Page 121

“Well, that’s disputed,” said Gamache. “Though we did repel them. And yes, I’m pretty sure their plans have been updated in the last two hundred years.”

Just then there was a sharp rap on the door, and before the PM could say anything, it burst opened.

“Mr. Prime Minister, there’ve been shots fired.”

“What? You showed Gamache photographs of us together?” demanded Margaux Chalifoux. “Are you crazy?”

“I had no choice,” said Evelyn Tardiff. “He was beginning to suspect me. I had to give him something.”

“You gave him me, you dumb fuck! I’ve spent years setting up this blind, and you blow it? Now we have to sterilize AQB before they raid it, if it hasn’t happened already.”

She reached for her phone, but Moretti stopped her. “No rush, Margaux.”

Chalifoux looked puzzled, but replaced her phone.

They were in the Jean-Talon market, in one of the storerooms. It smelled of fish, and innards and broccoli on the turn. The women were breathing through their mouths. Moretti and his soldiers seemed not to notice the stench.

“She did the right thing.” Moretti looked at Tardiff. “Your informant in Gamache’s circle says they have the biologist’s laptop and the map. You’re sure of that?”

“And have found .family, oui. I confirmed it with the passwords.”

“They’ve gotten further than I’d have liked. Thanks”—he shifted his gaze—“to you.”

“Me?” said Chalifoux. “What’ve I done?”

“It’s the sin of omission, Margaux. Charles Langlois worked for you, but you didn’t know what he was doing? You didn’t realize he was collecting information on us?”

She pressed her lips together. She knew Moretti enough to know any defense was seen as an offense. And that, for Moretti, was a capital crime.

“You went to the lake with Frederick Castonguay. He trusted you because Charles Langlois did. He hadn’t yet tumbled to your rule. But then you killed Castonguay before he found the laptop. And now they have it.”

It was said in a reasonable, measured voice. Which was terrifying.

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and was about to defend herself, to tell Moretti that Castonguay only knew the lake was important but had no idea why. When kneeling on the ground, a gun to his head, the young man would have told her everything, anything. But he did not. By then, of course, he had to die anyway.

All this went unsaid.

There was a small commotion outside the storeroom, unintelligible voices raised slightly.

“My informant also tells me that Gamache is speaking to the PM again today,” said Tardiff.

“For all the good that’ll do,” said Chalifoux.

Moretti’s look of annoyance was followed by a tense silence, broken by more noise outside. Moretti spoke to one of his soldiers, who left. Then he turned back to Evelyn Tardiff. “I want you to plant stories with your journalist contacts telling them what Gamache is saying.”

“The truth?” asked Tardiff. “About water and the Americans?”

“Exactly. I want him portrayed as a delusional old man, a broken-down warhorse who’s taken one too many blows to the head. Who needs to be replaced before he does any real damage.”

“Look, that won’t stop him,” said Tardiff. “He doesn’t care what others think and eventually he’s going to get proof. Why not just kill him?”

“Why not?” demanded Chalifoux. “Because it’ll convince everyone that he’s telling the truth.” She turned to Don Moretti. “Has it occurred to you that for them to get as far as they have, they must be getting help?”

“Actually, it has.” He slowly turned to Tardiff, as an owl might on spotting a mouse in a dark field. “Someone here is passing along information.”

He nodded to one of his soldiers, who advanced into the room.

Dear God, help me, thought Evelyn Tardiff.