Chapter 28 #2
He hoped Honoré would forget and move on to another obsession.
He kept feeding the boy stories about mummies, and spaceships, and dinosaurs, but no, Honoré kept at it, showing his father photos of archeologists and cave explorers actually kayaking through the narrow passages with sheer rock walls.
He’d even gotten his little sister, Idola, hooked.
Her face lit up when Honoré showed her the videos.
His father’s face did something else entirely.
“You okay, Papa?”
Jean-Guy had gone pale and felt lightheaded. “Just fine.”
“Can we go for my birthday? S’il te plaaaaa?t?”
And now Beauvoir stood at the entrance. It would have to be a cave …
Do we have to go? I never really liked Tardiff. And it’s probably too late—
“Done.”
Don Moretti read the text and saw the photo. And for a brief moment he almost felt regret. They’d known each other for so long. Even, briefly, been lovers.
Then he forwarded the photo to Jeanne Caron with the subject line This is how we treat traitors.
Caron had been waiting for the message, though hadn’t expected a photograph.
She’d thought she might be repulsed, disgusted. But instead, she found herself almost aroused.
There on her phone was the picture of Evelyn Tardiff, the head of Organized Crime for the S?reté, lying on her stomach, hog-tied. The rope expertly placed around her neck and ankles, so that as she struggled, she strangled.
In the photo Tardiff was obviously still alive, her eyes wide with terror. Her body showing the effort, the strain, of keeping her legs raised and back arched.
Death would be slow. Excruciating.
It was the mob execution for the worst offenders.
Incaprettamento.
The first cave, the only one open to the public, was closed for the season, the entrance locked. For a moment Beauvoir thought that maybe they wouldn’t have to …
But the lock had been broken and the door stood ajar.
“This must be it,” said Nichol, excited.
Beauvoir drew his gun and was disconcerted to see Nichol was also armed. He never really thought of her as a full-fledged agent.
“They might still be in there,” said Lauzon, his eyes wide. “Maybe I should wait in the car.”
“Maybe you should walk in front of us,” snarled Beauvoir. He didn’t mean it, but he was not in the best of moods, and the look on the former Deputy Prime Minister’s face was very satisfying.
Jean-Guy took a deep breath. Oh, fuck it. Cautiously opening the door, he peeked inside.
“You’ve had a remarkable career, Chief Inspector.
Thank you for your service.” The Prime Minister stepped toward the door.
“But the time has come for you to go home. Sit on the porch with your wife. Play with your grandchildren. Tend your roses. You’ve done enough.
It’s time to rest. Let us take care of this. ”
His voice was cajoling, as though speaking to a sick child. Or someone standing on a ledge.
But Gamache held his ground and Woodford’s smile faded.
“Not this again. Please, Monsieur Gamache. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to have you removed. You’re making of fool of yourself. You’ll be forever remembered as the boy who cried wolf.”
He all but leered at Gamache.
Still he stood there. He could see Shona behind the PM, her phone in her hand. She’d done it. Smuggled it in. Until that moment he hadn’t known for sure. This was a vital part of their own plan.
Everyone else in the room was watching the two men and ignoring the young woman whose actions were far more dangerous.
“I’m warning you.” Woodford nodded to his head of security, who raised his carbine and cross-checked the Chief Inspector, shoving him toward the door.
The cabinet ministers looked surprised and uncomfortable at this sudden act of aggression. But neither said or did anything.
Gamache was given another shove, harder this time, so that he stumbled but regained his balance.
“I want their weapons confiscated. And”—Woodford turned to his Minister of Public Safety—“take their S?reté IDs.”
“But we have no authority—”
“This is a matter of national security. Do it.”
Without meeting Gamache’s glare, Ferguson slid his hand into the Chief’s breast pocket and took out the ID. Only after he looked at it did he meet Gamache’s eyes.
“Give it to me,” said Woodford, and the Minister did.
Lacoste’s was also collected.
“The Chief Inspector wasn’t armed when he arrived,” the head of the RCMP security detail reported. “Inspector Lacoste surrendered her weapon at the door.”
“Good. Keep it.” Prime Minister Woodford turned back to Gamache. “If you breathe a word of War Plan Red, Chief Inspector, I will have you arrested.”
“On what charge?”
“Does it matter?” Woodford spoke so quietly only the two of them heard. Or so he thought. “You’ll do as I say, or they”—he glanced at Lacoste and Shona—“go down too. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. Now understand this. Our loyalty is not to you. It’s not my job to mindlessly do your bidding.”
“You have no job anymore, Monsieur Gamache.”
At another nod from the PM, Gamache was again shoved, this time right through the door.
Once in the outer office Armand said slowly and clearly, “War Plan Red. Come clean about War Plan Red, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“I’m warning you.” Woodford’s eyes narrowed, and his cheeks burned. “Don’t. Don’t make me do it.”
But it was too late. Armand Gamache might not be armed with a gun, but he had a much more powerful weapon at his disposal.
He raised his voice so that it was loud but not raucous. Not out of control. This was the voice of a person in complete command of themselves.
“War Plan Red, sir. Tell us the truth.”
“Be quiet! Stop it.” The PM waved at the RCMP guards. “Stop him. Arrest him.”
The guards were momentarily off-balance. The Chief Inspector was not only highly respected; he was also, as far as they could tell, not breaking any law.
“The man’s mad. Do it.” Prime Minister Woodford jabbed his finger at his head of security, who approached Gamache.
Then the Prime Minister noticed what Shona Dorion was doing.
“She’s recording! Get her phone.”
“I’m a journalist,” Shona shouted. “Covering the story. I’m a journalist. I’m a jour—”
The phone was ripped from her hand, and the head of the RCMP detail raised the butt of her carbine. Shona cringed and brought up her arm to ward off the blow.
Lacoste moved quickly and stepped in front of Shona, just as the rifle descended, hitting Lacoste on the side of her head.
She dropped.
Gamache moved toward her but only got one step before being hit in the solar plexus by the butt of the same rifle. He fell to his knees, gasping.
Fighting to regain his breath, he crawled toward Isabelle. When he reached her, he looked up, right at the PM, and rasped, “Stop this! Tell the truth about War Plan Red. I’m begging you.”
Instead, Woodford gestured toward the guards. Hands grabbed and dragged the three of them into an adjoining office. The door slammed shut. They were locked in.
“Isabelle?” Armand stumbled over to her.
“I’m okay.” She touched the side of her head and her hand came away bloody. Blood was streaming down her neck. “Looks worse than it is.”
Gamache turned to Shona, his voice still gravelly. “You okay?”
She nodded, though her eyes were wide.
“Tell me you did it,” said Lacoste.
It took Shona a moment to understand what she was asking.
“I did.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Gamache, and Shona felt a wave of relief, a kind of well-being.
She’d done it.
Gamache had anticipated Woodford’s reaction to War Plan Red, knowing the PM would not want those three words to escape his office. He certainly would not want the rest of the world to hear them. Woodford’s entire plan depended on keeping that plan secret.
Gamache’s plan was to get the word out. The three words out. Into the public. As well as showing people who Woodford really was.
While Shona recorded and streamed what was happening, Gamache would raise his voice and say, clearly, for all to hear, “War Plan Red.”
Its purpose was twofold: to get the word out, but also to provoke an aggressive overreaction on the part of the Prime Minister, all captured on Shona’s phone.
That was their plan, such as it was.
What Gamache had not anticipated was that Woodford would also order his guards to attack a journalist. Take her phone, yes. That he’d seen. But to physically threaten her?
He thought the target would only be him. Seeing that guard lift her rifle at Shona had shocked him, and terrified her.
Lacoste took the hit. And now took the handkerchief he offered. “Well, that was something.”
He was pressing his lips together, thinking. Nodding. He looked at the door. What happened next would decide things for them. How bad would this get?
His attention was drawn to Shona’s rapid breathing. “You need to sit down.”
When she did, with unusual compliance, Isabelle put her hand on her back and gently pressed her forward. “Place your head between your knees. Breathe.”
Shona turned to look up at them. “Isn’t this the crash position?”
Armand gave one grunt of amusement. “We’re going to be fine.”
“Yeah, I have Ruth’s latest collection of poetry. I know what ‘FINE’ stands for.”
Gamache turned back to Isabelle, the handkerchief still pressed to her head.
“Payette?”
“Oui. The Chief of Staff admitted that when the PM left his office to get her, he also made a phone call.”
“To the White House?” asked Shona, her voice muffled by her legs.
“She doesn’t know, but when the shots were fired, she began to put things together. She already had suspicions.”
“How?”
“She’d seen some documents. Ones Woodford had kept from her.”
“Did she agree to do it?” It was the vital question.
“She wasn’t happy. But she agreed. You?”
“Ferguson palmed it,” said Gamache. “What he does with it is another matter.”
“At least he didn’t give it to the PM,” said Isabelle. “So, the Prime Minister is behind all this.”
Gamache nodded. When they’d arrived, they weren’t sure how deep into it the PM was, if at all. Which was why all this was necessary.