The Black Wolf: A Novel By Louise Penny - 32

“Move your hands off to the side. Don’t say anything, Mr. Prime Minister.”

James Woodford did, then looked at the gun in Gamache’s belt. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No. I’m taking you out of here.”

“You’re kidnapping me?”

“Such a strong word.” Gamache flushed the toilet. “I’m escaping you.”

It was, Armand realized, not the actual use of the word. But that did not seem to matter, the meaning was clear.

Holding Woodford’s arm in a firm grip, he opened the door to the hallway a crack before shutting it again.

He’d already gotten a sense of the rhythm of the patrolling guards. There was a time when both guards had their backs to the hallway. That was how he’d managed to punch the four-digit code in, unlocking the bathroom door.

It would be, should be, easier to head back across since Marie Lauzon was keeping the door to the stairs ajar. As long as the PM didn’t resist or, worse, scream.

“You have nothing to fear from me unless you try to warn the guards. Do you understand?”

Woodford nodded, his eyes wide. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Prime Minister?” came a voice from the office. “Everything all right?”

“I’m here to stop the killing, not to do more. And for that I need you alive. Answer her. Just say ‘fine.’”

“Fine.”

Gamache turned on the taps and checked the hall again; he waited a beat, then turned off the taps and shoved the PM out the door. Three strides took them across the hall.

The door was closed. He leaned against the crash bar. It didn’t open. He tried again. It was locked. Marie had locked them out. He looked to his left. The guards were about to reach the end of the long hallway. They’d turn any moment.

His grip on Woodford tightened. He reached for the crash bar one last time. If it didn’t open, he’d have to take off down the corridor, dragging the PM along. They would not get far. With the gun in his belt and the PM in his grip, there’d be no reason the guards wouldn’t assume he meant the Prime Minister harm and act accordingly.

That would be his assumption, if he were them.

All these things flashed through Gamache’s mind as he reached for the door, but this time, without prompting, it opened.

He plunged through, dragging the PM with him. The door clicked shut.

“What the—” he said before Marie Lauzon spoke.

“Sorry, I was testing to see if it could be locked.”

“It can,” snapped Gamache.

“Marie?” said Woodford. “For Chrissake, what’re you doing here? Why’re you doing this?”

“Are you telling me, sir, you really don’t know?”

“Come on,” said Gamache. “Explain later. We need to hurry.”

Woodford looked about to refuse.

“Don’t make me carry you, sir,” said Gamache. “I’m not as young as I once was and I might drop you.”

Woodford looked at the steep concrete stairs and allowed himself to be rushed down them. Once at the bottom, Marie took them to the right along what looked like a dead end, but it proved to have a door.

She yanked it open and stooped to grab the dossier they’d left there.

But it was gone.

She turned, panicked now, and saw Gamache staring straight ahead, his body tense, his face set.

“Are you looking for this?” A heavily armed special forces officer held the manila file. “You aren’t the only one who knows their way around these buildings, madame .”

Jean-Guy and Nichol approached the Mirabel airfield. Slowly, slowly. Weapons drawn.

They’d parked a kilometer away and jogged forward, leaving behind Chief Inspector Tardiff, who was still recovering, and Marcus Lauzon. They were to be the last line of defense. Should Jean-Guy and Nichol fail, those two could at least try to get the word out. Before they too were killed.

Beauvoir had asked Reine-Marie’s permission to give Chief Inspector Tardiff Armand’s Sûreté-issue Glock, which was locked securely away. The head of Organized Crime now held it and watched as her colleagues disappeared into the thick forest.

Jean-Guy held up his fist for Nichol to stop. She bumped into him, never clear on signals. He could see trucks. Activity on the airfield. There were planes, but not bombers. Which surprised him.

Had they made a mistake?

But it seemed not. The trucks had Moretti on the side.

“Look,” whispered Nichol.

Don Moretti himself was directing the operation.

Nichol was looking at Inspector Beauvoir. Her eyes were wide. He wondered if she’d ever fired her weapon at another human. Probably not.

That was about to change.

It was ten past four, and Jeanne Caron was turning full circle, staring in some surprise at the Haskell Opera House.

She’d heard of it and knew that Gamache had met General Whitehead here just the evening before, though why he also wanted to meet her there, she couldn’t guess.

I need your help.

That’s what his message said.

Gamache was acting in ways that were unpredictable. And that was always disconcerting. But then maybe their social media campaign against him hadn’t been that far off. Too many blows to the head had unhinged the once formidable senior officer. Though that made him even more dangerous.

Also, he was late. Which didn’t surprise her. She doubted he’d show up at all, given what she’d seen on the video from Parliament.

Moretti’s people were spread throughout the woods, and some were posted inside the building, with orders to let Chief Inspector Gamache pass, should he appear. Moretti himself wasn’t there. He was directing operations at the airport.

Mirabel.

Now there was a coup de grâce . A stroke of genius.

This ends now . As soon as she gave the word, a sniper on the balcony would take out Gamache. Should he show up.

But before that happened, she needed to find out all he knew.

Taking a seat, she looked down at the thick black line at her feet and wondered what it was for. Then her gaze moved around the beautifully maintained old building, a tribute to a very special relationship between two sovereign nations. A relationship that had also, despite the occasional disagreement, been beautifully maintained.

This starts now . As soon as she gave the word, the planes would take off. Mirabel—she almost laughed.

She took out her phone and sent a text: Pret?

Ready?

Isabelle Lacoste and Shona Dorion parked five hundred meters from the airport and slowly made their way forward.

They could see activity on the airfield. Trucks and planes.

And people moving between them with long trollies.

“What’re you doing?” Lacoste whispered. Shona had brought out her phone.

“You have your weapon, I have mine.”

“For God’s sake, you’re not live-streaming this?”

“Not to everyone, just sending it to Paul. He’ll know what to do with it.”

It was, Isabelle had to admit, a good idea. Whatever happened to them, the world would know. Though she hoped her secret crush, the journalist Paul Workman, had a good place to hide. They’d be coming after him next.

Workman was having lunch at the Queen Mother Café on Queen Street in Toronto with the head of Reuters North America. She’d flown up from Washington as soon as she’d seen Paul’s feed from Parliament.

The two old friends and comrades had covered conflicts all over the world together, rising to the top of their profession. Now the Reuters woman needed to hear everything Workman knew.

“The events in your Parliament, hard on the heels of the attack in the White House, smell like a concerted attack on both our ‘houses,’” she said.

“Did you look up War Plan Red?” he asked.

“Of course. It was put aside in 1939. I don’t know what that cop was yelling about.”

“There’s more to it. It’s been quietly updated over successive Presidencies.” Workman pulled a napkin over and wrote .family, then a series of numbers and symbols. He shoved it toward her. “Follow that, then put in War Plan Red.”

“There’s no such thing as .family. The deepest the web goes is .onion.” She looked at Workman, then down at the napkin. “Even if this domain exists, we both know whatever is down there is highly suspect.”

“True. But where else would you hide a truth except among a bunch of lies?”

“Look, the narrative has changed since this morning. Even legitimate news outlets are airing the new version from your Parliament, showing that the PM was physically threatened. They say that the video you sent out was doctored to show your PM in the worst light—”

“Doctored by me. Yes, I know what they’re saying. Do you believe that?”

“No. That’s why I’m here. People who know you trust you.”

“And the world trusts Reuters,” said Workman.

The saying among reputable journalists was “Reuters for writers.” If the news service reported something, it was true.

“I’m willing to stake my reputation and that of the agency on this,” she continued. “But I need proof.”

“You need the original files,” he said.

As they made their way back to his home office, he checked a new flagged message.

“What is it?”

Workman had stopped dead on the sidewalk and was staring at his phone. Then he quickly hit record.

“Oh, thank God you came.”

Jeanne Caron turned abruptly on hearing his voice.

“You look surprised to see me,” said Armand, striding down the aisle.

Beauvoir and Nichol advanced.

Jean-Guy quickly took in the placement of everyone, and everything, on the airfield. There were two large men with assault rifles guarding the perimeter. The rest, those unloading the trucks, didn’t appear armed, but Beauvoir suspected they probably were. Best to assume.

The guards didn’t look overly vigilant. Probably convinced no one would know they were there.

One seemed much more concerned about some horsefly or wasp buzzing around him.

Beauvoir made his way toward the other guard. Tucking his gun into his holster, he picked up a large rock.

The guard, one of Moretti’s soldiers, was watching the progress of the unloading and loading. Had he been looking outward, as he should have been, not inward, he might have seen the blow coming.

Beauvoir dragged the unconscious man into the woods, cuffed him, and picked up his rifle. Crouching down, he looked across the airstrip. There was no sign now of the second guard.

Nichol had done her job.

Lacoste crept forward, then paused and looked behind her.

“Are you getting this?”

“If you mean a nice shot of your ass, then yes.”

The Reuters reporter smiled. They were now in Workman’s office, watching the live streaming on his laptop.

Oddly, that was always her worry. Not just that she’d be killed while covering a war or natural disaster—that would be bad enough—but that the last photo of her would be of her ass, since the photographer with her was always “bringing up the rear.”

“What’s so funny?” Paul asked, his censure obvious.

“Nothing.” Though she suspected Paul and all other male reporters were even more vain and had the same fear. That the last photo of them would be deeply unflattering. And would be the one that won a Polk.

Isabelle Lacoste turned back toward the activity in front of them.

The planes were almost loaded. It was now past four in the afternoon. Would they take off or wait until morning?

If she’d filled in the blanks correctly, those canisters contained some sort of firebomb. Napalm or the like. Against a night sky the resulting fire would look like Armageddon.

If she was calling the shots, she’d make sure those planes got off the ground and dropped their bombs in time for the six o’clock news.

“Isabelle?”

The tone of Shona’s voice froze Isabelle’s blood.

“Oh, shit,” said Workman.

His Reuters colleague was staring at the screen, no longer smiling.

The Sûreté inspector had been struck hard and fallen to the ground.

The phone streaming the images also dropped. Then went dark.

“Is that…,” began the Reuters journalist.

Workman was already on it, going back a few seconds. As the phone slipped from Shona’s hand, it hit the ground, bounced, and a moment before it went off, a face appeared.

“Robert Ferguson.”

“Your Minister of Public Safety.”

“After seeing that video from Parliament,” Caron said, getting up and moving to greet Gamache, “I’m surprised you made it. How did you get out?”

“I had help. Seems not all the RCMP guards are willing to just follow orders.”

“Thank God for that.”

She noticed movement behind Gamache, on one of the balconies. A sniper was steadying their rifle. Waiting for her signal.

Armand seemed oblivious. Clearly whatever instincts he once possessed had been blunted.

“We haven’t much time,” he said. “Fortunately, we got Woodford out. We also found this. It’s pretty damning.”

He held up the dossier.

“What do you mean you got Woodford out?” she demanded. “You kidnapped the Prime Minister?”

He offered her the file. “Here.”

She took it. “Where did this come from?”

“The office of the Minister of Defense.”

Jeanne Caron was silent as she looked down at the file, but did not open it.

“I think you already know what it says,” he continued, quietly. “Since you wrote it.”

“I did no such thing. What’re you saying?”

“Why’re you objecting, if you don’t even know what’s in it? It might be good things. Or it might be the outline for the revised and updated War Plan Red.”

The two stared at each other.

“You’re a fool, Armand.” She stepped away and nodded toward the balcony and waited for the sharpshooter to take the shot.

Nothing happened.

“Jeanne Caron?”

She turned.

A man, familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him, was walking toward her from the far door. He was in uniform.

“I’m arresting you under the Homeland Security Act on charges of terrorism.”

“What the hell is this?” she demanded, turning back to Gamache, whose face was neutral.

Not yet panicked, she waited for the shots that would drop Gamache and now this other man.

None came.

She turned back to the man, and now recognized him. It was the valet from the Oval Office that morning.

They had to move quickly now.

Nichol closed in from one side, Beauvoir from the other.

His targets were Moretti’s people moving the containers to the planes. Nichol had only one goal: Don Moretti himself.

She got there first, coming up behind the mafia boss, who clearly felt he was perfectly safe.

She placed her gun at the base of his skull. “Joseph Moretti. Agent Nichol of the Sûreté du Québec. You’re under arrest.”

“What the fuck?” He whipped around and reached out for her.

She pulled the trigger.

All activity on the airstrip stopped, the moment frozen in time. Then, quick like lightning, everyone turned and looked toward where the shot had been fired.

Everyone except Beauvoir. He’d been trained well enough, by the best, to just keep going.

“Don’t look back,” Gamache had always warned them. “You need to keep your eyes on the target. That must be your priority. Keep moving forward, no matter what happens.”

And Beauvoir did. That moment’s pause gave him time to reach the first man and drop him with a sideswipe. Then he turned and fired, just as another pulled a gun and was about to shoot.

The man dropped. But now two others closed in on Jean-Guy. He could never get both.

“ Arrêtez!” It was Nichol’s voice, commanding.

And then another sound. A man screaming in pain; then his voice, strangled but recognizable: “Stop.”

It was Moretti. He was kneeling on the ground and bleeding from a bullet wound to his shoulder. Nichol had him in a headlock and was pressing her fingers into his wound. He was writhing.

“Do as he says,” she commanded, “or—” Without hesitation she dug her fingers in deeper and he screamed.

There was a hesitation, then they dropped their weapons.

Beauvoir scooped them up.

“Open it.” He pointed to a canister.

The man looked to Moretti, who gasped in pain and nodded.

First one, then another, then another, until all the drums had been opened.

“What?” said Nichol, still holding up a now semiconscious Moretti. “Napalm?”

“Sand.”

“Can’t be.”

“All of them. Just sand.”

Moretti, eyes closed, managed a chuckle. “Damn Caron. She’s fucked us all.”

Beauvoir stared in disbelief at the sand. It was the wrong airfield. They were in the wrong place. The bombs were somewhere else.

“You’re American,” shouted Jeanne Caron. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

She backed away and bumped into Gamache, who didn’t move, except to point to the floor. And a thick black line.

He was on one side, and she on the other.

“I’m Chief Petty Officer Oscar Flores. You’ve crossed illegally into the United States, ma’am. I can and will arrest you.”

Once again Jeanne Caron looked around, searching the balcony, the stage, the entrances and exits for Moretti’s people. And there were men and women standing there. In Canadian uniforms on one side and American uniforms on the other.

She turned to Gamache, who looked anything but triumphant.

But she did. There was malevolence in her eyes, in her voice.

“You really are a fool. This won’t hold. I’ll be out in days, if not hours. And then there’ll be no mercy. When they’re finished firebombing the forests, we’ll turn on your little village and obliterate it. As punishment, and a warning to anyone who also thinks they can stop us. All you’ve done is made it worse.”

Gamache ignored Caron and turned to Flores. “General Whitehead?”

The officer shook his head.

As he left, Armand glanced toward the empty stage.

So don’t be so naïve, and take that heart off your sleeve,

For a fool and his life will soon be parted.

War’s a fact of life today, it will not be wished away,

Forget that fact, and you’ll be dead before you started.

Stepping into the cool late-afternoon air, Armand could smell the earthy forest, the sweet pines.

This needed to end. And it would, before the sun set. One way or another. He desperately wanted to head north to the airfield, but knew by the time he got there, it would all be over.

Whatever the outcome, his place was back home.

I’m dreamin’ of the trees in Canada, Northern Lights are dancing in my head.

If I die, then let me die in Canada, where there’s a chance I’ll die in bed.