Chapter 19
“Well, fuck me,” whispered Jean-Guy, staring at the laptop, as Nichol entered the numbers and symbols. “Excuse my English.”
He was already awake when Armand and Nichol arrived home, dripping wet. It was still dark, not yet six in the morning, but he too had seen the light at the church and was preparing to join them when they returned. Fortunately, he’d put on the percolator and lit the woodstove in the kitchen.
Dropping her sodden coat on the wood floor for Armand to pick up, Nichol went straight into the study, sat down, and put in the numbers while the others watched.
Please God, please God, pl—
“Patron!”
She was so focused she didn’t realize he was standing behind her, gripping the back of the chair.
“What is it?” Reine-Marie asked. Awoken by the sounds downstairs, she’d joined them in her housecoat and slippers.
Henri, Fred, and Gracie bounded in behind her, tails wagging. Had the others had tails, they’d have been wagging too.
“You did it,” said Jean-Guy.
“Nichol did it,” said Armand. “We had the code all along. It was one of the string of numbers and symbols Charles had written on the map.”
Files were flashing up on the screen.
“Damn. They’re encrypted. Merde,” Nichol whispered.
“All of them?” Gamache asked, looking at the labels Charles Langlois had put on his files.
Lakes. Rivers. Treatment Plants. Water Sheds.
She clicked on the one labeled Poisoning.
“Look.” Sure enough, all they saw was gibberish. “We need the code.”
“Leave it,” said Gamache. “It’s not important.”
She turned to glare at him. “Don’t you think the Poisoning file could be important?”
“No. We’ve gone beyond that. And I doubt he’d label it so blatantly. It’s a ruse, a time waster. Charles was smart. He wanted anyone who found this and broke in to spend precious time on nothing. I’ll bet whatever’s in there is nonsense, maybe even misdirection. Open this one.”
He pointed to Water Sheds.
“Patron—” Lacoste began.
The commotion downstairs, and the smell of coffee, had dragged her up from a dream about being chased by a huge root that looked like Ruth.
A Québécoise trying to pronounce the English “Ruth” would almost always say “Root.” It made a sort of warped sense.
As much as any dream about an animated tree could.
“Open it,” commanded Gamache.
“Why that one?” Jean-Guy asked.
“Because it’s misspelled,” said Armand.
“‘Watershed.’ It’s right, no?” said Isabelle.
“No,” said Jean-Guy. “He labeled it as two words. Water Shed. As a biologist Charles would know it’s a single word.”
“He wants you to notice it,” said Reine-Marie.
“Wait,” said Jean-Guy as Nichol, huffing her disdain, moved the cursor down.
“What now?”
“Could he have sabotaged his files?” asked Jean-Guy. “Maybe by clicking on it, a virus will be released.”
They looked at each other. It was possible.
“I think if he was going to do it, it would have been when we clicked on Poisoning,” said Armand. “We have no choice. Do it.”
A watershed, he knew, was a divide, a place where fresh water changed direction. But it was more than that. It was an expression. A watershed moment was when a decision needed to be made that changed everything. It was a turning point.
They were, he knew, at a watershed.
With a less-than-respectful snort, Yvette Nichol double-clicked on the file.
It opened.
Things were moving quickly now.
Isabelle Lacoste drove to Ottawa through the sleet, with Gamache in the passenger’s seat, where he was free to send and receive messages. Or just stare out the window at the worsening weather. And think.
He’d prodded his contact at the Canadian Security Intelligence Service for information on the third set of prints they’d lifted off the laptop. For some reason it was taking time. He asked her to copy Beauvoir and Lacoste on the findings.
He’d also written to Shona Dorion to let her know she did not have to pursue the meaning of the string of numbers and symbols Langlois had written on his map. They now knew it was a passcode. He did not say to what.
He hadn’t heard back from her but wasn’t worried. Given what the young woman thought of him, he suspected the next thing he’d hear would be some shouted insult at the next news conference. Or when she published the evidence he’d given her, evidence that would almost certainly ruin him.
But he couldn’t worry about that now.
The first message he’d sent that morning after seeing the Water Shed file wasn’t to her. Marked urgent, he’d hit send on a secure text to James Woodford’s office asking for a meeting ASAP.
While the young journalist hadn’t replied, the Prime Minister of Canada had.
A meeting was set up on Parliament Hill for eight thirty a.m.
It was time to talk.
He’d also sent an update to Bert Whitehead and ended it by saying he’d see him that evening. But there was no reply.
He’ll show now, thought Armand as he stared out the window at the snow and sleet. He has to.
They’d taken Nichol’s car, the battered one belonging to her father, since neither it nor the plates would be clocked. Now, on the slippery road, both Gamache and Lacoste were wondering if that had been the very best decision.
“The tires are bald,” said Lacoste, working to keep the old car in its lane.
While they slipped and slid their way to the nation’s capital, Jean-Guy sat beside Yvette Nichol in the study, both working on their laptops, chasing down what Charles Langlois had left behind.
The Water Shed file contained another series of numbers.
“They’re IP addresses,” said Nichol.
“Yes, I know.”
“They go to the dark web.” Nichol could not contain her excitement. “To .onion sites.”
“Yes, I know.”
Most S?reté investigators were familiar with those sites. Instead of .com or .ca, the dark web masters had created another layer. Actually layers. Like an onion. And now the two investigators found themselves diving into the deepest caverns of the web.
Where the nuts lived.
Now Jean-Guy sat back, his eyes wide. Hidden within those layers he’d found a name. Repeated. James Woodford.
“Chief Inspector.” Woodford rose and came out from behind his desk, his hand extended.
“Mr. Prime Minister. May I introduce Inspector Isabelle Lacoste. She shares second-in-command duties.”
“Inspector. I’ve heard about you, of course. It’s an honor.”
“And for me, Monsieur le Premier Ministre.”
Armand studied the carpet and barely suppressed a grin. For much of the trip up Lacoste had babbled. Her way of dealing with the strain of driving through sleet that kept trying to tug them off the road. While Gamache had thought about their upcoming meeting, Lacoste had railed against politicians.
Normally an optimist, her one area of cynicism was politics. She’d seen too much, and the recent events had only served to solidify her opinion.
But now, in the presence of James Woodford, she was practically swooning.
It was not that he was especially handsome, nor was it some magnetism. Not a force of personality or some shining aura. It was, Gamache could see, just the opposite. The very lack of pretense made him unique, and accessible. Relatable and likable in a strangely gentle but compelling way.
He seemed completely genuine in being pleased, even humbled, to meet this officer much decorated for her valor.
“I don’t suppose I can convince you to move to Ottawa and join my team?” he said to Lacoste.
“Now, sir,” said Gamache with a smile. “No poaching.”
“God knows I could use good people. I seem to have made a mess of those I’ve chosen to have around me. Not the best quality in a leader.”
He’d had a carafe of coffee and some pastries brought in for them, and they helped themselves before sitting down again.
“Tell me, Chief Inspector, was Marcus Lauzon really behind the poisoning plot?”
Instead of answering directly, Gamache said, “Why do you ask? The courts found him guilty.”
“True.” Woodford cupped his warm mug in both hands, as though chilled, and looked at Gamache for a moment, trying to decide something.
“I haven’t actually known the man for a long time, but I struggle to believe it.
That might be my own ego. An inability to admit I not only didn’t see it, but actually elevated a mass murderer to Deputy PM.
” He shook his head. “I’m surprised the no-confidence vote in Parliament failed. ”
It was close, Gamache knew. Woodford had survived by only a few votes.
“Though you’re not here to relitigate the Lauzon case.” The Prime Minister looked at both officers. “What can I do for you?”
“Can we speak privately?”
Though surprised by this highly unusual request, Woodford only hesitated for a moment before asking his Chief of Staff to leave them. The woman did, though she’d been looking at Gamache as though he was not exactly an ally.
Then the Prime Minister leaned forward. “You have my complete attention, Chief Inspector.”
“Holy shit,” muttered Beauvoir. He’d eaten through two bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon without even noticing.
“What?” asked Nichol.
“The crap that’s on the web. I’ve visited some of these sites in the past, researching conspiracies for cases, but these really are nuts.”
He thought of the young S?reté officer who, in all sincerity, had believed the poisoning plot never happened. And that Lauzon was being railroaded by political enemies. That was crazy enough, but these sites Charles Langlois had listed went beyond nutty into demented.
“Yeah? Big surprise.”
Despite what Gamache had said, she was still trying to get into the Poisoning file. Now she leaned over and read what was on Beauvoir’s screen.
“Come on, no one’s going to believe that.” With a snort of laughter, she pointed to a post calling for an American patriot militia to be formed to protect the border against the imminent Canadian invasion.
“Has syphilis come back?” she asked.
It was right beside a report that Canada was training geese to bring down American planes.