Chapter 31 #3
Caron studied the new forecast sent by her contact at Environment Canada. She’d been assured that, so far, no one else had seen it.
According to his message, within the next twenty-four hours, a high-pressure system would collide with low pressure, whipping up strong northerly winds.
To be sure she understood what was about to happen, her meteorologist had sent an illustration. The lines on the map undulated. They went as far west as Chicago and swooped south, embracing Boston, and New York, and … Washington.
Thanks to the new technology of FEDS, they now knew that thick ash would fall all over those cities, as it had a few years earlier. Only worse. Should a wildfire happen to ignite during this window of time.
The scientist assured her these conditions were unlikely to happen again for many years.
Jeanne Caron considered the options.
According to Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, it wasn’t actually the fittest that would survive. The species that survived was the one that best adapted to the changing environment.
And the environment was changing.
And Jeanne Caron was adapting.
She composed a message, then hit send.
And with that she lit the spark that would become a wildfire that would change North America and the world forever. Other drought-stricken nations would watch what happened next and see what was possible. And permissible.
As the environment changed, so would borders. They were, after all, only lines on a map. And a map was flammable.
“Oh, fuck.”
“What is it now?” demanded Beauvoir.
“Look.” Nichol turned her laptop around.
“Jesus,” he whispered and looked from the screen to Lauzon, then Tardiff.
“What?”
They both leaned in and studied the illustration. And if they were in any doubts, the text put those to rest.
“Can your contact be trusted?” Tardiff asked.
“She’s the assistant to a senior meteorologist,” said Nichol.
“Not a climate scientist herself?” asked Lauzon. “How does she know?”
“She sees all the reports even before he does.”
“The isobars,” said Beauvoir. “They’re lining up again. Even worse. Who else will see this?”
“Eventually everyone at Environment Canada, and pilots, of course. Control towers. MétéoMédia and the Weather Network, as well as—”
“Got it,” snapped Beauvoir. “We have to stop the information from getting out.”
Nichol shot off a quick text to her contact and waited for a reply.
“But really, would anyone care?” asked Lauzon. “It shows a trough of high pressure, but would anyone see the danger?”
“After the megafires, I suspect every meteorologist in North America will be paying attention and know what this could mean,” said Beauvoir.
“But there’s no real danger, is there?” said Tardiff.
“Exactly,” said Lauzon. “If there were forest fires burning in that area, we’d be in trouble, but there aren’t.” He looked at their worried faces. “Are there?”
“How’re we going to do this?” Marie Lauzon asked Gamache.
“I have no idea. You’re the one who wants to get the Prime Minister.”
“But you’re the cop.”
“A cop, not a kidnapper.”
They were standing in the stairwell closest to the PM’s office. Fortunately, as ignorant as Armand was of the layout of Parliament, Marie Lauzon was knowledgeable. She’d played there as a child and explored every nook and cranny.
Marie looked at the time. “The cabinet meeting will be over in a few minutes. The Prime Minister keeps them to one hour sharp. He’ll be heading back to his office soon.”
“Is there an alarm he can press?”
“Yes. Under his desk.”
Gamache nodded. No surprise.
“And the office has cameras, of course.”
“Oui.”
So even if they could slip in and wait for him, they’d be clocked.
“How much coffee does he drink?”
Madame Lauzon was about to protest this ridiculous question, but stopped herself, realizing there must be a reason for it. And then she had it.
“A lot.”
“And he must have—”
“A private bathroom. That doesn’t, of course, have cameras.” For the first time since he’d met her twenty-two years earlier as a scowling, frightened, angry, and entitled teenager who’d just killed a boy on a bike, he saw Marie Lauzon smile.
“And after an hour in the meeting, drinking even more coffee—” said Armand.
“The first thing he’ll do is use his bathroom. There’s a door into it from the corridor so the cleaners don’t have to go through his office. It’s kept locked, of course. And yes, I have the code.”
Gamache paused at the door to write a message.
Marie Lauzon glanced at it. “The Chief Petty Officer? That valet fellow from the White House? What’s that about?”
Armand hit send, without replying.
“Come on,” hissed Marie Lauzon. “What’re you doing now? Christ, tell me you’re not doing Wordle?”
Gamache wasn’t. He was composing one more message. One last message. Just a few words. Once sent he tucked the phone back in his pocket and took a deep breath.
Ready.
Minutes later Armand was standing in the Prime Minister’s private bathroom, watching the door handle turn. Please let it be Woodford.
Then it stopped.
Come on. Come on.
“Are you kidding me?” the Prime Minister’s voice came through the door. “They still haven’t found Gamache? Where the hell is he?”
“I’m getting an update, sir.” It was the head of the PM’s security detail. “He’s definitely still in the building.”
“Well, find him, for Chrissake.”
“And we’re looking for Marie Lauzon.” On hearing that voice, Gamache’s brow dropped. But after reading the document, he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised.
It was Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense. Their supposed ally. Whose side was she really on?
“Focus on Gamache. We can deal with Marie later. She’s not a threat.”
The door handle turned another millimeter.
Come on. Come on.
“Captain Pinsent admits to helping the other two escape,” said the head of the RCMP security detail.
Gamache closed his eyes in relief. Confirmation. They’re out.
“What the hell is happening?” the PM said. “It’s impossible to know who to trust anymore.”
Truer words, thought Gamache as he watched the door finally open.
James Woodford stepped in, closed the door behind him, turned, looked in the mirror, and came very close to needing a new pair of slacks.
Jeanne Caron read the reply.
The planes would be loaded with the incendiary bombs and ready to take off to the northern lake on her word. The fires would be so intense, whipped up by the forecast winds, they’d put all previous conflagrations to shame.
They’d burn for weeks, marching south, eating millions of hectares along the way, consuming every community in its path and sending the remains of ancient forests into the atmosphere.
The plume would once again bypass Canadian cities to descend on the United States, killing Americans by the thousands.
Word would get out that their friendly neighbor to the north was doing nothing to fight the blazes. There would even be some evidence, carefully managed, to show the fires had been intentionally set. As an attack.
The scope of Canada’s duplicity would slowly become clear.
It would not be a Big Lie.
This time it would be the awful truth.
Canadians, in turn, would be told that the bombs that started the fires were supplied by the US.
And that too would be the truth.
The incendiary bombs had been smuggled in using trucks supplied by Joe Moretti. Caron had made sure they were not stopped at the border.
The American government, propelled by grieving and outraged citizens and the media, would be compelled to act. To send troops into Canada. Perhaps on the pretext of fighting the fires, perhaps not. By then they would need no excuse—the images on the news would see to that.
And the troops would never leave.
It was all mapped out in the now grotesque War Plan Red. A document conceived in 1919, going dormant in 1939, then resurrected as a contingency, little more than an almost laughable exercise.
Until a visionary had seen the opportunities presented by the looming water crisis.
All crises presented opportunities to those bold enough to grab them. Few were. Which made the prize all the greater for those who did.
All it would take now was the spark. And Caron had provided that.
She texted her counterparts in the United States to be ready with their own payload of incendiary news releases. Already locked and loaded.
A second, terse message came in from Gamache, this one for Isabelle.
“I don’t understand,” said Shona, reading it. “Why does he want us to go to an airport?”
“I don’t know.” Isabelle put the phone away and peered around the stone pillar of the old bridge to see if anyone was approaching. “I’m thinking the reason will be obvious once we get there.”
“Just us? Shouldn’t we call for backup or whatever you call it?”
Lacoste turned to her. “From who?”
Shona was about to answer. The S?reté. The RCMP. The Armed Forces, for God’s sake. Instead, she was silent.
Who? Who could they trust?
No one.
“We need to get out of here,” said Lacoste.
“Shouldn’t we wait for him?”
“Non.”
As they ran to the car, Isabelle Lacoste could not believe she was leaving the Chief behind. But she had to go, and Armand had to stay, to cope as best he could.
“There’s no fire there now,” said Beauvoir. They’d moved up to the church basement and were staring at the map on the wall. “Which means they’ll need to start one. The conditions are too perfect to ignore.”
Nichol turned to Marcus Lauzon. “How would they do it?”
“You’re asking me? I have no idea.”
“Come on, you sat in on cabinet meetings,” said Beauvoir.
“We talked about putting them out, not starting them. But—”
“What is it?”
“We fight forest fires with water bombers, among other things.”
“Oui. So?”
“So if I was going to start one? I’d do the same thing, only instead of dropping water, I’d drop incendiary bombs.”
“Shit.” Beauvoir’s mind was moving quickly. “They’ll need planes. Which means the collaboration of the Air Force.”
“CFB Bagotville,” said Lauzon. Canadian Forces Base Bagotville.
“Oui.” Beauvoir thumped his fist against the map, squishing the large base north of Québec City.
“That’ll play right into Woodford’s narrative,” Lauzon said. “The one he wants spread by American media. That the fires have been deliberately set by Canada as an attack.”
“And they’d be right,” said Tardiff.
Nichol almost protested, pointing out that it made no sense. No one would believe that Canada was going to attack the US using ash, for God’s sake. It was ridiculous. But she realized it didn’t have to make sense.
The less rational, the better. The point was not to engage brains but emotions. And emotions could be manipulated ridiculously easily.
Besides, the real point wasn’t to defeat the Americans—that was impossible. The point was to provoke a counterattack. Give the Americans a pretext for invading Canada. And winning.
“So what do we do? Who do we tell?” Nichol demanded. “We at least have a pretty good idea where the fire will be started.”
They now looked at the remote lake. Where Charles had visited, and Frederick had died.
If it was where the bombers would end their mission, then the start was the Air Force base in Bagotville.
But Beauvoir could hardly send a message to the commander there.
She might very well be among those involved in what amounted to a coup.
“Wait,” said Evelyn Tardiff. “Moretti sent trucks to Mirabel. I didn’t know why, but—”
“Of course they’d move the planes,” said Beauvoir, exasperated with himself for not seeing it. “Where there’d be fewer witnesses.”
They shifted their gaze to Mirabel. The civilian airport north of Montréal, long considered a white elephant and all but abandoned, could easily handle those bombers.
Beauvoir made for the door. “We’re going.”
“We who?” said Nichol, looking around. “Just us? Are you kidding? This sounds half-assed, like kids putting on a play. Mom can do the costumes and we can use Uncle Ned’s barn…”
Despite herself, Chief Inspector Tardiff gave one snort of laughter. Yvette was not wrong. But neither was Beauvoir.
“What can we do against bombers?” Nichol was now saying. “We need to get more support.”
“From where?” asked Tardiff. “Who can we trust?”
Nichol had no answer.
“I’ll stay here,” said Lauzon. “I won’t be any use in a fight.”
“You were earlier today,” said Beauvoir.
“Damn,” sighed the former Deputy Prime Minister. “I knew that would come back to bite me on the ass.”
Jean-Guy’s face had been so grim for so long, smiling almost hurt. “You saved our lives. I’m not sure I ever thanked you.”
“No need.”
“But there is.” Beauvoir patted his jacket pockets and found what he was looking for. “I got this from the warden at the prison. I believe it’s yours.” He held out a phone. “I’m sorry, sir, for all you’ve been through and my part in it. You were wrongly convicted. I know that now.”
Lauzon took the phone. “Thank you, but we both know I’m not exactly the innocent type. I’ve done a lot I’m ashamed of, including to the Gamaches.”
“No one is as bad as the worst thing they’ve done.” Beauvoir surprised even himself with that statement. He wondered where it came from, then realized it was, of course, Gamache.
Jean-Guy did not remember that the Chief was himself quoting a death row nun.
“Can I send just one message?” The man, once the second most powerful person in the nation, now looked small, and vulnerable, and very emotional. “To my daughter. I won’t tell her where we’re going, I just want her to know…”
Beauvoir, who also had a daughter he loved more than life, said, “Of course.”
While Lauzon sent the message, Beauvoir returned to the map and circled a town. He didn’t dare send a text, but if the Chief should make it home, he’d know where they went.
Mirabel.
While Jean-Guy and the others headed out, Isabelle and Shona were also racing north.