The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 31

“They’ll be all right,” said Jean-Guy, staring at the screen. “They’ll be fine.”

He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. He was as shocked as everyone by the images of the Prime Minister of Canada effectively ordering a journalist detained and two Sûreté officers beaten. And not just any officers. His friends. His family.

Beauvoir tried to tamp down his rage.

When you fight, stay as calm as the ocean …

“FINE you say?” said Ruth. “Well, that sure describes someone in that video. Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and egotistical.” She turned to Rosa. “I wish we hadn’t voted for the bastard.”

Rosa nodded. Though she had soiled her ballot.

Nichol stared at them, unsure if she loved or loathed the elderly woman. And her duck.

Myrna and Clara had tended to Chief Inspector Tardiff’s wounds, putting salve and disinfectant on the rope burns and offering her painkillers. Which she rejected.

“I need a clear head,” Evelyn rasped, wondering if her voice would ever stop sounding like Fats Waller. Her whole body ached. The wounds on her neck, where the rope had torn her skin, stung, but they also acted as a welcome counterirritant, to take her mind off her throbbing head.

But she was alive. Alive. Alive …

As the three of them rejoined the others, they heard Reine-Marie say to Jean-Guy, “You really think they’ll be okay?”

“I do. The RCMP officer pulled back at the last moment. She made it look worse than it is. And with the video out for everyone to see, there’s no way Woodford can do anything more.”

What worried him, and obviously worried the others, was that by now this video was an hour old. Who knew what had happened on Parliament Hill in the meantime.

What was happening now.

In the background the television was providing updates from Washington. The President was safe. A Chief Petty Officer was being questioned, but it appeared the assassins were dead.

There was no word on General Whitehead’s condition.

The National Guard had taken control of the capital, and a state of emergency existed. Rumors were rife that this was the first of a series of planned attacks, hitting at the very heart of American democracy.

The rhetoric was ramping up, even from seasoned reporters and anchors.

Myrna switched to a Canadian station, where there was a shot of Parliament Hill, while commentators analyzed what had been posted on Paul Workman’s site.

“Look.” Clara showed them a feed from a popular social media site. The video had been changed, edited to make it appear Gamache and Lacoste were attacking the PM and the guards were simply defending him.

“No one will believe it,” Beauvoir said. “The original is out there. What is it?”

“They’re saying that the first video is doctored,” said Clara, “and that this is what really happened.”

The edited video from Ottawa was beginning to appear on the major networks in Canada and the US, with analysts now saying that the new video made more sense.

“More sense?” demanded Myrna. “To who?”

There was a tinge of hysteria in the air, the airwaves, now.

“They’re beating plowshares into swords,” said Ruth. “What’s happening to the world? I don’t understand.”

“Believe me now?” said Marcus Lauzon. “There’s your wolf.”

Frozen on the laptop screen was the face of Prime Minister Woodford, distorted. A wild creature unmasked.

The alarm had been sounded.

Not a siren. This was an alert sent only to the men and women guarding Parliament and its perimeter. The three detainees had escaped and needed to be found.

Two of them had left the building and were at large. One was almost certainly still in Parliament. All efforts needed to be focused on recapturing him. There was reason to believe Chief Inspector Gamache was armed and planned to harm the PM.

He should be considered dangerous and stopped at all costs.

Armand pressed himself against the wall, squeezing his large body between two tall filing cabinets. The stomp of boots on concrete was getting closer. Closer.

He held his breath. All senses heightened, tingling.

And then the guards were upon him. He tensed, prepared. Then they raced right by. He waited a few moments, exhaled, and continued on.

He had no idea where he was going.

He’d taken the back stairs down, down, figuring they would lead into some warren of a basement. Which they did.

As he’d led the guards away, he’d searched his memory for anything he knew about the layout of Parliament. Despite what he’d told Isabelle, he actually had very little knowledge of the building beyond what he’d seen over the years when coming to meetings.

Unfortunately, none had been held in the sub-basement.

All he could remember now was what he’d learned fifty years ago on the tour of Parliament with his parents.

The guide had explained that everyone had expected, in the 1850s, that Queen Victoria would choose Kingston, or maybe Toronto or Montréal, as the capital of the soon-to-be sovereign nation of Canada. The three cities vied for it, competed, wined and dined the Queen’s representatives. Lobbied, cajoled, and bribed.

And then, when the time came, she chose … Ottawa. Ottawa??

Angry city leaders claimed she’d thrown a dart at a map and hit what was, at the time, essentially a cow town.

In fact, as their tour guide had explained, it came to light later that the decision was strategic and, as it turned out, prescient.

Queen Victoria, or more likely her advisers, had chosen Ottawa because it was farther from the US border. Should the Americans invade, the PM and other leaders would have more time to organize resistance.

While an invasion in the late 1800s did not seem likely, neither was it altogether unlikely. Even 150 years ago, the danger was obvious, if not imminent.

What Queen Victoria could never have foreseen, or believed, was that the threat would come from inside the border. From inside Parliament.

But all that was useless at the moment. What Armand needed was a way out.

He had absolutely no idea of the building’s layout. Just that wings had been added over the years. Common sense told him there must be some underground connection, where equipment and documents could be moved without clattering around the main corridors.

His goal at first was to keep the guards following him until he was sure Lacoste and Shona were out. By now that must have happened. The alarm must have been sounded. He was no longer being followed, he was now being hunted.

He needed to get out too.

The sub-basement of the old building was as worn and musky as he’d expected. There were the mechanical rooms, the storerooms; file cabinets lined corridors, filled with God knew what sensitive material.

What he hadn’t found, and now needed, was a passageway that would take him to the next building over. That was his plan, such as it was. Once there he could escape and head to the bridge.

Now, as the guards closed in again, he resisted the temptation to duck into one of the storerooms and hide. To curl into a corner, as small as he could make himself, and close his eyes. That was a childish impulse, an illusion of safety. If they decided to search it, he’d be trapped with no way out.

His only hope was to get to the next building.

The RCMP guards were approaching. Slower this time, sure they’d passed him by. He could hear them opening and closing doors.

Had his hearing been better, had the cicadas all left, he’d have heard another, more subtle sound. Much closer.

The same one that, earlier that endless day, had alerted General Whitehead. But even had Armand heard the cocking of a gun behind him, it would have been, as it was for the General, too late.

“All right, out with it,” Beauvoir demanded of Lauzon. “What do you know?”

Everyone else had left. Beauvoir, Nichol, Lauzon, and Tardiff sat in a circle, leaning toward each other. A conclave.

“I know that your Black Wolf is the Prime Minister,” said Lauzon. “I’ve known all along.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” asked Beauvoir.

“I had no hard evidence, and I assumed, no, I hoped that someone would at least take the time to look deeper. Honestly, any imbecile could see that the Prime Minister must be behind it. Who else could have possibly organized all this? Who else has the ear of the American President? I was set up, and my only hope of staying alive was to keep my mouth shut.”

Now that Lauzon said it, it did seem all too obvious.

“The PM calls the shots, with Jeanne Caron his covert number two,” said Evelyn Tardiff.

“That’s it. She’s the only one in a position to set me up so perfectly. She does the dirty work, as always, while Woodford remains in the shadows.”

“For Christ’s sake, we know all that, but it’s the Prime Minister!” said Beauvoir. “We need more than the word of a convicted traitor.”

Seeing the look on Lauzon’s tired face, Jean-Guy stopped and took a deep breath, pulling himself together. When he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle. “ Désolé , Monsieur Lauzon. I went too far. But we need hard evidence, and we need it now.”

“Give me the gun.” Armand held his hand out.

While he hadn’t heard the weapon being pulled, he had sensed a presence and turned quickly, just as a hand grasped his jacket and yanked him backward.

Even as he fought to stay on his feet, instinct told him it wasn’t one of the RCMP officers. They’d have made themselves known in ways that would have been unmistakable and unpleasant.

This was different. Though also unpleasant.

The guards patrolling the corridor had passed by, and now he found himself in an indent in the stone wall, hidden behind one of the tall filing cabinets. With a gun pointed at his chest.

“Please”—his voice a whisper—“Madame Lauzon.”

“So, you know who I am?”

“I didn’t recognize you,” he admitted. “It’s been, what? Twenty years?”

“Twenty-two, as you know perfectly well.”

It was true. He knew to the day how long it had been since he’d arrested her for manslaughter, a charge her politician father had had dropped. And the high-stakes match with Marcus Lauzon had begun.

He looked down at the weapon still pointed at him. “That’s dangerous. Please give it to me.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

That shocked him. “Why would I do that?”

“My father always told me to stay well away from you. To be careful whenever I went home to Québec. That you had it in for both of us and had the weight of the entire Sûreté behind you.”

“He was wrong.” Armand noticed that in her other hand she was gripping some files. “Why are you still here? You could’ve gotten out long ago.”

“I was about to, but then I heard that you’d escaped, so I waited for you.”

“Here? In the basement?”

“Where else would you go? If you were going to escape, it wouldn’t be through the front door.” She looked around. “Where’re the others?”

“They escaped out the front door.”

“Come on.”

“Really.” At least, I hope …

“How?” She thought about it. “They must’ve had help. One of the guards?”

Armand considered, then nodded. Everyone would know soon enough. “Captain Pinsent. We can’t stand here forever. Do you really plan to pull the trigger?”

“I will if I have to. You’ve caused my father, my family, enough pain. He’s a good man, you know. Far better than you realize. I needed to find out where you really stand.”

“I think you know where I stand and have all along.” He glanced down at the gun, which had not moved. “Just as you know what you did all those years ago. I wasn’t the one on the wrong side of the law then, and I’m not now.”

She looked about to argue, but instead exhaled, suddenly tired. “I need you to read this.”

She held out the files.

“I will, but first…”

She hesitated, then handed over the gun. He’d recognized it right away as Sûreté issue and knew it must be Isabelle’s. He quickly took out the magazine.

“We’ll be unarmed,” she said.

“True. I have no intention of shooting fellow officers, or anyone else. Having a gun escalates violence, it doesn’t prevent it. How did you get this?”

“I asked for it at the front door. Told them the PM wanted it as evidence. I also have…”

She handed him his phone.

He noticed, without surprise, that there was no reception down there.

“We need to get out.” He tucked the weapon into his belt and the phone into his pocket.

“ Non. ”

“ Non?”

“You need to read this first.” Once again she offered him the slender dossier. “I got it while the cabinet meeting was on.”

“I’ll read it once we’re out.”

“Now, read it now. It won’t take long. We’re not leaving until you do. It’s important. I think you’ll be surprised.”

He looked at his watch. It was one o’clock.

“What?” she said. “You have a lunch date?”

Not exactly that, but he did have an appointment with Jeanne Caron at the Haskell Opera House in three hours. But that was not going to happen unless he got out of Parliament. And he needed Marie Lauzon for that.

He took the file. The light was dim, and he’d lost his reading glasses when he’d hit the ground after the blow. But slowly his eyes adjusted.

It was just two pages. When he finished, he reread it to be sure he understood. Then he looked up at Marie Lauzon.

“You know what that says?” she asked.

“I’m not sure…”

“I think you are.”

“Do you know for sure that this”—he held up the file—“is legitimate? Not doctored. Not put there for us to find?”

What she’d found was essentially a skeleton. The structure, the core of what was planned. What was plotted. While complex, covering years and eventualities, this slender document acted as a clear schematic. Appropriately, Gamache thought, in bullet point.

It was beyond damning, if true. It named names. It outlined roles.

“It’s real. We need to get to Prime Minister Woodford.”

“Are you insane?” he asked.

“Are you a coward?”

“I’m a realist. There’s no way we’re getting to Woodford.”

“Not just getting to him, we need to bring him with us.”

He looked back down at the document in his hand. It was more dangerous than any weapon he’d ever held or beheld.

If they got caught, it would be destroyed, and they’d be killed. They’d have to be. There was no doubt now.

He raised his eyes to hers and wondered if she realized the full import of this slender document. What it was saying without actually saying it.

But that didn’t matter. Not now, not yet. All that mattered was getting it out.

He thought about taking a photo of the document, but if they were caught and his phone hacked, they’d know he and Marie Lauzon had the file. They’d be forced to give it up. He wasn’t sure how long either of them would stand up to torture.

Besides, even if he was able to send the photos of the documents to Jean-Guy and Isabelle, they would never be considered proof. Only the original would be accepted.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Wait. Wait.” He was speaking to himself. “Wait…”

There might be a way. Not to get to Woodford—that would almost certainly fail, and they’d be caught in the attempt. And if they couldn’t get out, neither could the document. But there was something else they could do. He thought.

Think. Think it through. He stared at the file folder. Think.

The plan had been updated in the past year. It was detailed, and yet, finally, like many invasions, it came down to weather. Something the conspirators could not actually control. All they could do was wait for the right conditions.

He remembered the numbers on Charles Langlois’s map. The isobars.

“Come on.” There was urgency in her voice. “Waiting isn’t going to help. Let’s go!”

“Wait … wait…” He almost had it. There was one other thing, something he needed to—

And then it was there. FEDS.

She was pulling at his sleeve. Still he stared. And then he finally spoke.

“Where’s the corridor to the other building?”

“When the time comes, we won’t take it. There’s an unused tunnel that houses the electric cables and old pipes. We’ll take that. Later. First we need to get to the Prime Minister. Come on.”

“I’ll go with you to get him, but you need to show me the way to the tunnel.”

“In case I’m caught?”

“If you are, so am I. We can’t take this with us.” He held up the file. “We need to hide it, and the tunnel seems the best place. Then I need to get far enough up to send a couple of messages.”

“How long do we wait?” whispered Shona.

It was dank and cold beneath the stone bridge. They’d been there for twenty minutes, and there was no sign of Gamache.

“Longer.” Isabelle knew if he didn’t show soon, they’d have to leave. And leave him behind. It was no use all of them getting caught. Already they’d evaded one patrol, but eventually someone would look closer. Someone would find them.

The alarm had obviously been sounded. She wondered how Captain Pinsent was doing. Mostly she wondered about Armand.

Pulling out her phone, she wrote Jean-Guy and was about to hit send when Shona touched her arm.

“Gamache just wrote.”

Lacoste grabbed Shona’s phone. Thank God. But why would the Chief write Shona and not her? Was it a trick? Was he being forced? Or maybe it wasn’t from him at all.

But the short text contained their private code to identify themselves.

I’m FINE , the message began. It was him. And on his own phone. Which meant he’d run into Marie Lauzon. Or vice versa. And somehow he’d recovered his phone and, she hoped, her gun.

When she read it, Isabelle understood why he’d sent it to Shona. He almost certainly had very little time, maybe just enough for the one message. And it really was for the young journalist.

“I don’t understand why he wants me to do it,” said Shona.

“But can you?”

“Yes.”

“Then hurry.”

Minutes later Jeanne Caron studied the email she’d just received from the senior meteorologist and muttered, “Jesus.”

She thought for a moment.

Then she wrote a text. But didn’t yet send it.

This was happening much faster than expected, certainly sooner than was ideal. But ideal had passed them by when the poisoning plot had been discovered and stopped.

If that had worked, they’d be in the transition phase now, that netherworld between complete chaos and utter control. The War Measures Act would have been declared and in place for a few months. Any protests would have been quashed, the protesters rounded up. Most Canadians would not only have accepted the draconian measures but welcomed them, as a bulwark against anarchy. They’d be getting used to living in, essentially, a police state. They’d happily trade freedom for safety. History had taught those in power that frightened people always did. Which made fear of an attack a far more effective weapon than any actual attack. And less messy.

While Canadians welcomed the strong hand of a single leader, in the United States there’d be moves to demonize the nation to the north. The messages in the media, social or otherwise, would declare that Canada was moving into a dangerous dictatorship. A nationalistic, fascist, protectionist state that had closed its border and was jealously guarding its resources. And had no intention of sharing.

And they would not be wrong.

Something would have to be done to bring Canada to heel and get the resources that the United States so desperately needed. And that would belong to them, if not for some arbitrary line on a map.

How bad, really, would it be to move that line? To remove that line?

That was the ideal.

Since the poisoning plot had been discovered, Marcus Lauzon arrested, and the War Measures Act made unnecessary, they’d had to pivot. And they had. It proved more difficult to paint Canada as a threat, especially since few Americans gave the benign nation to the north a first, never mind second, thought. But the narrative was taking hold, thanks to wildfires and sophisticated messaging.

Caron studied the new forecast sent by her contact at Environment Canada. She’d been assured that, so far, no one else had seen it.

According to his message, within the next twenty-four hours, a high-pressure system would collide with low pressure, whipping up strong northerly winds.

To be sure she understood what was about to happen, her meteorologist had sent an illustration. The lines on the map undulated. They went as far west as Chicago and swooped south, embracing Boston, and New York, and … Washington.

Thanks to the new technology of FEDS, they now knew that thick ash would fall all over those cities, as it had a few years earlier. Only worse. Should a wildfire happen to ignite during this window of time.

The scientist assured her these conditions were unlikely to happen again for many years.

Jeanne Caron considered the options.

According to Darwin’s On the Origin of Species , it wasn’t actually the fittest that would survive. The species that survived was the one that best adapted to the changing environment.

And the environment was changing.

And Jeanne Caron was adapting.

She composed a message, then hit send.

And with that she lit the spark that would become a wildfire that would change North America and the world forever. Other drought-stricken nations would watch what happened next and see what was possible. And permissible.

As the environment changed, so would borders. They were, after all, only lines on a map. And a map was flammable.

“Oh, fuck.”

“What is it now?” demanded Beauvoir.

“Look.” Nichol turned her laptop around.

“Jesus,” he whispered and looked from the screen to Lauzon, then Tardiff.

“What?”

They both leaned in and studied the illustration. And if they were in any doubts, the text put those to rest.

“Can your contact be trusted?” Tardiff asked.

“She’s the assistant to a senior meteorologist,” said Nichol.

“Not a climate scientist herself?” asked Lauzon. “How does she know?”

“She sees all the reports even before he does.”

“The isobars,” said Beauvoir. “They’re lining up again. Even worse. Who else will see this?”

“Eventually everyone at Environment Canada, and pilots, of course. Control towers. MétéoMédia and the Weather Network, as well as—”

“Got it,” snapped Beauvoir. “We have to stop the information from getting out.”

Nichol shot off a quick text to her contact and waited for a reply.

“But really, would anyone care?” asked Lauzon. “It shows a trough of high pressure, but would anyone see the danger?”

“After the megafires, I suspect every meteorologist in North America will be paying attention and know what this could mean,” said Beauvoir.

“But there’s no real danger, is there?” said Tardiff.

“Exactly,” said Lauzon. “If there were forest fires burning in that area, we’d be in trouble, but there aren’t.” He looked at their worried faces. “Are there?”

“How’re we going to do this?” Marie Lauzon asked Gamache.

“I have no idea. You’re the one who wants to get the Prime Minister.”

“But you’re the cop.”

“A cop, not a kidnapper.”

They were standing in the stairwell closest to the PM’s office. Fortunately, as ignorant as Armand was of the layout of Parliament, Marie Lauzon was knowledgeable. She’d played there as a child and explored every nook and cranny.

Marie looked at the time. “The cabinet meeting will be over in a few minutes. The Prime Minister keeps them to one hour sharp. He’ll be heading back to his office soon.”

“Is there an alarm he can press?”

“Yes. Under his desk.”

Gamache nodded. No surprise.

“And the office has cameras, of course.”

“ Oui. ”

So even if they could slip in and wait for him, they’d be clocked.

“How much coffee does he drink?”

Madame Lauzon was about to protest this ridiculous question, but stopped herself, realizing there must be a reason for it. And then she had it.

“A lot.”

“And he must have—”

“A private bathroom. That doesn’t, of course, have cameras.” For the first time since he’d met her twenty-two years earlier as a scowling, frightened, angry, and entitled teenager who’d just killed a boy on a bike, he saw Marie Lauzon smile.

“And after an hour in the meeting, drinking even more coffee—” said Armand.

“The first thing he’ll do is use his bathroom. There’s a door into it from the corridor so the cleaners don’t have to go through his office. It’s kept locked, of course. And yes, I have the code.”

Gamache paused at the door to write a message.

Marie Lauzon glanced at it. “The Chief Petty Officer? That valet fellow from the White House? What’s that about?”

Armand hit send, without replying.

“Come on,” hissed Marie Lauzon. “What’re you doing now? Christ, tell me you’re not doing Wordle?”

Gamache wasn’t. He was composing one more message. One last message. Just a few words. Once sent he tucked the phone back in his pocket and took a deep breath.

Ready.

Minutes later Armand was standing in the Prime Minister’s private bathroom, watching the door handle turn. Please let it be Woodford.

Then it stopped.

Come on. Come on.

“Are you kidding me?” the Prime Minister’s voice came through the door. “They still haven’t found Gamache? Where the hell is he?”

“I’m getting an update, sir.” It was the head of the PM’s security detail. “He’s definitely still in the building.”

“Well, find him, for Chrissake.”

“And we’re looking for Marie Lauzon.” On hearing that voice, Gamache’s brow dropped. But after reading the document, he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised.

It was Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense. Their supposed ally. Whose side was she really on?

“Focus on Gamache. We can deal with Marie later. She’s not a threat.”

The door handle turned another millimeter.

Come on. Come on.

“Captain Pinsent admits to helping the other two escape,” said the head of the RCMP security detail.

Gamache closed his eyes in relief. Confirmation. They’re out.

“What the hell is happening?” the PM said. “It’s impossible to know who to trust anymore.”

Truer words , thought Gamache as he watched the door finally open.

James Woodford stepped in, closed the door behind him, turned, looked in the mirror, and came very close to needing a new pair of slacks.

Jeanne Caron read the reply.

The planes would be loaded with the incendiary bombs and ready to take off to the northern lake on her word. The fires would be so intense, whipped up by the forecast winds, they’d put all previous conflagrations to shame.

They’d burn for weeks, marching south, eating millions of hectares along the way, consuming every community in its path and sending the remains of ancient forests into the atmosphere. The plume would once again bypass Canadian cities to descend on the United States, killing Americans by the thousands.

Word would get out that their friendly neighbor to the north was doing nothing to fight the blazes. There would even be some evidence, carefully managed, to show the fires had been intentionally set. As an attack.

The scope of Canada’s duplicity would slowly become clear.

It would not be a Big Lie.

This time it would be the awful truth.

Canadians, in turn, would be told that the bombs that started the fires were supplied by the US.

And that too would be the truth.

The incendiary bombs had been smuggled in using trucks supplied by Joe Moretti. Caron had made sure they were not stopped at the border.

The American government, propelled by grieving and outraged citizens and the media, would be compelled to act. To send troops into Canada. Perhaps on the pretext of fighting the fires, perhaps not. By then they would need no excuse—the images on the news would see to that.

And the troops would never leave.

It was all mapped out in the now grotesque War Plan Red. A document conceived in 1919, going dormant in 1939, then resurrected as a contingency, little more than an almost laughable exercise.

Until a visionary had seen the opportunities presented by the looming water crisis.

All crises presented opportunities to those bold enough to grab them. Few were. Which made the prize all the greater for those who did.

All it would take now was the spark. And Caron had provided that.

She texted her counterparts in the United States to be ready with their own payload of incendiary news releases. Already locked and loaded.

A second, terse message came in from Gamache, this one for Isabelle.

“I don’t understand,” said Shona, reading it. “Why does he want us to go to an airport?”

“I don’t know.” Isabelle put the phone away and peered around the stone pillar of the old bridge to see if anyone was approaching. “I’m thinking the reason will be obvious once we get there.”

“Just us? Shouldn’t we call for backup or whatever you call it?”

Lacoste turned to her. “From who?”

Shona was about to answer. The Sûreté. The RCMP. The Armed Forces, for God’s sake. Instead, she was silent.

Who? Who could they trust?

No one.

“We need to get out of here,” said Lacoste.

“Shouldn’t we wait for him?”

“ Non. ”

As they ran to the car, Isabelle Lacoste could not believe she was leaving the Chief behind. But she had to go, and Armand had to stay, to cope as best he could.

“There’s no fire there now,” said Beauvoir. They’d moved up to the church basement and were staring at the map on the wall. “Which means they’ll need to start one. The conditions are too perfect to ignore.”

Nichol turned to Marcus Lauzon. “How would they do it?”

“You’re asking me? I have no idea.”

“Come on, you sat in on cabinet meetings,” said Beauvoir.

“We talked about putting them out, not starting them. But—”

“What is it?”

“We fight forest fires with water bombers, among other things.”

“ Oui. So?”

“So if I was going to start one? I’d do the same thing, only instead of dropping water, I’d drop incendiary bombs.”

“Shit.” Beauvoir’s mind was moving quickly. “They’ll need planes. Which means the collaboration of the Air Force.”

“CFB Bagotville,” said Lauzon. Canadian Forces Base Bagotville.

“ Oui. ” Beauvoir thumped his fist against the map, squishing the large base north of Québec City.

“That’ll play right into Woodford’s narrative,” Lauzon said. “The one he wants spread by American media. That the fires have been deliberately set by Canada as an attack.”

“And they’d be right,” said Tardiff.

Nichol almost protested, pointing out that it made no sense. No one would believe that Canada was going to attack the US using ash, for God’s sake. It was ridiculous. But she realized it didn’t have to make sense.

The less rational, the better. The point was not to engage brains but emotions. And emotions could be manipulated ridiculously easily.

Besides, the real point wasn’t to defeat the Americans—that was impossible. The point was to provoke a counterattack. Give the Americans a pretext for invading Canada. And winning.

“So what do we do? Who do we tell?” Nichol demanded. “We at least have a pretty good idea where the fire will be started.”

They now looked at the remote lake. Where Charles had visited, and Frederick had died. If it was where the bombers would end their mission, then the start was the Air Force base in Bagotville. But Beauvoir could hardly send a message to the commander there. She might very well be among those involved in what amounted to a coup.

“Wait,” said Evelyn Tardiff. “Moretti sent trucks to Mirabel. I didn’t know why, but—”

“Of course they’d move the planes,” said Beauvoir, exasperated with himself for not seeing it. “Where there’d be fewer witnesses.”

They shifted their gaze to Mirabel. The civilian airport north of Montréal, long considered a white elephant and all but abandoned, could easily handle those bombers.

Beauvoir made for the door. “We’re going.”

“We who?” said Nichol, looking around. “Just us? Are you kidding? This sounds half-assed, like kids putting on a play. Mom can do the costumes and we can use Uncle Ned’s barn…”

Despite herself, Chief Inspector Tardiff gave one snort of laughter. Yvette was not wrong. But neither was Beauvoir.

“What can we do against bombers?” Nichol was now saying. “We need to get more support.”

“From where?” asked Tardiff. “Who can we trust?”

Nichol had no answer.

“I’ll stay here,” said Lauzon. “I won’t be any use in a fight.”

“You were earlier today,” said Beauvoir.

“Damn,” sighed the former Deputy Prime Minister. “I knew that would come back to bite me on the ass.”

Jean-Guy’s face had been so grim for so long, smiling almost hurt. “You saved our lives. I’m not sure I ever thanked you.”

“No need.”

“But there is.” Beauvoir patted his jacket pockets and found what he was looking for. “I got this from the warden at the prison. I believe it’s yours.” He held out a phone. “I’m sorry, sir, for all you’ve been through and my part in it. You were wrongly convicted. I know that now.”

Lauzon took the phone. “Thank you, but we both know I’m not exactly the innocent type. I’ve done a lot I’m ashamed of, including to the Gamaches.”

“No one is as bad as the worst thing they’ve done.” Beauvoir surprised even himself with that statement. He wondered where it came from, then realized it was, of course, Gamache.

Jean-Guy did not remember that the Chief was himself quoting a death row nun.

“Can I send just one message?” The man, once the second most powerful person in the nation, now looked small, and vulnerable, and very emotional. “To my daughter. I won’t tell her where we’re going, I just want her to know…”

Beauvoir, who also had a daughter he loved more than life, said, “Of course.”

While Lauzon sent the message, Beauvoir returned to the map and cir cled a town. He didn’t dare send a text, but if the Chief should make it home, he’d know where they went.

Mirabel.

While Jean-Guy and the others headed out, Isabelle and Shona were also racing north.