Chapter 24
Bert Whitehead had returned the salutes of the Uniformed Division guards on duty at the side entrance to the White House and been escorted along a corridor he’d walked down hundreds of times.
He’d asked to see the President as early as possible and was told she’d be happy to meet with him over breakfast.
President O’Rourke was already at work. She got to her feet, smiling when she saw him. “General.”
“Madame President.”
“I ordered you bacon and eggs and coffee, of course.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.”
Tiny and kinetic, with grey hair in a motherly bun, she came around the side of her desk and indicated the small dining room off the Oval Office.
“Ah, I see the food has arrived.”
Two navy valets in black slacks, white shirts, black vests, and bow ties were putting plates on the table while a third poured coffee, then retreated to the small pantry.
Whitehead waited for the President to be seated and was just about to do so himself when he stopped.
The head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff knew the sound of a gun being drawn and the look on someone’s face when they realized they were about to die.
He saw it now on the President. He reached out and gripped the back of the chair to use as a weapon, hoping he could—
That was as far as Bert Whitehead got.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir leaned against the doorpost into the guards’ room and watched the live reports. So far no one knew what had happened inside. Maddeningly, they only had the picture of the exterior of the White House.
Reine-Marie and Yvette Nichol sat side by side on the sofa and watched, wide-eyed. Barely breathing.
Olivier turned on the TV in the bistro, something he only did for Stanley Cup finals when the Canadiens were playing. He’d lost the remote, and now, brushing the dust off it, he turned the screen on. Myrna, Clara, and Ruth watched, along with other patrons, their crêpes getting cold.
All around the country, the world, televisions and computers were turned on, tuned in.
Cameras were trained on the exterior of one of the most recognizable buildings in the world as more and more emergency vehicles arrived.
Sirens blaring. Lights flashing. Special forces, armed to the hilt, were pouring out of trucks as perimeters were established.
Journalists in every language tried to work out what was happening. Though one thing was known.
Shots had been fired in the White House.
Prime Minister Woodford sat down with a thump and brought his hand to his mouth, as though trying to stifle a word, a shout. His phone lay in his other hand, the screen lighting up as messages poured in, ignored for the moment.
More Parliamentary Protective officers had arrived, this time armed with M4 carbines.
They’d secured the perimeter of Parliament Hill in Ottawa, and the officer in charge was trying to get more information.
The Minister of Defense for Canada, Giselle Trudel, arrived and was stopped at the office door and frisked.
Gamache was on his phone. No one noticed.
“Anything, patron?” Lacoste joined him.
He was quiet, listening. “Get back to me when you have something.” Then he hung up. “Nothing. Everyone’s scrambling. There was absolutely no chatter about any sort of attack.”
“Get me the feed from inside the White House,” the PM demanded.
“We’re trying, sir,” said the head of intelligence.
A technician had arrived and was on a call. “Got it,” he said.
Gamache and Lacoste turned and saw the main monitor switch to a camera showing a long marble hallway.
All eyes were on the screen. Even those supposedly guarding the doors and windows turned to watch a heavily armed tactical team moving deeper into the White House.
“The Oval Office,” commanded the PM. “We need to find the President.”
The technician finally landed on cameras in the Oval Office, where Uniformed Division officers, weapons raised, had burst in. It was empty.
The cameras followed them into the next room.
Three bodies lay on the carpet.
Two were valets.
The other was in full military uniform. A valet was kneeling over him.
A thousand kilometers away Lacoste turned to Gamache and saw his face drain of blood.
“The President? Where’s the President?” Woodford shouted at the monitor.
At that moment the valet, blood on his shirt and a gun in his hand, stood and turned to the officers.
“He’s armed,” several of the guards in the PM’s office shouted. Some even pointed toward the screens.
On the monitors they watched as someone stepped between the armed valet and the armed guards.
There was a moment frozen in time.
Lacoste heard Gamache inhale. He’d seen, a split second before Lacoste, who it was.
President O’Rourke had placed herself in front of the valet, her arms wide. Protecting him.
“Non,” whispered Gamache. “Arrêtez.”
But it was too late. Bam, bam, bam! Shots went off.
What Gamache was afraid of had happened. He and Lacoste both knew from bitter experience that this was how tragedies occurred. Not on purpose, but because once the brain had committed to an action, it was almost impossible to stop.
Once the message had been sent to pull the trigger, it could not be recalled.
“Oh, God,” someone whispered.
Someone else, perhaps the PM, shouted, “No!”
Shona had closed her eyes but opened them again when she heard Gamache exhale.
The senior tactical officer in the White House, grasping the situation, had raised his arm, knocking the rifle of the guard next to him so that the shots hit the ceiling.
The President fell back, obviously thinking the bullets must have struck her, and probably repelled by the deafening noise within inches of her.
The valet she’d been protecting dropped the gun he’d taken off the assassin and grabbed the President. Holding her safe.
Within the small dining room, what looked like complete chaos broke out, but it was, in fact, finely orchestrated by the senior officer.
“Madame President, you need to come with us.”
He didn’t wait for her agreement before yanking her forward, away from the suspect.
She was immediately surrounded by officers and hurried out of the room. Then he turned his attention to the surviving valet.
“Chief Petty Officer Oscar Flores,” said the valet, his arms raised.
“I know who you are. What I don’t know is why you did this.”
“I didn’t.” Flores’s voice was calm, though his eyes were wide with shock and alarm. “The General…”
Officers were on their knees, ripping General Whitehead’s uniform jacket off to reveal his wounds.
“He’s still alive.”
“These ones are dead,” another reported.
“Get moving,” said the officer and nodded to one of his soldiers, who shoved Flores forward with his rifle.
At that moment the Secret Service arrived in the Oval Office. All this had taken less than a minute. When they tried to take the President away from the Uniformed Division officers, she stopped them. Pale and trembling, President O’Rourke still managed to take command.
“I’m in good hands. Help General Whitehead. Chief Petty Officer Flores comes with me.”
“But Madame Pres—” began the senior officer.
“You heard me. He saved my life. You can question him in my presence.”
In the Prime Minister’s office there was silence, before Woodford turned to the room and said to no one in particular, “What the fuck just happened?”
Was still happening.
Gamache watched, his expression one of shock and grief, as medics worked to save the life of Bert Whitehead.
Shona, who was watching him, whispered, “Can we talk?”
“Not now.”
“Now.”
He looked at her, at the intensity in her stare. And nodded.
“Mr. Prime Minister, do you mind…?”
But the PM was paying no attention to them. Gamache did not have to look at Lacoste, knowing she didn’t have to be told to follow them. In the outer office Gamache turned to Shona.
“What is it?”
“Not here. Outside.”
The corridor was lined with Mounties armed with automatic rifles at every door.
They were watched closely as they made their way to the exit.
“I’m sorry,” said the heavily armed guard at the door. “We’re on lockdown. No one in, no one out.”
“Understood. Merci.”
Sunshine spilled through the windows, so tantalizingly close.
As he stood there, trying to decide where to go, Armand couldn’t get the sight, the thought, of Bert Whitehead out of his head. Could he survive those wounds? Was he still alive…?
War’s a fact of life today, it will not be wished away,
Forget that fact, and you’ll be dead before you started.
“Patron?”
Gamache looked around and saw that Lacoste was standing at a rare unguarded door. It was immediately obvious why no one was on guard. It was a utility closet, with a bucket and mop, a broom and rolls of paper towel.
The three of them squeezed in.
“What—” Gamache began to ask, but Shona was already talking.
“Did you see?”
“See what? The attempt on the President’s life? Yes.”
“No, before that. When the guards told us there’d been shots fired. Everyone reacted as though the attack was here, in Parliament.”
“Oui.”
“Except one person. I happened to be looking at the Prime Minister when that happened.”
“He wasn’t surprised?” asked Lacoste.
“Oh, no, he was like the rest of us. Shocked and afraid. It was that Payette woman, his Chief of Staff. She was looking at him as though she knew something. Something bad.”
“We all thought it was bad,” said Lacoste.
“No, this was different. She wasn’t afraid, at least not in that way. She seemed to know there was no danger. Not here.”
At that moment the door was yanked open and an armed special forces officer stood there, her rifle pointed at them.
“Out, get out. Now!”
“But—” Shona began to step forward.
A gun was cocked.
“Shona!” Gamache stepped in front of her and spread his arms wide in obvious submission. As he did, he gave her a look that was impossible to misinterpret.
Her hands went up, as did Lacoste’s.
Once out of what must’ve looked like a hiding place, they were frisked and their IDs taken.
The commando handed Gamache back his S?reté ID. “What were you doing in there, sir?”
“We needed a private place to talk about what just happened.”
“A closet?”
“Well, we didn’t know,” said Gamache, replacing his ID.
He knew how ridiculous they must’ve looked, all crammed in there like clowns in a circus.
The guard, no fan of clowns, smiled tightly. The atmosphere still tense. “Come with me.”
There was no “please.”
She led them to a large, comfortable lounge. Those in Parliament at that early hour were being held in different rooms. Gamache recognized a few members of Parliament and civil servants, as well as a couple of senators. All were gathered around a television.
“Any news?” one of them asked when she saw them enter.
“The President is safe,” said Gamache. “That’s all I know.”
“Thank God for that.”
“What the hell happened?” asked another.
“Désolé.” He put up his hands to indicate he had nothing more.
They sat in a cluster of comfortable, though worn, armchairs in a far corner, away from the others.
Armand leaned forward. “How do you interpret what you saw?”
“The look on the Chief of Staff’s face?” said Shona. “I don’t know, but I watch people for a living and that was just strange. Her reaction was different from everyone else in the room.”
“Still, some people are slower to react than others,” suggested Gamache. “Madame Payette might’ve been in shock.”
“Maybe.” But she sounded far from convinced.
“Patron, have you checked your messages?”
“Not yet. Is there one in particular?”
“Yes.”
He got out his phone and found the message from Agent Nichol. It took him a few minutes to read through what was on the link. Then he looked up into Lacoste’s eyes. She too had read it.
“I know,” she said, agreeing with something he didn’t say. Didn’t have to say. The look on his face said it all.
“What?” Shona had perched on the arm of his chair and was straining to see.
He went back and read the document again.
“Holy shit,” Shona whispered. “That can’t be right. ’Cause if it is…”
“We need to speak to the Prime Minister,” said Gamache.
He approached the guard but was barred from leaving.
“Can you at least take a message to Prime Minister Woodford?”
His request was met with stony silence.
“What’re we going to do?” asked Shona. “We can’t just sit here. Can we send it to the PM?”
Gamache had considered that but decided against it. They needed to control who saw this document. They needed to protect it as long as they could. Besides, it probably would have been lost among all the other messages that must be pouring in.
Gamache’s own phone was slammed, jammed with messages. But one caught his eye.
Sherry Caufield had written on the secure server.
She was counterintelligence in the UK, and a famous misanthrope, rarely communicating unless she had something important to say, and even then her messages were terse. Often outright rude. She was tolerated because she was so good.
Under the heading What do you make of this? was a link. He clicked on it. Up came President O’Rourke at her desk in the Oval Office. She looked up and smiled as Bert Whitehead arrived.
Gamache sat back in his armchair, as though given a slight shove.
“What is it?” asked Isabelle, leaning over to see.