Chapter 29

C HAPTER 29

"Why didn't you tell me sooner about the call from Jeanne Caron?"

They'd decided to go to the bistro so as not to disturb the household. Father and son now sat by the dying fire, the logs embers now.

It was closing time and the bistro was empty. Gabri had drifted over with the intention of asking them to leave, but on seeing their intensity, he did an about-face. Dropping the keys noisily on the bar, he left.

"I needed to find out what she wanted first." Armand twisted in his seat to look at Daniel full-on. "No. That's not true." He was as surprised as Daniel by the statement. "The truth is, I wanted to pretend that my telling her to go to hell would put an end to it."

"It didn't."

"Not by a long shot."

"What did she want?"

Armand could see Daniel bracing himself for the answer.

"She wanted to meet, but I hung up, so I don't actually know what she wanted."

"So call her back. Find out. Dad, she's fucked with us before." He stared into his father's eyes. "You think she's going to again. Was she involved in that hit-and-run?"

"I'm trying to find out."

"She might have been?" Daniel's eyes were wide. "She's the Chief of Staff to the man who might be the next PM, and you think she's involved in murder? What's going on? I was a kid the first time around. I'm a grown man now, with my own family to protect. You have to tell me." When his father hesitated, Daniel glared. "You don't trust me enough to tell me what's going on?"

The tone, the look, were all too familiar.

Armand could see that telling Daniel this much might have been a mistake. He hadn't wanted him to find out about Caron from someone else. But instead of warning Daniel, all he'd managed to do was panic him. And open an old wound.

He was so tempted to tell his son about the threat to the drinking water, it actually hurt. But could Daniel really keep it to himself and not warn his friends in Montréal who had their own young families? Perhaps. Probably. But Armand could not risk it.

"I'm sorry."

Daniel stared at his father, gave a brisk nod, then got up. And left.

Armand closed his eyes and lowered his head. Then he felt someone sit down beside him on the sofa.

"I'm scared," said Daniel quietly. "Not for myself. For Florence and Zora. I don't understand what you're doing, or why. I don't know what's happening, and that just makes it worse. But I do know that I trust you, more than you trust me."

"I can't—" Armand began, but Daniel held up his hand.

"It's okay. I know there's more at stake than just me. Maybe one day you'll trust me as much as you trust Mom. As much as you trust Jean-Guy. I want to help, Dad, and if helping means doing nothing, then that's what I'll do."

Armand reached out and placed his hand on Daniel's cheek. "Thank you."

It ends now , thought Armand as they walked home in silence. One way or another, Caron would never again threaten his family.

It was four in the morning in Three Pines and ten a.m. in Rome when Isabelle Lacoste walked quickly across Saint Peter's Square. The Vatican offices had just opened.

She paused to shoot a quick glance up to the famous balcony, to see if the Pope was standing there.

He was not.

The guard had called ahead, then pointed her to the Curia offices across the square. As she approached the curved wall, which acted as a sort of embrace of Saint Peter's, a door swung open to reveal a nun, all in white. A Dominican. And not just a sister, but the Mother Superior.

"Signora Lacoste?"

" Sì. "

"Sono Madre Beatrice. Benvenuto— "

"I'm sorry. I don't speak Italian," Isabelle said in English, assuming that was a language they'd both have at least passing knowledge of.

She was wrong.

" Espa?ol? " the nun asked.

" Nein ," Isabelle said before realizing that was German.

" Latine? " Mother Beatrice actually smiled as she asked what they both knew was a ludicrous question. And got a ludicrous answer.

" Nyet. "

" Fran?ais? "

" Oui. Vous? "

Mother Beatrice shook her head, and they both wondered why the Mother Superior had bothered asking.

The nun contemplated her unexpected visitor. What to do with someone who just showed up and with whom she could not communicate? The interview with this Canadian journalist seemed doomed. Unless…

She gestured, and Isabelle, with relief, followed Mother Beatrice through the door and down the long marble corridors. Like many magnificent old buildings, the guts were considerably less impressive than the skin. The deeper they went, the more like a rat's nest it became. Many they passed were not clerics but civilians, doing the work of running one of the most powerful and wealthy organizations on earth.

As she hurried to keep up with the long, hidden legs of the Mother Superior, Isabelle glanced into offices, scanning for Frère Sébastien.

There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of people working there. Unless she got lucky, she'd never just spot him. She'd need to be more direct.

The nun finally stopped and pointed Lacoste into a small, windowless room where another nun was working. Before she went in, Lacoste brought out the photo of Frère Sébastien and showed it to the Mother Superior. She looked at it and shook her head.

"Suora Irene," said Mother Beatrice, then said something in Italian that Lacoste took to be an explanation of who she was.

"I go away," said Beatrice.

" Grazie. " Isabelle had been a breath away from saying danke when the Italian sprang to mind.

"Mother Beatrice tells me you're doing an article on women's ascension in the Curia," said the nun in perfect English as she waved Isabelle to a seat. "Normally it would take weeks to get permission to get inside the building and do an interview, but the Holy Father is anxious that people know about the changes."

Like Mother Beatrice, Sister Irene was a Dominican. Not surprising since this was the Office of the Doctrine of the Faith.

"As you can see, I'm not one of those women in positions of authority. Yet."

"Do you mind if I record our conversation?"

"Not at all, though I doubt I'll say anything interesting. The only reason Mother Superior brought you to me is that I speak English. There are certainly more senior women in the Curia. There are crusts of bread here with more authority than me. I'm basically a clerk."

"A clerical cleric?" asked Lacoste and saw the sister smile again.

"Well, strictly speaking, nuns aren't considered part of the clergy. So, a distance to go yet. Still, I hope to be elected pope one day."

Lacoste laughed, then wondered if this woman, who was about her own age, early thirties, was serious. There was a spark of amusement, even silliness in her bright eyes.

"I would vote for you," said Lacoste. "Though I suppose I'd have to be a member of the College of Cardinals."

"Well, why not? Twenty years ago nuns in senior positions in the Curia would have been unthinkable. The unimaginable is happening, Ms. Lacoste. Slowly, but this is the Vatican, after all." She paused. "You're French."

"Québécoise."

Sister Irene raised her brows. "You're far from home."

"So are you. American?"

"From Cleveland."

"But you speak Italian."

"Second generation. Originally from Tuscany. Don't ask…" Why anyone would move from Tuscany to Cleveland.

"Do the Americans all hang out?" Isabelle asked as though this were casual, polite conversation and not the opening she was hoping for.

"Like Harry's Bar?" Sister Irene smiled. "Some do, but most learn quickly that they need to guard their secrets, their territory, and fraternizing is dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"Not physically, but professionally. Fortunately my territory does not need guarding."

"Sounds lonely."

Sister Irene seemed struck by that. She paused before saying, "The Curia can be lonely. I miss my friends."

Isabelle pointed to a chair. "May I?"

"Yes, yes," said the nun eagerly. "Please do."

"Are there many Americans here?"

"Not many. You'd think we'd get together, even at Thanksgiving. And maybe they do."

"You haven't been here for a Thanksgiving?"

"No. This's my first year."

"Just out of curiosity, are there any priests or monks here from Québec?"

"There are hundreds of priests and monks here and I don't know all of them. I'm not clear what your article's about. I thought it was women in the Curia."

Isabelle realized she'd have to be more careful. She also realized she needed someone who'd been in the Office of the Doctrine of the Faith much longer. Who would have known Brother Sébastien when he worked there. And would know if he'd returned.

"I'm thinking it might be a good idea to take you up on your offer. Can I speak to one of the senior women?"

"Let me make a call." When she hung up, Sister Irene said, "Come with me."

As they walked through the warren of corridors, Lacoste continued to look into offices, in case she spotted Brother Sébastien.

"Where did you study to be a nun?" Looking into more offices.

"At the Motherhouse in Amityville. New York."

"What did you do before coming here?"

"I was a teacher."

Lacoste's pace slowed. "Where?"

"The seminary in Washington."

Lacoste stopped, and Sister Irene, after taking a few steps, turned back.

"DC?"

"Yes. What? Do you need help? Water?"

Sister Irene was staring at Lacoste. Concerned.

"Do you know a Frère Sébastien?" Lacoste fumbled to get the photo out. "He was a Dominican, but is now a Gilbert—"

Now it was Isabelle's turn to be concerned. The nun looked like she'd been struck. Hard. Across the face.

"No."

"We were wrong, patron ."

Armand was walking to his car through a light drizzle, more a heavy morning mist, when his phone rang.

Lacoste's voice, while a whisper, was urgent, packed with excitement.

"Not a monk, a nun! One of Sébastien's friends at the seminary was a nun. Sister Irene."

The satchel slipped from Armand's shoulder and dropped onto the wet grass. Reine-Marie, who was walking with him, stopped. Stooped. And picked it up.

"What?" she mouthed. Armand's grip on his phone had tightened, and he was staring, unseeing, past her and into the dark forest.

"How do you know?"

"I'm with her now."

On seeing the nun's face when she'd asked the question about Sébastien, and hearing what was clearly a lie, Lacoste had pushed the nun into a nearby bathroom and locked the door.

"She works at the Office of the Doctrine of the Faith. She refuses to speak, but by her reaction, she obviously knows Sébastien. She won't tell me where he is, or admit she even knows him, but she must be the one who wrote asking him to come here."

Isabelle was leaning against the locked door while Sister Irene leaned against a porcelain urinal.

"You need to ask her what the threat is," said Gamache.

He listened as Isabelle spoke to the nun. "We need to know what's about to happen so we can stop it. It's something to do with water, we know that. Are they planning to poison drinking water?"

There was silence.

"Is it Montréal?" Lacoste demanded. "Montréal's drinking water? For God's sake, we need to know."

Armand stared at the forest, trying to make out the trees, and willed the nun to answer.

"She's shaking her head. She either doesn't know or won't say. She looks terrified, as though I'm about to hurt her."

"Tell her we know about Grande Chartreuse."

"What do we know, patron ?"

"Nothing, but I bet she does."

Armand heard Isabelle say, "Grande Chartreuse." Her voice was echoey. Gamache could not figure out where they might be in the Vatican. The Sistine Chapel perhaps?

"Nothing."

"Damn." He paused. "Can you sing?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Sing. Do you know ‘Let It Be'?"

"Are you all right?"

"Please, just answer the question."

"Yes."

" Bon. Now, I want you to sing the chorus, but replace the words ‘let it be' with ‘letter B .'"

Lacoste's brow furrowed. Was the Chief losing his mind? Still, she lowered the phone and sang.

Beauvoir was trying to get through, but the Chief's line was busy. Busy.

So he called Annie.

"Jean-Guy—"

"Get me your father, fast."

Annie was already up and partly dressed. Throwing on a dressing gown, she ran around the house looking for her father.

"What is it?" asked Daniel, coming out of his bedroom.

"I need to find Dad."

"He's outside by the car."

Annie ran down the stairs and out the door in her slippers, holding the phone in front of her. "Dad! Jean-Guy needs to speak to you. It's urgent."

Armand heard a flushing sound twenty seconds into Lacoste singing "Letter B."

Probably not the Sistine Chapel.

"She looks like I slapped her," said Isabelle.

So shocked was Sister Irene by the song that she'd put out her hand for balance and ended up flushing the urinal.

"What does the song mean?" asked Lacoste.

"It means she knows far more than she's saying. Hold on." Armand spoke into the phone Annie gave him. "What is it?"

"The karaoke bars were closed last night by the time I got there, but I went out early this morning, in case the cleaning staff was in. I went to a few—"

"Jean-Guy!"

"Okay. We were right. Three of them sang karaoke every Tuesday night, in their robes. They'd become a sensation. The local newspaper did a story on them. It's tacked to the wall here, with a photo of them. I think that's how the seminary found out. And why they were punished."

"But only Frère Sébastien was kicked out," said Gamache. "Not the other two. What does the article say?"

"I'm looking at it now. I'll send a scan. Patron , one of them's a nun. A Dominican. A Sister Irene."

"I know. I have Lacoste on the line from the Vatican. She's with her now. The third one?"

"A Brother Robert. But get this. He's not a Dominican. He's a Carthusian."

Armand tipped his head back and exhaled.

That was it. An answer to one of their big questions. Why Grande Chartreuse? This was why.

He brought his own phone back up. "Isabelle, did you hear?"

" Non. What?"

"The third one is a Brother Robert. And he's a Carthusian. He must be the one they were meeting at Grande Chartreuse. Contact Claude Dussault. Tell him to meet you there. Take Sister Irene with you."

"Right."

Though she had no idea how she was going to get the nun out of the bathroom, never mind the Curia, never mind from Italy to France and the mountain stronghold of the Carthusians.

"What about Sébastien?" she asked.

"Forget about him. It's the other monk we need. He's the one who knows what's happening."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Brother Robert's the one in hiding. He's the one the Abbot went to see. You have to find him."

Lacoste looked at the nun, who was now standing tall, glaring at her. She suddenly seemed almost formidable. Daring her unexpected visitor to do her worst. As maddening as it was, Lacoste could not help but admire Irene. The woman must be terrified, thinking she was trapped in a bathroom with the very thing they were hiding from.

Not a born martyr, Sister Irene was still willing to face whatever was coming, to protect what she knew. To protect her friends. Though she must hope this was not the time, and the men's bathroom in the Vatican was not the place.

But there was another problem.

" Patron , I looked it up. It takes ten hours to drive to Grande Chartreuse from here."

"You need to fly."

"But how? I don't see how I'd get her onto a commercial flight."

"When you call Claude Dussault, ask him to arrange a helicopter."

"On the S?reté?"

"No. I'll send you my personal bank card. Use it. Do not use your S?reté account."

He felt a hand on his arm. It was Reine-Marie. "I'll call the bank and increase our limit."

"Substantially," said Armand.

"Dad?" Armand hadn't noticed that Daniel had joined them. "This might help."

In his hand was an AmEx card.

Armand hesitated for a moment, then took it. " Merci. "

Annie had disappeared into the house and now returned, holding out a five-dollar bill.

"Your bribe yesterday, to rescue Mom. You might need it. And this." She handed him her Visa card.

Armand smiled. And took both. "Isabelle?"

"Here, patron ."

"I'll send you the payment information."

After hanging up, he turned back to Annie's phone. "Jean-Guy, you need to get to Sister Joan. Tell her what you found out. If she realizes you already know that much, she might be willing to give you more."

"I also want to know if anyone else has gone to the seminary asking for them," said Beauvoir.

"Good idea. Then get home."

"As fast as I can. You?"

"I'm going to Blanc-Sablon to find Dom Philippe."

But before he left, Gamache shot off a message. An invitation for breakfast in Montréal, to someone who'd be only slightly more surprised to receive it than he was to send it.

He doubted the person would reply. Or show up.

He doubted what he'd just done was wise.

It was becoming more and more difficult to tell the wise from the foolhardy.