Chapter 35

C HAPTER 35

Just over an hour later, Armand Gamache was staring at the famous buildings on Parliament Hill.

He'd been here many times. Sometimes for ceremonies. Often for meetings. He and Reine-Marie had brought the children here years ago.

This was the first time he'd looked at the buildings that were the symbol for, and housed the government of, Canada, and felt unease.

On the way to Ottawa, he'd written his friend and colleague David Lavigne, the assistant commissioner of the RCMP, to tell him what he was planning to do.

He had yet to reply.

"I'll come with you," said Beauvoir.

" Merci , but I need to do this on my own."

"Is that wise?"

"I think wise is disappearing in the rearview mirror, mon ami ."

"But," Beauvoir persisted, "if you confront Jeanne Caron, she could claim you attacked her. She could have you arrested. You need a witness."

"And what would stop her from saying we both attacked her? You're not just my second-in-command, you're my son-in-law. You'd be seen as a not-very-reliable witness, and a very likely accomplice. Merci , Jean-Guy, but I have something important for you to do."

"I didn't see a bakery on the way here."

Gamache laughed, then explained, giving Jean-Guy a sheet of paper written in his longhand. It could not be traced. No copy existed. And given the disturbing trend of schools no longer teaching cursive, it could not be read by a ten-year-old. Though Gamache doubted ten-year-olds were the problem. At least, thinking about the marshmallows, not this problem.

Jean-Guy looked at the list of names and numbers and nodded. "It'll be done, patron ."

"Oh, one more thing. I need your gun."

Beauvoir stared at his chief.

"You know they won't let you in with it. You have no jurisdiction here."

"Worth a try."

"And if you do get in…?"

But Gamache was silent, his hand out.

Beauvoir had a hundred more questions, most beginning with Why? —though What? was a close second. Instead, he handed the holster over and watched Gamache adjust his jacket as he walked up the hill. Then Jean-Guy got to work.

"Jeanne Caron, s'il vous pla?t ."

" Avez-vous un rendez-vous? "

"No, I don't have an appointment. Can you let Madame Caron or her assistant know that Chief Inspector Gamache of the S?reté du Québec wants to see her?"

He brought out his ID. The receptionist studied it. An RCMP officer, in full ceremonial scarlet uniform, came over and looked, then turned to Gamache and saluted.

"Monsieur Gamache."

"Do I know you?"

"Sargent Gauthier. Denis. My sister was—"

Gamache's expression softened. "Diane." He put out his hand.

"We met at the funeral. You keep in touch with the family. My parents. Her husband and children." His eyes had traveled to the deep scar by the Chief Inspector's temple before dropping again to hold Gamache's eyes. "They loved the bikes you sent with the S?reté badge on them. They pretend they're part of the mounted division and the bikes are horses."

"Not motorcycles?"

" Non , thank God." The young man smiled.

"How are they?"

"Missing their mother. But Gerard talks to them about her and shows them photographs. He tells them how brave she was."

He did not yet, Gamache guessed, tell them how she'd died. Shot down, the young agent had died in her chief's arms. Staring up at him, pleading with him to save her. And God knew he'd tried. But finally, all he could do was say an improvised last rites— God, take this child —before he moved on. To say it again, and again. God, take this child.

Until he himself was shot twice. Tasting blood in his mouth, fighting for breath, he lay on the concrete floor of the factory and felt someone grab his hand. Tight. And heard the same prayer whispered over him. By Isabelle Lacoste. God, take this child. Before his eyes had rolled to the back of his head and he'd passed out.

"I'll take him up," said Gauthier.

"But he's not expected, he's not on the list."

"It'll be fine. I'll vouch for the Chief Inspector."

The metal detectors squealed when he went through, and Gamache apologized, taking out the handgun. His RCMP escort smiled, and instead of making him leave it behind, the young man handed it back to Gamache.

"I trust you, sir."

" Merci. "

As they stood in the elevator, Armand clasped his hands behind his back and felt the bulge of the holster on his belt. He watched the numbers count up and was determined that he would drag the truth from Jeanne Caron if it was the last thing he did. Before this nice young man, Diane's brother, was forced to shoot him. God, forgive this child. Forgive me.

Gamache followed the RCMP officer to the polished wooden door at the end of the corridor. The brass plaque said, Jeanne Caron, Chief of Staff.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up from the Premier of Québec. The next on the list was the Mayor of Montréal. From there he'd go on to the Mayor of Québec City. The first person he'd called was the head of public works. It was vital that she be on the conference call. Not, Gamache had written and underlined, the cabinet minister in charge of public works, but the engineer who knew how the water-treatment plants actually worked.

It was time.

Jean-Guy punched in the number and waited for the Mayor to answer.

If the Chief wasn't back by the time the conference call was scheduled, he'd instructed Beauvoir to handle it himself.

Beauvoir started to make notes. How to convince men and women who didn't want to believe it that the unbelievable was about to happen. That an attack they'd supposedly prepared for was in the works. The worst-case scenario was unfolding, and they needed to put those preparedness plans in place.

Though it was clear, by his hesitation to tell them, that Gamache did not believe those plans were up-to-date or would do anything other than panic the population. But the people had a right to know. Had a right to defend themselves and their families.

As General Whitehead had predicted, the attack wouldn't even have to happen for society to fall apart. In fact, all that had to happen was that the warning be issued. Armand Gamache, in choosing to tell the leaders, who would have no choice but to make a public announcement, would effectively be doing the terrorists' work for them.

Beauvoir looked at the families streaming in and out of the Parliament buildings and realized these were probably the last few hours of normalcy in their lives.

What was Gamache doing in there? With a gun.

Just then, he heard sirens approaching.

"Oh, fuck," he whispered, just as the Mayor of Montréal answered.

" Excusez-moi? "

"We can't find him."

"What do you mean?" said the Abbot of Grande Chartreuse. "How hard could it be? He's a cloistered monk."

"Brother Robert's not in his cell," said the lay monk. "He might be in the showers or the chapel. We're looking. He might be preparing the recipe."

"The what?" asked Dussault. "Not the recipe for Chartreuse."

Lacoste pulled up the photo on her phone and shoved it in the Abbot's face. "Is this the recipe for Chartreuse?"

"How should I know? I'm not one of the holders." But the Abbot looked at it more closely. Then at her, more closely. "Where did you get this?"

"Dom Philippe."

"The Gilbertine. The one who came to see Frère Robert."

"Yes. Dom Philippe took away part of the recipe and a bottle of your privately labeled liqueur. He gave them to my chief."

"Why?"

"The Abbot wanted us to come here. To find out what Frère Robert knows about a terrorist attack."

"You got all that from two fragments of what might or might not be the recipe we've guarded for a thousand years? God help us if you ever get your hands on a scrap of the Dead Sea Scrolls."

"So Frère Robert was chosen to be one of two keepers of the Chartreuse recipe?" said Dussault, trying to catch up. "But he'd only just arrived. Why give it to him?"

"Because he's young and cowardly," said the Abbot. "One meant he could make the elixir for many years to come, the other meant he'd never leave."

"So where is he now?" demanded Frère Sébastien.

These silent monks just stared at each other, until finally the Abbot spoke.

"Find him," he said to his confrères, then turned to the three visitors. "Stay here."

Lacoste waited until all the monks, including Sébastien, had gone inside, then turned to Dussault. "Shall we?"

"You first."

"What about me?" called Sister Irene as her two companions disappeared into the main body of the monastery.

She looked around, then ran after them. A few butterflies that had become trapped in the billowing folds of her white habit came fluttering out.

Instinct told them to stay in the garden. Instinct was not always right. Within moments they were eaten by birds.