Page 93

“Well, we are a nation addicted to the weather. It’s our main topic of conversation.”

He gave a grunt of laughter. It was true.

“I noticed you didn’t tell him about being in touch with General Whitehead.”

“Non.”

“Or the map.”

“Non.”

She took her eyes off the road for a second to look at Gamache. “You don’t really think we’re about to attack the US, do you?”

He gave one quick burst of laughter and looked at her. “No, I don’t. Do you?”

She laughed now too, her sharp eyes back on the road. “Non. But it might not be an official, overt invasion. Maybe it’s by some marginal militia group. Could that be what Moretti’s involved in?”

“A sort of Canadian Bay of Pigs?”

“A what?”

“An American misadventure in the ’60s, using the Cuban mafia to reclaim Cuba from the communists.”

“It’s still communist. I take it the plan didn’t work.”

She’d been to Cuba a few times on vacation. Loved the people, the music, the culture. The level of education and literacy. Not so much the poverty and the fact the citizens were prisoners on their little island.

“Foolish scheme to begin with. A debacle.” Still, it got him thinking.

They both knew that the tendrils of organized crime reached deep into legitimate business, corporations willing to fork out billions to further their own needs. On top of that, the mafia had its fangs in the judiciary, the armed forces, powerful interest groups, including the media, not to mention elected officials and the civil service. On both sides of the border.

So that begged the question, why would they need an armed invasion? Didn’t they already have enough control?

Talk of an invasion was ridiculous, a smoke screen.

There was something else planned. Canada attacking the US would be like that animated short “Bambi Meets Godzilla.” Bambi did not fare well.

Though he now spent a few kilometers wondering what would happen if an invasion was launched. Not by the official armed forces, but some ragtag militia. Or maybe not so ragtag. Trained and organized by the Montréal mafia, in collaboration with the Five Families, and God knew who else they could pull in. Far-right militia? Former special ops? Mercenaries? Commandos. Funded with cartel drug money, prostitution, gambling, arms sales, and by any third parties or countries with an interest in destabilizing the US, even momentarily.

It was a long list.

If he were in charge of the attack, how would he go about it? First, a covert war. Create a common enemy. Subvert the media. Form their own outlets, broadcast media, newspapers, social media platforms, to spread lies. Scare the population into believing their way of life, their very lives, were threatened. Condition them. Groom them. Then, when the moment was right, get rid of any leader likely to oppose them and install a dummy regime, including a charismatic but not overly bright bully sold as a strong leader who could bring order to chaos.

The UN would be powerless, of course. Paralyzed by fear and endless debate and vetoes.

Yes, he thought as they slid down the highway, it could be done. But it would take years of preparation, of groundwork, of placing conspirators in key roles.

Even then it would almost certainly fail. Just one thing needed to go wrong. And there was a fair chance more than one element would immediately go pear-shaped.

Another Bay of Pigs. Equally ill-advised. He could not see any tactician agreeing to lead such a scheme. Not even Napoleon could pull it off.

Napoleon …

Still, even a failed attempt would throw both countries into chaos, even momentarily. Perhaps just long enough for a regime change. And that could lead to—

“A watershed,” he muttered.

“What was that, patron?”