The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 25

President O’Rourke got to her feet. “General.”

“Madame President.”

“I ordered you bacon and eggs and coffee, of course.”

“Wonderful. Thank you.”

Armand watched as the President, with her customary and often parodied rapid little steps, led the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, with his long strides, into a small room off the Oval Office.

“Jesus,” whispered Shona, looking furtively around to see if anyone was paying attention. “It’s the security tape from the White House. The recording from this morning.” She looked at Gamache. “Who are you?”

“Someone with a lot of friends,” muttered Lacoste.

On the tape, two navel valets are placing breakfast on the table, while a third pours coffee, then steps back into the pantry.

“Ah, I see the food has arrived.”

General Whitehead stands by his chair and watches the valet they now recognized as Chief Petty Officer Flores seat the President; then Flores looks around, a bit confused.

Gamache hit pause.

“Why’d you do that?” demanded Shona.

“Why’s Flores hesitating?” asked Lacoste.

Gamache hit play, and saw Flores give a subtle gesture toward his colleague.

“He’s expecting the other valet to seat General Whitehead,” said Gamache. “But he isn’t. The valet is just standing there.”

“Flores is sensing something’s off,” said Lacoste.

As they watched, Flores steps around the table to seat the General himself. His face is set in a neutral expression, though it’s clear he’s irritated but not yet alarmed.

Gamache again hit pause and took a moment to look at Bert Whitehead. Alive. Unharmed. If he could only freeze this image and stop the bad thing from happening …

Instead, he touched play.

Whitehead, smiling at the President, notices her expression, and his own changes. Gamache rewinds a few seconds, freezing it on the President’s face.

“She knows what’s about to happen,” says Shona.

“She believes she’s about to be killed,” said Lacoste. She knew that look. Had had it on her own face. And had almost been right.

“Bert sees it,” said Armand.

Bert. Shona looks at Gamache, realizing for the first time that he knows this man. Well.

Armand rewound again and hit play.

“ Arrêtez ,” said Lacoste, and he did.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you hear it? Play it again.”

Gamache did, but try as he might, he still couldn’t hear anything strange. The buzzing in his ears, though mild now, was enough to mask any subtle sound. Clearly both Lacoste and Shona heard something, though only Lacoste knew what it was.

“It’s a gun being drawn.”

It all happened in less time than it took to gasp. For a veteran of combat like Whitehead there was no escaping what this meant. The combination of the look on the President’s face and the familiar sound behind him made the conclusion inescapable.

He isn’t alone in his alarm. Chief Petty Officer Flores is also alerted. He begins to come around the dining table just as the General reaches for his chair to use as a weapon, but there’s no time. The valet behind him shoots.

The force of the bullets lifts Whitehead off his feet. Then he drops. Shot in the chest. President O’Rourke pushes back in her chair, in shock.

Flores, reacting quickly, leaps forward and tackles the first valet. Disarming him. He turns and sees the other valet in the pantry, armed and aiming. And firing.

“He misses?” said Shona. “How can he miss?”

Gamache has again frozen the video.

“He doesn’t miss,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “He hits his target.”

“But he missed the President and even missed Flores. He got the other guy, the one who shot the General. Weren’t they in this together?”

“That’s who he meant to kill,” said Gamache, his face grim. The video advances.

The valet now turns his weapon on Flores, but the Chief Petty Officer has grabbed the gun off the floor and gets off a round. The valet falls.

Flores looks over and sees the President is uninjured, then scrambles to the General, bending over him.

At that moment, the guards arrive. Thinking Flores is the assassin, they’re about to shoot when President O’Rourke moves quickly, shielding him with her body.

The three of them watched for another minute before Armand again paused the video.

Then, without a word, he went back, and they watched over and over, the valet aiming and firing. And hitting Whitehead.

What do you make of this? Sherry Caufield had written. It was now clear what “this” was. Not the entire video, but that instant.

“Does it seem to you, patron …”

“That the shooter wasn’t aiming at the President,” said Gamache.

“His target was General Whitehead.” Isabelle Lacoste turned to Gamache. “Why?”

Gamache thought for a moment, but there was only one possible reason. As disconcerting as it was.

“Because they couldn’t allow him to speak to the President.”

Isabelle’s face opened in sudden realization. “To tell her what we talked about at the Haskell Opera House. Jesus.”

“I think so. Every conversation would be recorded. There’d be a record of what he told her, but also what he asked her. About the plan.”

“But how would they know? We just met him last night. And it was just us.”

While Gamache wrote back to Sherry Caufield in London— Whitehead was the target. What do you know? —Isabelle stared behind him at an old oil painting on the wall. It showed skaters on the Rideau Canal. They were in Victorian garb. The rosy-cheeked women in long flowing dresses and fur muffs, the men in heavy coats and hats. All were smiling, enjoying a day out.

She wished she could crawl into the painting and leave all this behind. Instead, she turned back to Gamache.

“What Nichol found. The link. That was what General Whitehead wanted to tell us last night.”

“But he needed his President’s permission. I think so.”

Bert obviously realized the danger this document posed and wanted to warn them. But too late.

“The valet killed his own co-conspirator,” said Shona. “Wouldn’t you have thought he’d kill the President first?”

“If they wanted to kill President O’Rourke, she’d be dead,” said Gamache.

“They want her alive?”

“They need her alive.”

“Oh, shit. You think she’s involved,” said Shona.

He turned and looked at her full-on. “I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. That’s the worst thing we can do now. That’s how we miss things. These people traffic in untruths and misdirection. We can’t afford to be taken in.”

“In other words, you have absolutely no idea,” said Shona.

“Would not be the first time.”

Armand turned to their fellow detainees. Unfortunately, they’d been placed in a room with junior cabinet ministers and low-level functionaries. And a few elderly senators. No one with the clout to get out.

“What the fuck is this?”

Ruth had turned away from the television coverage in the bistro and been checking her messages. Now she showed the others what had appeared.

Clara stared at the phone, its face cracked, not unlike its owner’s. Scrolling down, her brows drew together in concern. “We need to show Reine-Marie.”

Jean-Guy returned to the interview room.

“What was that about?” Marcus Lauzon asked. “Something happened?”

While his expression was bland, with that slight smugness that was like a caul over his face, the former Deputy PM’s tone betrayed his anxiety.

There was little to be gained by not telling him, so Beauvoir did. When he finished, Lauzon heaved an uncharacteristic sigh.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve met General Whitehead on more than one occasion. This is a loss. But it means you’re getting close.”

“To what?”

“Well, you obviously already know. You don’t need me for that.”

“We think we know, but need evidence. You have that evidence. You need to give it to us, before—”

“Before I’m killed too?”

“Yes,” he snapped. No use mincing words. “If they could get into the Oval Office, they can get to you here. The only reason you’re still alive is that Gamache is protecting you.”

“ Non. The only reason is that I’ve placed myself in here.”

Beauvoir cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“Why do you think I never talked? Never effectively defended myself?”

Beauvoir was silent, not wanting to get sucked into Lauzon’s games, though he knew the answer. It was because there was no effective defense for a guilty man.

“It’s because I needed to be found guilty. I needed to be put in here. I wanted Gamache to put me into solitary. I knew if I was let go, I wouldn’t get off the courtroom steps.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re innocent and intentionally put yourself in prison?”

“I’m not ‘trying’ to tell you that, I just did. Can’t be clearer. Out there I’d be killed.”

“We need to know which heads of multinational corporations bribed you to get control of our resources. Names.”

“I’m not the one they bribed.”

“Of course you are. We have the trail through Action Québec Bleu into your accounts.”

Lauzon actually snorted derision. “God, you really are stupid. What you found is a pittance compared to the billions paid out. And not into any account of mine.” He leaned forward. “I’m not the one who can make what they need happen.”

Beauvoir stood up. “Goodbye.”

“Wait.”

Beauvoir did not. He pounded on the door.

“Let’s play a game.”

The door opened. As he stepped out, Jean-Guy heard Lauzon shout, “The game’s called ‘Suppose I’m telling the truth.’”

The door closed behind him. Beauvoir was halfway down the hall when his steps slowed.

“Oh, fuck it,” he sighed. And turned around.

“Ohhhh,” sighed Reine-Marie and closed her eyes. Then she looked up at the others. Ruth, Myrna, Clara were staring at her. Even Rosa looked concerned, something she very rarely did.

“It’ll pass,” said Myrna. “People are focused on the White House. No one will pay any attention to this.”

“And no one who reads this will believe it,” said Gabri.

“It isn’t the first time people have tried to make Armand out to be incompetent,” said Clara.

“Ridiculously easy to do,” said Ruth, and Rosa nodded agreement.

“Except, this time—” Nichol began.

“I think you have work to do,” Reine-Marie interrupted her.

The last thing she needed was for Nichol to complete that sentence: This time the posts are true.

That Armand really did believe the US was being groomed to take over Canada, by force, if necessary.

It sounded crazy. Delusional. Except to those few who understood the global water crisis, and what the future held for drought-stricken nations. Including their neighbor to the south.

“Wait,” Beauvoir shouted.

Lauzon was being led away. The guard kept going, despite Beauvoir’s call.

Now he repeated, louder: “Wait!”

This time the guard paused, then turned. “What?”

“I need to speak to him.”

“You just did.”

The guard had his hand gripping Lauzon’s thin arm. It did not look right. And neither did the expression on Lauzon’s face. It looked to Beauvoir as though the man was about to cry.

“Bring him back to the interview room.” When the guard hesitated, Beauvoir approached. For a not-very-large man, he had the ability to look menacing. A bundle of tightly wired threat about to come unraveled.

The guard escorted Lauzon back.

Beauvoir made a note of his name, then followed the former politician into the room. When the door closed, Lauzon exhaled.

“Okay, I’ll play,” said Beauvoir. “Suppose you’re telling the truth about what?”

“That I am not the one behind, or even involved, in all this. I’ve been set up. Just for a moment, Inspector, entertain that possibility.”

“So, if not you, then who?”

“Think. Who could have placed those documents in my desk? Who had access to my accounts and my diary? Who could have set up those meetings with Joe Moretti in Sainte-Émiline and made sure I was photographed? And made sure Gamache saw them?”

Beauvoir remained silent. But he was now in the game. It didn’t take much to arrive at the answer.

“Jeanne Caron.”

Lauzon nodded. “My Chief of Staff, my longtime assistant and confidante.”

“ And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household ,” muttered Jean-Guy.

“What was that?” Lauzon asked.

“Matthew 10:36. Something the Chief Inspector learned from his first boss in the Sûreté and passes on to all his agents.”

“I wish he’d told me.”

“Jeanne Caron,” Beauvoir whispered.

“I’m a shit, I know that. I’ve bribed and bullied and threatened. I’ve done terrible things. Broken all sorts of laws. But I’m nothing compared to her.”

“Why’s everyone staring at us?”

Shona tilted her head toward the crowd in the lounge.

Sure enough, one by one, almost everyone had turned toward them, then quickly looked away.

“Are we suddenly naked?” Shona actually looked down at her fully clothed body.

“I think this’s why.” Armand showed them his phone. Reine-Marie had sent him a message.

“Oh, shit,” said Isabelle. “Someone’s posted that we believe the US is about to invade Canada.”

“Not ‘we.’ You.” Shona looked at Gamache, then took out her phone.

“There’re calls for your resignation, patron ,” said Lacoste, now on her own phone. “Saying this proves you’re incompetent. That you’re delusional and dangerous.”

“Really? The posts I’m reading have a different take,” said Shona.

The two Sûreté officers turned to her, hopeful despite themselves.

“They say you’re just plain loony. Too many knocks to the head.” She looked at him. “They’re not wrong. Unfortunately, in this case, you’re actually telling the truth. But why would they put this out there? Why admit it?” She opened her eyes wide. “Ooooh, I see what they’re doing. The clever fucks.”

Armand was nodding. The fact he was being portrayed as incompetent, perhaps even crazy, wasn’t necessarily new or worrisome. What was new was that they were using the truth against them. Turning it into something ludicrous. Laughable.

So that when he did sound the alarm, no one would believe it.

“They’ve grabbed the narrative,” said Shona. “And twisted it.”

“The Ministry of Truth,” said Gamache. “This time actually telling the truth.”

“Ah,” said Shona with a small appreciative laugh. “ Nineteen Eighty-Four .”

“This must’ve been put out in a hurry,” said Lacoste. “They might not have covered their tracks as thoroughly as before. We might be able to trace it back.”

Gamache and Lacoste exchanged glances, then he sent off a message to Yvette Nichol.

If Nichol was sending information to Chief Inspector Tardiff, as he believed she was, and if Tardiff really was working for Moretti, as he was afraid she was, they were well and truly in the merde . This would just hurry it along.

There was little to lose at this stage if Nichol and Tardiff were working against them, and a whole lot to gain if Nichol and Tardiff were on their side.

“It’s time for you to contact your mentor,” Gamache said to Shona. “That Paul fellow.”

“Paul Workman.”

Gamache stared at her. “Paul Workman’s your mentor?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Surprised doesn’t begin to cover it,” said Isabelle. “He’s the most senior, most respected journalist in Canada. One of the top foreign correspondents internationally. He’s covered wars and catastrophes, crisis after crisis—”

“God, you sound like you have a crush on the guy,” said Shona. She was not far wrong. Even Gamache looked a bit smitten.

“Until his network, CTV, closed his London bureau and let him go in a journalistic bloodbath,” said Gamache. “It was a travesty.”

It left millions of Canadians at the mercy of the reporting, the perceptions, and the interpretations of other nations. Including, especially, the American networks.

Paul Workman. This might actually work.

Gamache told her what he needed.

Just then a message from Jean-Guy appeared on the secure app.

“Lauzon says Jeanne Caron’s either the Black Wolf or knows who is.”

Gamache’s mind raced. How much had he told her?

“Didn’t he suggest the PM was the Black Wolf not long ago?” said Lacoste, reading the message. “Who’s next? You? He’s messing with us.”

Gamache took a deep breath. He hoped so. Because if either Woodford or Caron was behind all this, they were in deep trouble.

He put his phone away and looked around. “We have to get out of here.”