The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 27

Shona Dorion found herself being marched down the wide hallway, almost suspended between the two Sûreté officers gripping her arms.

Only one Parliamentary Protective officer challenged them.

“An intruder,” said Gamache, his voice brusque.

“Fucking white fascists,” she shouted, trying to twist out of their grip. “Nazis!” Then, as an afterthought, “ Mein Kampf !”

She felt Gamache squeeze her arm slightly, in warning.

The Mountie stepped away.

It was both a relief, for their purposes, and an indictment. No one questioned the arrest of a young Black woman. Her anger was enough proof of guilt.

This had been Shona’s idea.

Gamache had explained his plan, including how to get them out of there. “But we need to get more than five feet down the hall.”

With armed guards all over the Parliament Buildings, that seemed impossible.

That was when Shona had proposed this, knowing from experience what would happen.

Gamache and Lacoste had listened, then looked at each other. It was Lacoste who, recognizing the truth of it, said, “It could work.”

“It will work,” said Shona.

“It better work,” said Gamache.

A few minutes later Senator Walls had his “stroke.”

Evelyn Tardiff always knew where Joe Moretti was. As soon as the technology had become available, she’d put covert tracking on his phone and that of his chief bodyguard. A man rarely more than five feet away from his boss.

Now she stood in the forest and watched Moretti and Jeanne Caron talking. This was the first time she’d seen the two together. She lowered her lens, in surprise. Though it now seemed obvious. Of course Jeanne Caron, that piece of shit, would be behind this.

Lifting her camera again, she could see through the long-distance lens that this was not a friendly chat.

She snapped a series of photos.

Unfortunately for the head of the Sûreté’s Organized Crime division, Don Moretti had stationed others around the site of this meeting.

Evelyn Tardiff was, in effect, about to be hunted to extinction.

They always knew that the last few feet, if they made it that far, would be the most difficult.

The door to the PM’s outer office was closed and guarded by two heavily armed RCMP officers.

Shona could feel Gamache and Lacoste not so much tense as brace.

They’d gone over and over what would happen and what each of them must do.

As the Chief Inspector had walked them through his plan, then had them repeat it, two things surprised the young journalist: The audacity of it. And the fact he seemed to trust her to do her part.

And now they stood in front of the first barrier. The fact they’d gotten that far was a shock, but they still had two inches of solid oak, and two solid guards in full combat gear between themselves and the next goal.

“Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. We need to see the Prime Minister.” His voice wasn’t just authoritative, it was commanding. “Immediately.”

There was a long pause as the guard studied them. Gamache silently prayed that these two recognized him but were not yet aware of the social media posts about his mental state.

“We were with the PM when the attack on the White House happened,” he continued. “We have vital information, and someone”—he looked at Shona—“he needs to hear.”

The moments elongated, stretching their nerves to breaking. Gamache could feel Shona trembling.

“For God’s sake,” he snapped. “This’s a matter of national security. Come with us if you have to.”

One of the guards stepped forward, and for an instant Gamache thought he was about to arrest them. Instead, he frisked all three.

“No phone?” he said to Shona, who just glared.

“We already checked,” said Lacoste. “She doesn’t have one.”

The guard frisked Shona again, then held up the two phones he’d confiscated. “These will be at the entrance to the building when you leave.”

“Understood,” said Gamache. He’d anticipated this. Even depended on it.

The guards stepped aside.

“What’ve you got?”

Jean-Guy had just arrived back in Three Pines. As much as he desperately wanted to go to Ottawa to help the others, he knew with that assassination attempt and the lockdown of Parliament, there was no way he could get to them.

Besides, he had to get back here.

When Nichol didn’t answer, he stepped forward and turned the screen toward him. As he did, he noticed that Agent Nichol was just staring ahead. Shocked.

“What’s he doing here?” came a voice from outside the study.

Reine-Marie was standing stock-still in the living room. Dead in her tracks. She’d seen Jean-Guy’s parked car from the kitchen window and headed to the study, anxious for an update. But didn’t make it to her son-in-law.

She stood staring at Marcus Lauzon. It was as though she’d been hit in the face by a two-by-four. Here was the man who’d put her son into prison, and back into addiction, and knowingly pushed him to the brink of suicide.

The man standing not two feet away would have essentially murdered Daniel if his parents hadn’t intervened.

She’d had nightmares about this. About coming face-to-face with Marcus Lauzon.

“Madame Gamache,” Lauzon began, before Jean-Guy grabbed his arm and yanked him into the study.

Jean-Guy looked at his mother-in-law, a woman he loved as much as his own mother, perhaps more. And saw an accusation of betrayal there.

“ Désolé” was all he could think to say before closing the door.

Nichol had turned to him, her face ashen.

“She is working for Moretti.” Nichol’s voice was barely audible. “I traced back those posts mocking Gamache about the American plan. The stories originate from Chief Inspector Tardiff’s encrypted address. They’re being spread by journalists she regularly uses.”

“Oh, shit,” said Beauvoir, sitting down and reading the screen. “No one’s going to believe it now.”

“Who do you mean?” asked Marcus Lauzon, approaching the screen. “Who’s ‘she’?”

“Who’s he?” asked Nichol, turning to the new person. Then she recognized him. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Almost,” said Beauvoir. “I think they were about to kill him. I had to bring him with me.”

“Not sure he’s much safer here.” Just before the door had closed, she’d seen Madame Gamache’s face. And fists.

“Who’re you talking about?” Lauzon leaned closer to the computer. “Evelyn Tardiff? The head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté?”

“How do you know her?”

“Well, she had Sunday lunch here with me. But I knew her long before that. Or of her, at least. She’s working for CSIS.”

“The intelligence service?” said Beauvoir.

“Yes. You think she’s working for Moretti? She’s not. She’s one of ours. That’s another reason I couldn’t defend myself. I couldn’t risk it becoming public.”

“What becoming public?” Beauvoir was struggling to take this in.

“Who the high-level informant within the Moretti organization is. Evelyn Tardiff was recruited by CSIS years ago to infiltrate the mob when she was just an agent.”

“You knew?”

“I was the Deputy Premier. There’s a lot I knew. Know. Tardiff has been invaluable, giving CSIS a heads-up about drugs and arms smuggling, human trafficking. Information about the activities of the New York mob. But not about the poison plot or whatever’s happening next. Because Moretti doesn’t know. He’s just the enforcer.”

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” said Nichol.

“But if that’s true,” said Jean-Guy, “why would she put out these posts about Gamache and the American plans to take over Canada? Making it sound crazy.”

“Because she had no choice. If she hadn’t, Moretti and Caron would have known. Non , she had to.”

“But she’s done irreparable damage,” said Beauvoir. “No one’s going to believe us now.”

“There’s more, patron ,” said Nichol. “Did you check your email?”

“No. Didn’t have time. Why?”

“This. I found this IP address in Charles Langlois’s first notebook.”

“You mean his second.”

“ Non. I mean his first. He found this early on and didn’t realize its significance. Neither did you. You were all so focused on the second notebook, you didn’t bother to go back and reread the first.”

Beauvoir clicked on the link she’d sent.

Here was the plan that General Whitehead had alluded to. The one that might have killed him.

They were through the first door, but the next, the last before Prime Minister Woodford’s office, was even more heavily guarded.

Gamache and Lacoste released Shona. That ruse had run its course.

On seeing them, the senior officer stepped forward, her hand out, palm flat in their faces in the universal sign to halt.

“This is now a restricted area. We’re on lockdown. That applies to you too, Chief Inspector. I need you to go back to your holding room.”

Her voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of what she was saying. She would be obeyed.

There was no way they could push their way through. They’d never make it. They’d be tackled and arrested. At best.

At worst …

If their bodies couldn’t get through the door, maybe something else could.

Armand Gamache gave her a small, almost apologetic smile as one officer to another, then raised his voice. “WPR!”

“What’re you doing?” the senior officer demanded.

“WPR!” Gamache shouted again, this time at the top of his lungs.

“Stop it!” commanded the officer and nodded to her colleague, who approached Gamache, carbine pointed. Shona backed away, even as Lacoste moved to intercept the armed guard.

“War—” That was as far as Gamache got before the door was flung open.

“What the hell’s happening out here?” the Minister of Defense demanded.

“W.” Pause. “P.” Pause. “R.” Gamache’s voice was low now, little more than a whisper. He aimed each letter past the guards, past the baffled cabinet minister, to the man standing in the middle of his office.

Everything hung in the balance. And then the PM nodded.

“Let them in.”

Shona felt her legs turn to jelly.

“A message just came in from Chief Inspector Tardiff,” Nichol said, clicking on it.

There were no words, just a series of photographs.

“Proof,” said Lauzon, looking over her shoulder. “Caron was finally sloppy.”

“Or overconfident,” said Beauvoir. Or just confident.

On Nichol’s screen were the pictures taken of Jeanne Caron meeting with Moretti. It was not anything that a defense attorney could characterize as haphazard. They were clearly deep in conversation. Still, while damning, it was not actually illegal.

This was not proof enough to arrest, to convict. But it did make it clear to them, finally, that Jeanne Caron was deep in the conspiracy.

“That’s on mont Royal,” said Jean-Guy. “The lookout.”

“There’s one more. Just came—” Nichol fell silent.

“ Merde ,” whispered Beauvoir.

The photo showed Moretti’s soldiers, weapons drawn, bearing down on Tardiff through the forest.

“What is War Plan Red, sir?”

“I don’t know how you got through the lockdown—” Prime Minister Woodford gave his security detail a stern look.

“You can thank Canada’s not-so-latent racism,” said Shona.

The senior ministers and armed officers turned to the young woman, and Isabelle Lacoste vowed that the first thing she’d do, if they got out of this, was introduce her children to Shona.

“What is War Plan Red?” While still cordial, there was steel in Gamache’s tone.

He glanced over to the cabinet ministers. Robert Ferguson, the Minister of Public Safety, had joined Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense, in the PM’s office. Both immediately dropped their eyes to the carpet.

Tragically, the posts they’d all just read were right, and the Chief Inspector had lost his mind. Now he was babbling about some war plan.

Prime Minister Woodford turned to Isabelle Lacoste and Shona Dorion. His voice gentle now, kindly even. “I see he’s somehow convinced you that his fantasies are real. This has gone from pathetic to dangerous. Monsieur Gamache—”

“Chief Inspector Gamache,” said Shona.

“—is making no sense. You need to distance yourself from him in every way before he causes you harm. I beg you.”

“When we were here earlier, you seemed to agree with us,” said Lacoste.

“No. I asked you for proof. Instead of that, you come marching in here raving about some war plan that sounds like a Saturday morning cartoon. We have bigger problems.” He waved toward the TV screens, which showed armed activity around the White House. “I don’t have time to spend on your delusions.”

But Gamache was studying the Prime Minister. “You know what ‘WPR’ means.”

“Wasn’t that a sitcom?” said Ferguson, who was responsible for Canada’s intelligence service. “With Loni Anderson?”

“That’s WKRP ,” said Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense.

“It’s a public radio station in Wisconsin,” said the head of the Parliamentary Protective Service, reading from his phone. “WPR.”

“Dear God,” said Shona. “If Luxembourg does invade, we’re screwed.”

Gamache only had eyes for the Prime Minister. “It’s the name the Americans have given to their plan to invade Canada, as you know perfectly well, sir.”

Giselle Trudel sighed. “Oh, God, this is heartbreaking.”

“General Whitehead was at the White House this morning to ask the President for permission to release to me classified information on the plan.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Ferguson. “Can’t we get him out of here?”

“The General was gunned down to stop him,” Gamache persevered.

“All right!” Woodford finally snapped. “Enough! You’re unwell. You need help.” His voice dropped again, cajoling now, trying to reason with a madman. “That was an assassination attempt on the President. The General was injured saving her life. We all saw it.”

“I met with General Whitehead last night. He admitted there was a plan.”

Gamache was composed, despite huge temptation to shout.

When you fight, stay as calm as the ocean,

And watch what’s going on behind your shoulder.

War’s not a place for deep emotion,

And maybe you’ll get a little older.

“That’s another lie,” said the Minister of Defense. “He’s probably dead and can’t deny it. You’re slandering a hero, though I don’t know why.”

“He’s sick,” said the Minister of Public Safety. “He needs help.”

“He needs medication,” said the Minister of Defense.

“This needs to stop,” said the Prime Minister.

The head of the security detail stepped forward, expecting the PM to order them to escort Gamache and the others out the door. But instead—

“You’re right,” said Woodford with a huge sigh. “War Plan Red is the American strategy for invading Canada. Making this nation the fifty-first state.”

There was dead silence as everyone in the room—politicians, the PM’s Chief of Staff, the security—turned to Prime Minister Woodford, astonished. He might as well have admitted he was indeed an alien.

“You’re humoring him, right?” said Ferguson. “You’re not serious.”

Though it was eminently clear that he was.

“Wait a minute,” said Giselle Trudel. “There is such a thing? I’m the Minister of Defense. Why don’t I know about it?”

Shona was on the verge of saying something, but a look from Lacoste stopped her.

“Because it was only ever an exercise and was torn up in the 1930s,” said Woodford. “What you found, God knows in what archive, Chief Inspector, is an anachronism, a footnote. An oddity. War Plan Red no longer exists.”

“You’re wrong there, sir,” said Gamache. “It was never torn up. It’s been updated by every American President since it was first conceived in 1919. It’s also known as the Atlantic Strategic War Plan.”

“No, no,” said Trudel, on her phone. “I just googled it. The Prime Minister’s right. It was scrapped in 1939, when war in Europe broke out.”

Gamache looked tired now. “Do you really think you’re going to find the American invasion plans on Google? Of course it says it was canceled. What else are they going to say? That they have an active and updated strategy to cross five thousand miles of undefended border and take over their friendly neighbor to the north?”

Gamache had moved a few steps to his left, dragging all eyes with him. Except Lacoste’s. She was following their own plan and had stepped to the right, so that she was standing beside Manon Payette, the PM’s Chief of Staff.

“We need to talk,” Lacoste whispered.

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes. We do. And you know why.”

“I don’t. But”—she hesitated—“I want to hear what you think you know.”

Payette began to move toward a door.

“ Non. Not yet. Wait for it…”

“Planned,” the Prime Minister was saying, losing all patience and what little sympathy he might once have had for the Chief Inspector. “Not ‘plan,’ ‘plan-duh.’ Duh.” He leaned right into Gamache’s face. “Duh.”

“Okay,” whispered Lacoste. “Now.”

The intent of Woodford’s words, the last two sounds, were so insulting to the Chief Inspector that even the head of the Parliamentary Protective Service looked over.

Everyone was now riveted on the two men. No one noticed the two women slip into a side office.