Chapter 27 #2
“Proof,” said Lauzon, looking over her shoulder. “Caron was finally sloppy.”
“Or overconfident,” said Beauvoir. Or just confident.
On Nichol’s screen were the pictures taken of Jeanne Caron meeting with Moretti. It was not anything that a defense attorney could characterize as haphazard. They were clearly deep in conversation. Still, while damning, it was not actually illegal.
This was not proof enough to arrest, to convict. But it did make it clear to them, finally, that Jeanne Caron was deep in the conspiracy.
“That’s on mont Royal,” said Jean-Guy. “The lookout.”
“There’s one more. Just came—” Nichol fell silent.
“Merde,” whispered Beauvoir.
The photo showed Moretti’s soldiers, weapons drawn, bearing down on Tardiff through the forest.
“What is War Plan Red, sir?”
“I don’t know how you got through the lockdown—” Prime Minister Woodford gave his security detail a stern look.
“You can thank Canada’s not-so-latent racism,” said Shona.
The senior ministers and armed officers turned to the young woman, and Isabelle Lacoste vowed that the first thing she’d do, if they got out of this, was introduce her children to Shona.
“What is War Plan Red?” While still cordial, there was steel in Gamache’s tone.
He glanced over to the cabinet ministers. Robert Ferguson, the Minister of Public Safety, had joined Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense, in the PM’s office. Both immediately dropped their eyes to the carpet.
Tragically, the posts they’d all just read were right, and the Chief Inspector had lost his mind. Now he was babbling about some war plan.
Prime Minister Woodford turned to Isabelle Lacoste and Shona Dorion. His voice gentle now, kindly even. “I see he’s somehow convinced you that his fantasies are real. This has gone from pathetic to dangerous. Monsieur Gamache—”
“Chief Inspector Gamache,” said Shona.
“—is making no sense. You need to distance yourself from him in every way before he causes you harm. I beg you.”
“When we were here earlier, you seemed to agree with us,” said Lacoste.
“No. I asked you for proof. Instead of that, you come marching in here raving about some war plan that sounds like a Saturday morning cartoon. We have bigger problems.” He waved toward the TV screens, which showed armed activity around the White House.
“I don’t have time to spend on your delusions. ”
But Gamache was studying the Prime Minister. “You know what ‘WPR’ means.”
“Wasn’t that a sitcom?” said Ferguson, who was responsible for Canada’s intelligence service. “With Loni Anderson?”
“That’s WKRP,” said Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense.
“It’s a public radio station in Wisconsin,” said the head of the Parliamentary Protective Service, reading from his phone. “WPR.”
“Dear God,” said Shona. “If Luxembourg does invade, we’re screwed.”
Gamache only had eyes for the Prime Minister. “It’s the name the Americans have given to their plan to invade Canada, as you know perfectly well, sir.”
Giselle Trudel sighed. “Oh, God, this is heartbreaking.”
“General Whitehead was at the White House this morning to ask the President for permission to release to me classified information on the plan.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Ferguson. “Can’t we get him out of here?”
“The General was gunned down to stop him,” Gamache persevered.
“All right!” Woodford finally snapped. “Enough! You’re unwell. You need help.” His voice dropped again, cajoling now, trying to reason with a madman. “That was an assassination attempt on the President. The General was injured saving her life. We all saw it.”
“I met with General Whitehead last night. He admitted there was a plan.”
Gamache was composed, despite huge temptation to shout.
When you fight, stay as calm as the ocean,
And watch what’s going on behind your shoulder.
War’s not a place for deep emotion,
And maybe you’ll get a little older.
“That’s another lie,” said the Minister of Defense. “He’s probably dead and can’t deny it. You’re slandering a hero, though I don’t know why.”
“He’s sick,” said the Minister of Public Safety. “He needs help.”
“He needs medication,” said the Minister of Defense.
“This needs to stop,” said the Prime Minister.
The head of the security detail stepped forward, expecting the PM to order them to escort Gamache and the others out the door. But instead—
“You’re right,” said Woodford with a huge sigh. “War Plan Red is the American strategy for invading Canada. Making this nation the fifty-first state.”
There was dead silence as everyone in the room—politicians, the PM’s Chief of Staff, the security—turned to Prime Minister Woodford, astonished. He might as well have admitted he was indeed an alien.
“You’re humoring him, right?” said Ferguson. “You’re not serious.”
Though it was eminently clear that he was.
“Wait a minute,” said Giselle Trudel. “There is such a thing? I’m the Minister of Defense. Why don’t I know about it?”
Shona was on the verge of saying something, but a look from Lacoste stopped her.
“Because it was only ever an exercise and was torn up in the 1930s,” said Woodford. “What you found, God knows in what archive, Chief Inspector, is an anachronism, a footnote. An oddity. War Plan Red no longer exists.”
“You’re wrong there, sir,” said Gamache. “It was never torn up. It’s been updated by every American President since it was first conceived in 1919. It’s also known as the Atlantic Strategic War Plan.”
“No, no,” said Trudel, on her phone. “I just googled it. The Prime Minister’s right. It was scrapped in 1939, when war in Europe broke out.”
Gamache looked tired now. “Do you really think you’re going to find the American invasion plans on Google?
Of course it says it was canceled. What else are they going to say?
That they have an active and updated strategy to cross five thousand miles of undefended border and take over their friendly neighbor to the north? ”
Gamache had moved a few steps to his left, dragging all eyes with him. Except Lacoste’s. She was following their own plan and had stepped to the right, so that she was standing beside Manon Payette, the PM’s Chief of Staff.
“We need to talk,” Lacoste whispered.
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes. We do. And you know why.”
“I don’t. But”—she hesitated—“I want to hear what you think you know.”
Payette began to move toward a door.
“Non. Not yet. Wait for it…”
“Planned,” the Prime Minister was saying, losing all patience and what little sympathy he might once have had for the Chief Inspector. “Not ‘plan,’ ‘plan-duh.’ Duh.” He leaned right into Gamache’s face. “Duh.”
“Okay,” whispered Lacoste. “Now.”
The intent of Woodford’s words, the last two sounds, were so insulting to the Chief Inspector that even the head of the Parliamentary Protective Service looked over.
Everyone was now riveted on the two men. No one noticed the two women slip into a side office.