Chapter 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 S?reté-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 grace. 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.