Chapter 28
Jean-Guy could see the Champlain Bridge into Montréal just up ahead.
Agent Nichol was beside him. Stern, silent, staring out the window. Her small hands in fists. Lauzon was in the back seat. Beauvoir didn’t dare leave him in Three Pines with Reine-Marie, her friends, a collection of knives, and a duck capable of God knew what.
If the mafia knew about Rosa, she’d be a made duck in no time.
He’d alerted the Montréal police, who were already crawling all over mont Royal. But the park, in the middle of the city, was vast, made up of three peaks covering almost seven hundred forested acres. Most of it left to go wild.
It would take days, if ever, to find … well, a body.
“If you knew about War Plan Red,” demanded Shona Dorion, “why didn’t you admit it earlier when we first asked?”
As soon as she spoke, she saw her mistake. Though Gamache’s expression hadn’t changed, she knew she might have just blown everything. She’d deviated from their own plan and pulled the PM’s attention away from Gamache. To her. And, by consequence, to the two missing women.
But Woodford never took his eyes off Gamache, even as he answered her question.
“Because it’s not important. It would just muddy the waters. It’s a bizarre footnote in our shared history with the United States, nothing more. Let it go,” he pleaded with the Chief. “Can’t you see you’re so disoriented you no longer know the difference between past and present?”
“Then why did you let us in?” Gamache pushed. “If this’s such a waste of time, why are you still talking to me? I saw your face. The initials ‘WPR’ scared you.”
“What scared me was having a lunatic at the door. Better to let you in, to help save at least part of your reputation. You were making a fool of yourself. Worse, you’re in danger of doing serious damage to our international relations.
I’ve already had a call from the American Ambassador asking, demanding, to meet thanks to the social media shitstorm you and your conspiracies have created. ”
The PM had once again worked himself into a rage.
“I’m not asking you, sir, if the Atlantic Strategic War Plan still exists.
I’m telling you. And it’s being acted on even now.
” His words created a void, a vacuum. The air was sucked out of the opulent room as those around them listened to the thoughtful, measured madman.
“War has changed. Assaults come at us from all sorts of fronts, from social media attacks, to cyberattacks, to trade wars. To drones and artillery and age-old full-frontal offensives. But the reasons are as old as the hills.”
“And those are?” asked the Minister of Defense, to the PM’s obvious annoyance.
“The world is changing. Our very climate is changing. Look at the wildfires, the hurricanes, the floods, the melting ice pack, the droughts and famines. The reasons for all that can be debated, I suppose, but the effects are undeniable, as are the consequences.”
“And those are?” asked the Minister of Public Safety.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” snapped the PM. “Don’t encourage the man.”
Gamache never took his eyes off Woodford.
“Nations go to war over resources. It might look like something else, but at the root of most conflicts is that one country, one territory, one leader wants what the other has. Wants, or needs. And today the most precious resource, the real currency, the real power, is water.”
There was a noticeable shift in the room. A watershed. The balance had changed toward Gamache. They were listening to him now.
“The loss of fresh, clean, drinkable water is the single greatest threat to survival worldwide. It’s not a one-off crisis, it’s an existential threat.
Parts of Canada are vulnerable, as we know, but to the south it’s even worse.
The US is losing vast amounts of water every day.
Lakes and rivers are drying up. Infrastructure is crumbling, and with it the pipes that carry water.
The loss to leakage is huge. Cities are becoming uninhabitable as temperatures rise and water disappears.
And when that happens, there will be millions of environmental refugees. And where will they head?”
He stared at the Prime Minister. But it was Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense, who spoke. Though it was a partial answer, as though she was afraid to go all the way.
“Not south.”
“Non.” Gamache turned to her briefly, before returning to Woodford. “North. They’ll be coming here.”
“Okay, what do you know?” demanded Isabelle Lacoste.
The two women were standing in the PM’s private bathroom.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Payette.
“We saw the look you gave the Prime Minister when word of the shootings happened.”
“Of course I looked at him. He’s the leader of the nation. We all look to him in times of crisis.”
“Stop with the sound bites. The look you gave him wasn’t fear, it wasn’t a plea for guidance. You knew something. Know something. Suspect something.”
Manon Payette pressed her lips together.
“All right,” said Lacoste. “Let me ask you this. Why did the Prime Minister leave his office to go get you?”
“Because I’m his Chief of Staff,” she snapped. Impatient. Imperious. Self-important. And defensive.
“Yes, but why leave?”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t that what the intercom is for? Isn’t that what text is for? So the leader of the nation doesn’t need to leave his office to search for his Chief of Staff.”
Lacoste had her. Cornered. The only way out was through the truth.
The Montréal cops found Chief Inspector Tardiff’s ID in the woods.
There’s blood, the captain texted, but no body.
Beauvoir pulled over. They’d arrived at mont Royal and were about to join the search. Instead, Jean-Guy sat in the vehicle. Thinking.
Where would Moretti’s people take Evelyn Tardiff to execute her?
“Come on,” demanded Nichol, reaching for the door handle. “We can’t just sit here.”
“Stay where you are. We’re not just sitting here,” snapped Beauvoir. “I’m thinking. I suggest you do too. You spent the last while eavesdropping on conversations with Moretti. Where would he take Tardiff?”
“The Jean-Talon market?”
“Are you asking me?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know—”
“Stop it! Deep breaths. Think. The market’s too public.
They’re probably on mont Royal somewhere.
” Beauvoir brought up a map of the huge park.
“She was taken from here.” He placed a finger on the map.
“Probably unconscious, given the blood.” He glanced at Nichol and saw she had taken command of herself.
Barely. He understood her anxiety. Had they been talking about Armand or Isabelle, he’d be near hysterical.
“The caves,” Nichol suddenly said. “I remember reading in a message that Moretti had become obsessed with the caves.”
“What caves? There’re caves on mont Royal?”
“Jesus,” said Lauzon, springing forward so that his head was between them. “The ones they found in the Saint-Léonard quartier of Montréal, you mean?”
“That’s right,” said Nichol. “It’s not far from where the Morettis live. He said it would be a perfect place to put a…”
“Merde,” said Beauvoir.
The three stared at each other. Those caves were twenty minutes away. If they left mont Royal, there was no turning back. If they were wrong … The only comfort, cold as it was, was that it was probably already too late.
Keep searching, he texted the Montréal police captain. We’re trying another area. Then he put the siren on and swung back onto the road, his foot heavy on the gas.
Not like this, not like this, dear God, please.
Not yet.
Not like this …
Her legs were heavy, the muscles burning. Her back was spasming from the effort of arching. Then, without warning, her legs dropped an inch. And as they did, the rope around her ankles pulled taut and her head was pushed back as the rope around her neck tightened.
And she gagged.
With a huge effort, Evelyn arched her back again and brought her legs back up, loosening the garrote slightly.
Not like this …
Oh, God, please. Help me.
Out of the corner of his eye Gamache noticed Lacoste had returned to the room with the Chief of Staff. Isabelle was looking stern. Payette was looking sick.
Lacoste nodded toward Gamache. So it was true. The PM’s Chief of Staff had confirmed their suspicions.
Shona saw it too and slowly slid her hand into her pocket. Preparing …
If the guards saw her, they wouldn’t care. They’d searched her and found nothing. But they were wrong.
Gamache had counted on the guards being in full combat gear. Which included Kevlar.
“When they approach to frisk us, which they will,” he’d told Shona, “you need to palm your phone and slide it into the pocket of their vest so that when they search you, they don’t find anything. Then take it back.”
Shona had looked at him, astonished and angered. “You assume because I’m a Black woman I know how to pick pockets?”
“No, I assume you’ll do as I tell you. The Kevlar vest is designed to stop a bullet. And because it does that, it’ll also stop the guard from feeling anything you do. You could put a Volkswagen in the pocket and they’d never notice.”
She’d smiled at that and felt her tension lower. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“You’ll do more than that. You’ll succeed. You must.”
And she had.
Now the time to act was near. She could sense it.
Shona brought the phone out and waited, waited … They were almost there …
Beauvoir had never been to the network of caves beneath the parc Pie-XII, and never hoped to. The first cave had been discovered decades ago, but a huge second cavern, essentially a network of passageways, was only recently found.
He’d read about it and seen photos and watched with some dismay as Honoré had become pretty much obsessed with the caves. He’d begged his father to take him there. But just the news reports were enough to send Jean-Guy to the verge of a panic attack.
Where the Chief was terrified of heights, Beauvoir’s terror was holes. And what they’d discovered in the middle of Montréal was an epic hole.