The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 28

Jean-Guy could see the Champlain Bridge into Montréal just up ahead.

Agent Nichol was beside him. Stern, silent, staring out the window. Her small hands in fists. Lauzon was in the back seat. Beauvoir didn’t dare leave him in Three Pines with Reine-Marie, her friends, a collection of knives, and a duck capable of God knew what.

If the mafia knew about Rosa, she’d be a made duck in no time.

He’d alerted the Montréal police, who were already crawling all over mont Royal. But the park, in the middle of the city, was vast, made up of three peaks covering almost seven hundred forested acres. Most of it left to go wild.

It would take days, if ever, to find … well, a body.

“If you knew about War Plan Red,” demanded Shona Dorion, “why didn’t you admit it earlier when we first asked?”

As soon as she spoke, she saw her mistake. Though Gamache’s expression hadn’t changed, she knew she might have just blown everything. She’d deviated from their own plan and pulled the PM’s attention away from Gamache. To her. And, by consequence, to the two missing women.

But Woodford never took his eyes off Gamache, even as he answered her question.

“Because it’s not important. It would just muddy the waters. It’s a bizarre footnote in our shared history with the United States, nothing more. Let it go,” he pleaded with the Chief. “Can’t you see you’re so disoriented you no longer know the difference between past and present?”

“Then why did you let us in?” Gamache pushed. “If this’s such a waste of time, why are you still talking to me? I saw your face. The initials ‘WPR’ scared you.”

“What scared me was having a lunatic at the door. Better to let you in, to help save at least part of your reputation. You were making a fool of yourself. Worse, you’re in danger of doing serious damage to our international relations. I’ve already had a call from the American Ambassador asking, demanding, to meet thanks to the social media shitstorm you and your conspiracies have created.”

The PM had once again worked himself into a rage.

“I’m not asking you, sir, if the Atlantic Strategic War Plan still exists. I’m telling you. And it’s being acted on even now.” His words created a void, a vacuum. The air was sucked out of the opulent room as those around them listened to the thoughtful, measured madman. “War has changed. Assaults come at us from all sorts of fronts, from social media attacks, to cyberattacks, to trade wars. To drones and artillery and age-old full-frontal offensives. But the reasons are as old as the hills.”

“And those are?” asked the Minister of Defense, to the PM’s obvious annoyance.

“The world is changing. Our very climate is changing. Look at the wildfires, the hurricanes, the floods, the melting ice pack, the droughts and famines. The reasons for all that can be debated, I suppose, but the effects are undeniable, as are the consequences.”

“And those are?” asked the Minister of Public Safety.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” snapped the PM. “Don’t encourage the man.”

Gamache never took his eyes off Woodford. “Nations go to war over resources. It might look like something else, but at the root of most conflicts is that one country, one territory, one leader wants what the other has. Wants, or needs. And today the most precious resource, the real currency, the real power, is water.”

There was a noticeable shift in the room. A watershed. The balance had changed toward Gamache. They were listening to him now.

“The loss of fresh, clean, drinkable water is the single greatest threat to survival worldwide. It’s not a one-off crisis, it’s an existential threat. Parts of Canada are vulnerable, as we know, but to the south it’s even worse. The US is losing vast amounts of water every day. Lakes and rivers are drying up. Infrastructure is crumbling, and with it the pipes that carry water. The loss to leakage is huge. Cities are becoming uninhabitable as temperatures rise and water disappears. And when that happens, there will be millions of environmental refugees. And where will they head?”

He stared at the Prime Minister. But it was Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense, who spoke. Though it was a partial answer, as though she was afraid to go all the way.

“Not south.”

“ Non. ” Gamache turned to her briefly, before returning to Woodford. “North. They’ll be coming here.”

“Okay, what do you know?” demanded Isabelle Lacoste.

The two women were standing in the PM’s private bathroom.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Payette.

“We saw the look you gave the Prime Minister when word of the shootings happened.”

“Of course I looked at him. He’s the leader of the nation. We all look to him in times of crisis.”

“Stop with the sound bites. The look you gave him wasn’t fear, it wasn’t a plea for guidance. You knew something. Know something. Suspect something.”

Manon Payette pressed her lips together.

“All right,” said Lacoste. “Let me ask you this. Why did the Prime Minister leave his office to go get you?”

“Because I’m his Chief of Staff,” she snapped. Impatient. Imperious. Self-important. And defensive.

“Yes, but why leave?”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t that what the intercom is for? Isn’t that what text is for? So the leader of the nation doesn’t need to leave his office to search for his Chief of Staff.”

Lacoste had her. Cornered. The only way out was through the truth.

The Montréal cops found Chief Inspector Tardiff’s ID in the woods.

There’s blood , the captain texted, but no body.

Beauvoir pulled over. They’d arrived at mont Royal and were about to join the search. Instead, Jean-Guy sat in the vehicle. Thinking.

Where would Moretti’s people take Evelyn Tardiff to execute her?

“Come on,” demanded Nichol, reaching for the door handle. “We can’t just sit here.”

“Stay where you are. We’re not just sitting here,” snapped Beauvoir. “I’m thinking. I suggest you do too. You spent the last while eavesdropping on conversations with Moretti. Where would he take Tardiff?”

“The Jean-Talon market?”

“Are you asking me?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know—”

“Stop it! Deep breaths. Think. The market’s too public. They’re probably on mont Royal somewhere.” Beauvoir brought up a map of the huge park. “She was taken from here.” He placed a finger on the map. “Probably unconscious, given the blood.” He glanced at Nichol and saw she had taken command of herself. Barely. He understood her anxiety. Had they been talking about Armand or Isabelle, he’d be near hysterical.

“The caves,” Nichol suddenly said. “I remember reading in a message that Moretti had become obsessed with the caves.”

“What caves? There’re caves on mont Royal?”

“Jesus,” said Lauzon, springing forward so that his head was between them. “The ones they found in the Saint-Léonard quartier of Montréal, you mean?”

“That’s right,” said Nichol. “It’s not far from where the Morettis live. He said it would be a perfect place to put a…”

“ Merde ,” said Beauvoir.

The three stared at each other. Those caves were twenty minutes away. If they left mont Royal, there was no turning back. If they were wrong … The only comfort, cold as it was, was that it was probably already too late.

Keep searching , he texted the Montréal police captain. We’re trying another area. Then he put the siren on and swung back onto the road, his foot heavy on the gas.

Not like this, not like this, dear God, please.

Not yet.

Not like this …

Her legs were heavy, the muscles burning. Her back was spasming from the effort of arching. Then, without warning, her legs dropped an inch. And as they did, the rope around her ankles pulled taut and her head was pushed back as the rope around her neck tightened.

And she gagged.

With a huge effort, Evelyn arched her back again and brought her legs back up, loosening the garrote slightly.

Not like this …

Oh, God, please. Help me.

Out of the corner of his eye Gamache noticed Lacoste had returned to the room with the Chief of Staff. Isabelle was looking stern. Payette was looking sick.

Lacoste nodded toward Gamache. So it was true. The PM’s Chief of Staff had confirmed their suspicions.

Shona saw it too and slowly slid her hand into her pocket. Preparing …

If the guards saw her, they wouldn’t care. They’d searched her and found nothing. But they were wrong.

Gamache had counted on the guards being in full combat gear. Which included Kevlar.

“When they approach to frisk us, which they will,” he’d told Shona, “you need to palm your phone and slide it into the pocket of their vest so that when they search you, they don’t find anything. Then take it back.”

Shona had looked at him, astonished and angered. “You assume because I’m a Black woman I know how to pick pockets?”

“No, I assume you’ll do as I tell you. The Kevlar vest is designed to stop a bullet. And because it does that, it’ll also stop the guard from feeling anything you do. You could put a Volkswagen in the pocket and they’d never notice.”

She’d smiled at that and felt her tension lower. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“You’ll do more than that. You’ll succeed. You must.”

And she had.

Now the time to act was near. She could sense it.

Shona brought the phone out and waited, waited … They were almost there …

Beauvoir had never been to the network of caves beneath the parc Pie-XII, and never hoped to. The first cave had been discovered decades ago, but a huge second cavern, essentially a network of passageways, was only recently found.

He’d read about it and seen photos and watched with some dismay as Honoré had become pretty much obsessed with the caves. He’d begged his father to take him there. But just the news reports were enough to send Jean-Guy to the verge of a panic attack.

Where the Chief was terrified of heights, Beauvoir’s terror was holes. And what they’d discovered in the middle of Montréal was an epic hole.

He hoped Honoré would forget and move on to another obsession. He kept feeding the boy stories about mummies, and spaceships, and dinosaurs, but no, Honoré kept at it, showing his father photos of archeologists and cave explorers actually kayaking through the narrow passages with sheer rock walls. He’d even gotten his little sister, Idola, hooked. Her face lit up when Honoré showed her the videos.

His father’s face did something else entirely.

“You okay, Papa?”

Jean-Guy had gone pale and felt lightheaded. “Just fine.”

“Can we go for my birthday? S’il te plaaaaaît?”

And now Beauvoir stood at the entrance. It would have to be a cave …

Do we have to go? I never really liked Tardiff. And it’s probably too late—

“Done.”

Don Moretti read the text and saw the photo. And for a brief moment he almost felt regret. They’d known each other for so long. Even, briefly, been lovers.

Then he forwarded the photo to Jeanne Caron with the subject line This is how we treat traitors .

Caron had been waiting for the message, though hadn’t expected a photograph.

She’d thought she might be repulsed, disgusted. But instead, she found herself almost aroused.

There on her phone was the picture of Evelyn Tardiff, the head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté, lying on her stomach, hog-tied. The rope expertly placed around her neck and ankles, so that as she struggled, she strangled.

In the photo Tardiff was obviously still alive, her eyes wide with terror. Her body showing the effort, the strain, of keeping her legs raised and back arched.

Death would be slow. Excruciating.

It was the mob execution for the worst offenders.

Incaprettamento.

The first cave, the only one open to the public, was closed for the season, the entrance locked. For a moment Beauvoir thought that maybe they wouldn’t have to …

But the lock had been broken and the door stood ajar.

“This must be it,” said Nichol, excited.

Beauvoir drew his gun and was disconcerted to see Nichol was also armed. He never really thought of her as a full-fledged agent.

“They might still be in there,” said Lauzon, his eyes wide. “Maybe I should wait in the car.”

“Maybe you should walk in front of us,” snarled Beauvoir. He didn’t mean it, but he was not in the best of moods, and the look on the former Deputy Prime Minister’s face was very satisfying.

Jean-Guy took a deep breath. Oh, fuck it. Cautiously opening the door, he peeked inside.

“You’ve had a remarkable career, Chief Inspector. Thank you for your service.” The Prime Minister stepped toward the door. “But the time has come for you to go home. Sit on the porch with your wife. Play with your grandchildren. Tend your roses. You’ve done enough. It’s time to rest. Let us take care of this.”

His voice was cajoling, as though speaking to a sick child. Or someone standing on a ledge.

But Gamache held his ground and Woodford’s smile faded.

“Not this again. Please, Monsieur Gamache. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to have you removed. You’re making of fool of yourself. You’ll be forever remembered as the boy who cried wolf.”

He all but leered at Gamache.

Still he stood there. He could see Shona behind the PM, her phone in her hand. She’d done it. Smuggled it in. Until that moment he hadn’t known for sure. This was a vital part of their own plan.

Everyone else in the room was watching the two men and ignoring the young woman whose actions were far more dangerous.

“I’m warning you.” Woodford nodded to his head of security, who raised his carbine and cross-checked the Chief Inspector, shoving him toward the door.

The cabinet ministers looked surprised and uncomfortable at this sudden act of aggression. But neither said or did anything.

Gamache was given another shove, harder this time, so that he stumbled but regained his balance.

“I want their weapons confiscated. And”—Woodford turned to his Minister of Public Safety—“take their Sûreté IDs.”

“But we have no authority—”

“This is a matter of national security. Do it.”

Without meeting Gamache’s glare, Ferguson slid his hand into the Chief’s breast pocket and took out the ID. Only after he looked at it did he meet Gamache’s eyes.

“Give it to me,” said Woodford, and the Minister did.

Lacoste’s was also collected.

“The Chief Inspector wasn’t armed when he arrived,” the head of the RCMP security detail reported. “Inspector Lacoste surrendered her weapon at the door.”

“Good. Keep it.” Prime Minister Woodford turned back to Gamache. “If you breathe a word of War Plan Red, Chief Inspector, I will have you arrested.”

“On what charge?”

“Does it matter?” Woodford spoke so quietly only the two of them heard. Or so he thought. “You’ll do as I say, or they”—he glanced at Lacoste and Shona—“go down too. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. Now understand this. Our loyalty is not to you. It’s not my job to mindlessly do your bidding.”

“You have no job anymore, Monsieur Gamache.”

At another nod from the PM, Gamache was again shoved, this time right through the door.

Once in the outer office Armand said slowly and clearly, “War Plan Red. Come clean about War Plan Red, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“I’m warning you.” Woodford’s eyes narrowed, and his cheeks burned. “Don’t. Don’t make me do it.”

But it was too late. Armand Gamache might not be armed with a gun, but he had a much more powerful weapon at his disposal.

He raised his voice so that it was loud but not raucous. Not out of control. This was the voice of a person in complete command of themselves.

“War Plan Red, sir. Tell us the truth.”

“Be quiet! Stop it.” The PM waved at the RCMP guards. “Stop him. Arrest him.”

The guards were momentarily off-balance. The Chief Inspector was not only highly respected; he was also, as far as they could tell, not breaking any law.

“The man’s mad. Do it.” Prime Minister Woodford jabbed his finger at his head of security, who approached Gamache.

Then the Prime Minister noticed what Shona Dorion was doing.

“She’s recording! Get her phone.”

“I’m a journalist,” Shona shouted. “Covering the story. I’m a journalist. I’m a jour—”

The phone was ripped from her hand, and the head of the RCMP detail raised the butt of her carbine. Shona cringed and brought up her arm to ward off the blow.

Lacoste moved quickly and stepped in front of Shona, just as the rifle descended, hitting Lacoste on the side of her head.

She dropped.

Gamache moved toward her but only got one step before being hit in the solar plexus by the butt of the same rifle. He fell to his knees, gasping.

Fighting to regain his breath, he crawled toward Isabelle. When he reached her, he looked up, right at the PM, and rasped, “Stop this! Tell the truth about War Plan Red. I’m begging you.”

Instead, Woodford gestured toward the guards. Hands grabbed and dragged the three of them into an adjoining office. The door slammed shut. They were locked in.

“Isabelle?” Armand stumbled over to her.

“I’m okay.” She touched the side of her head and her hand came away bloody. Blood was streaming down her neck. “Looks worse than it is.”

Gamache turned to Shona, his voice still gravelly. “You okay?”

She nodded, though her eyes were wide.

“Tell me you did it,” said Lacoste.

It took Shona a moment to understand what she was asking.

“I did.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Gamache, and Shona felt a wave of relief, a kind of well-being.

She’d done it.

Gamache had anticipated Woodford’s reaction to War Plan Red, knowing the PM would not want those three words to escape his office. He certainly would not want the rest of the world to hear them. Woodford’s entire plan depended on keeping that plan secret.

Gamache’s plan was to get the word out. The three words out. Into the public. As well as showing people who Woodford really was.

While Shona recorded and streamed what was happening, Gamache would raise his voice and say, clearly, for all to hear, “War Plan Red.”

Its purpose was twofold: to get the word out, but also to provoke an aggressive overreaction on the part of the Prime Minister, all captured on Shona’s phone.

That was their plan, such as it was.

What Gamache had not anticipated was that Woodford would also order his guards to attack a journalist. Take her phone, yes. That he’d seen. But to physically threaten her?

He thought the target would only be him. Seeing that guard lift her rifle at Shona had shocked him, and terrified her.

Lacoste took the hit. And now took the handkerchief he offered. “Well, that was something.”

He was pressing his lips together, thinking. Nodding. He looked at the door. What happened next would decide things for them. How bad would this get?

His attention was drawn to Shona’s rapid breathing. “You need to sit down.”

When she did, with unusual compliance, Isabelle put her hand on her back and gently pressed her forward. “Place your head between your knees. Breathe.”

Shona turned to look up at them. “Isn’t this the crash position?”

Armand gave one grunt of amusement. “We’re going to be fine.”

“Yeah, I have Ruth’s latest collection of poetry. I know what ‘FINE’ stands for.”

Gamache turned back to Isabelle, the handkerchief still pressed to her head.

“Payette?”

“ Oui. The Chief of Staff admitted that when the PM left his office to get her, he also made a phone call.”

“To the White House?” asked Shona, her voice muffled by her legs.

“She doesn’t know, but when the shots were fired, she began to put things together. She already had suspicions.”

“How?”

“She’d seen some documents. Ones Woodford had kept from her.”

“Did she agree to do it?” It was the vital question.

“She wasn’t happy. But she agreed. You?”

“Ferguson palmed it,” said Gamache. “What he does with it is another matter.”

“At least he didn’t give it to the PM,” said Isabelle. “So, the Prime Minister is behind all this.”

Gamache nodded. When they’d arrived, they weren’t sure how deep into it the PM was, if at all. Which was why all this was necessary.

“We still have no proof,” said Gamache.

“The video?” said Shona, sitting up now and feeling less like she was about to throw up and pass out. Maybe one or the other, but not both. “Won’t that be enough?”

“ Non ,” said Lacoste. “All it proves is that he lost his temper. There’ll be blowback, but he’ll manage it.”

“He threatened a journalist and had two senior Sûreté officers beaten,” said Shona. “He can’t survive that, politically, can he?”

“It can be explained away,” said Gamache, “as a strong leader in a time of stress pushed to do something drastic to stop a lunatic—”

“You,” said Shona.

“—from seriously damaging international relations and maybe even provoking a conflict.”

“Would anyone believe that?” asked Shona.

“Millions believe Canada is training geese to down planes,” Lacoste reminded her.

“ Napoleon is always right ,” said Gamache.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we. Still, the geese … maybe not such a bad plan…”

“We need evidence,” said Gamache. “The video will help, but we need more.”

“We have the link to War Plan Red,” said Shona. “The one your person found. I sent it to Paul. If anything happens to us, he’ll release that.”

“ Oui. But it’s from a site known to contain wild conspiracies,” said Gamache. “ Non. Not enough.”

“Do you think Prime Minister Woodford realizes we know he’s the one behind what’s happening?”

“He does now,” said Lacoste.

“That was always the risk,” said Gamache.

They were deep inside the Parliament Buildings, and the wolf was at the door. They had to find a way out.

He turned to Isabelle. “Does it seem to you—”

“—that the guard pulled her blows? Oui. She knew exactly what she was doing. It could have been much worse.”

And would almost certainly be. Woodford could not let them leave. Ever.

In his Toronto office, Paul Workman, the former Chief Foreign Correspondent for CTV News and the most respected journalist in Canada, watched the videos. They’d come in from two difference sources, two separate phones. One was from his protégée, Shona Dorion. She’d warned him something was coming, but had not said it was this explosive.

The other, incredibly, appeared to be from the phone belonging to Manon Payette, Prime Minister Woodford’s Chief of Staff.

They hadn’t just been recording the events, they’d been streaming it to him. Which was very bad news for the PM. Woodford must’ve thought in taking away Shona’s phone he’d contained the damage. Instead, he’d only managed to make it worse.

The image of a Prime Minister using violence to stop a journalist from reporting an event was shocking. Damning.

As a seasoned journalist who’d covered wars and insurrections, riots and natural disasters, few things surprised him. But what he saw on those two feeds from Parliament left him shaken. Made worse because he’d voted for James Woodford. Had thought him a decent person, a man of integrity. But the mask hadn’t just slipped, it had fallen and shattered.

He posted the raw video on his site. In doing so he placed his formidable reputation on the line. His social media was trusted by journalists and opinion makers worldwide.

Then Workman sat back and watched the views and shares tick up. And up. As the confrontation in the PM’s office went viral.

The PM’s face was thunderous.

Messages were pouring in. All red-flagged. All asking what the hell he was thinking. What the hell he was doing.

Cabinet ministers, party executives, donors, even other world leaders were forwarding social media posts containing links to videos on Paul Workman’s site. And reposted. And reposted.

Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense, was about to click on one when the television screens covering one wall changed. The Canadian networks had moved from the exterior of the White House to the interior of the Prime Minister’s office. And up came the video.

“Fuck me,” moaned the PM.

There for everyone to see was Chief Inspector Gamache shouting “War Plan Red,” and the PM ordering his security to violently stop a journalist from videoing it.

The feed continued even after the phone was taken from Dorion. Now, from a different angle, they saw first Inspector Lacoste, then Gamache drop to the floor, hit with the butt of a rifle, on orders from the PM.

Then the senior Sûreté officer, on the ground, begged the Prime Minister to come clean about the plan.

For a moment those in the office were silent, shocked. Not that it had happened, they’d all seen it in person, but that it should be broadcast. And that there was clearly a second phone that had recorded the shameful events.

Woodford looked around. “Where’s Payette? Get her in here!”

“I’ll find her,” said Ferguson.

As he left the office, the Minister of Public Safety glanced down at the slip of paper Chief Inspector Gamache had placed into his ID.

Whether it was meant for him specifically, Robert Ferguson didn’t know, but it was put there deliberately by Gamache for someone to find. He must have gone to the PM’s office knowing what would happen. Knowing he was ending his career.

Knowing his ID would be confiscated. And so, in a beau risque , he’d written out this message and placed it where someone would find it.

Someone, Gamache was gambling, with integrity.

As he left the room, the Minister of Public Safety crumpled the paper and was about to drop it into the wastepaper basket. But, changing his mind, he put it into his pocket. And left.

The Minister of Defense watched her cabinet colleague.

Giselle Trudel had had her doubts about him for a while now, no longer believing Robert Ferguson could be trusted. She’d said as much to the PM, but he hadn’t believed her.

But since the poisoning plot, and the revelations about Marcus Lauzon, her concerns had ratcheted up.

More than once her own Chief of Staff had come to her worried that files had been compromised. And that could only be done by another minister. Or the PM.

And now this mess.

Still, Trudel was a Woodford loyalist. She knew that leaders had secrets, things that were confidential, classified.

“What’re we going to do with Gamache and the others?” she asked him.

“Let me worry about that. I’m calling a full cabinet meeting in half an hour. Be there.”

“Of course.”

Once out the door, she turned to go to her office, then changed her mind.

“They’ll be fine, they’ll be fine,” Reine-Marie repeated as she and her friends watched first Isabelle, then Armand collapse to the floor of the Prime Minister’s office.

“They’ll be fine,” Clara and Myrna, Gabri and Olivier agreed, their eyes wide with disbelief.

“Though I don’t think Woodford will be,” said Gabri. “And I voted for the shit.”

Ruth reached out a scrawny hand and gripped Reine-Marie’s.

“He’ll be fine,” she whispered. “Now that the images are out there, they can’t do anything to harm them.”

Reine-Marie squeezed the old poet’s hand. “ Merci. ” Then she got up and called Isabelle’s husband. And after that, Annie and Daniel.

“They’ll be fine,” she told them.

Evelyn Tardiff was barely conscious. Her breathing came in rasps as she dragged air through her slowly collapsing windpipe.

As her head was pulled back, she could see she was not alone. She had a companion in the caves. The body of Margaux Chalifoux was not two feet away.

It wasn’t enough that Moretti had her put there; she had to stare right into Chalifoux’s face, frozen and contorted in pain and horror as her own noose had tightened.

That would be her, soon.

Evelyn Tardiff, the head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté du Québec, was about to die. And nobody would find her. She’d rot there.

Her legs dropped again, and her windpipe closed. She struggled, but that only made it worse, tightening the noose further. She gurgled. And then … nothing.

No more air. No more air. No more air.

The only consolation was that she’d no longer have to stare into those dead eyes of Margaux Chalifoux.