it. But General Whitehead wasn't finished. The map just kept going.

"That's what the terrorists want. Not the deaths of a few hundred, or even a few thousand. They want us to turn on each other. To do to each other what they cannot. They want anarchy. And they'll have it."

As he spoke, Jean-Guy suddenly realized that Three Pines was not safe after all. It would be invaded by hordes of desperate people who would do anything to survive, including killing those whose offer of help would not be enough.

"Political power, as you know, Inspector, lies in trust." The General tapped the coaster in front of him, a caricature of a past president. "The only reason democracy works is that there's a contract between elected and those electing. A consent to be governed. But that contract is fragile. That consent can be withdrawn. Sophisticated terrorists know this. They hit targets that can shatter that trust. And few things are more powerful, more symbolic, more important than water security. We're already experiencing some of that fragility, that threat, with the shifting climate. Droughts, wildfires, floods. Add terrorists being able to poison what drinking water we do have, and…"

He lifted his hands.

Much of this Beauvoir had heard from Gamache, but even he had not gone this far, drawn so dire, so extensive a map.

"The thing is," General Whitehead continued, though now Beauvoir wished he'd stop talking, "the attack on the drinking water would not have to succeed to be catastrophic. An attack quickly contained with almost no injuries could be enough to undermine trust in our institutions. It could have significant political fallout."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it could create a disproportionate political response."

"Such as?"

"It could be used as an excuse to declare a nationwide state of emergency. Prompt mass arrests. The shutting down of news organizations and social media. Controlling all information. Curfews. Shoot-to-kill orders. Effectively a dictatorship."

"A coup."

General Whitehead didn't respond to that, which was itself a response. "It's been done before. It would be the perfect excuse to hold on to power."

"To suspend elections? I hate to ask…," said Beauvoir. The General was shaking his head, warning him not to. But he did anyway. "If the President is facing losing, could he—"

"Go no further, Inspector." The voice was sharp. Commanding.

But Jean-Guy had stared down a nun. A general was easy.

"—be behind this? Choosing a large city? Close but not American?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Who better to hide an attack than the government. The very people trusted to stop it? And who would benefit the most but a government on the verge of defeat? Wars have been started for that very reason."

General Whitehead got to his feet, as did Jean-Guy. "This meeting is over." He glared at Beauvoir, then left.

Beauvoir sat back down and finished his email to Gamache. As he hit send, he realized that everything Whitehead had said about the US President could also apply to the Canadian Prime Minister.

Armand sat in his car in the parking lot of the Société des alcools du Québec in Knowlton and stared at the bright green bottle of Chartreuse he'd just bought.

Comparing it to the one he'd dug out of the recycling bin, he saw no difference. Same emblem. Same writing. Same alcohol content.

Returning inside, he asked the manager if she could see a difference. It took her all of ten seconds.

"One has a small E down here." She pointed to the bottle he'd just bought. The letter was tiny. "The other doesn't."

"What does the E mean?"

"Export. The one we sell is for export. The other"—she handed him back the empty bottle—"is not. It must've been bought at the source, in France, and brought back in their luggage. Chief Inspector?"

He looked like he'd been flash frozen. " Merci, merci infiniment. "

She watched as he hurried from the SAQ, clutching both bottles as though he'd just quit AA.