“I don’t,” said Armand.
“You don’t know, or you don’t trust me?”
Armand turned then and gave Michel a look he’d never seen before. There wasn’t loathing there. Not quite. It wasn’t quite contempt. But it was close.
There was certainly knowing. Gamache saw him for what he was.
A weak man. A Percé man. Hollowed out by time and exposure. Worn down and misshapen. Pierced.
“You opened the gate, Michel. You could’ve stopped it, but you didn’t. When corruption came knocking, you let it in. You betrayed everyone who trusted you. You turned the S?reté from a strong and brave force into a cesspool, and it has taken many lives and many years to clean it out.”
“Then why invite me back in?”
Armand got up and Brébeuf rose with him.
“The weakness in the Great Wall wasn’t structural, it was human,” said Gamache. “The strength, or weakness, of anything is primarily human. Including the S?reté. And it all starts at the academy.”
Brébeuf nodded. “D’accord. I agree. But again, even more so, why me? Aren’t you afraid that I might infect them?”
He studied Gamache. Then smiled.
“Or is there already an infection there, Armand? That’s it, isn’t it? Did you come all this way for the antidote? Is that why you need me? I’m the antivirus. The stronger infection sent in to cure the disease. It’s a dangerous game, Armand.”
Gamache gave him a hard, assessing look, then went inside to get Reine-Marie.
Michel accompanied them back down the drive. And watched them drive away, back to the airport and the flight home.
Then he went inside. Alone. No more wife. No more children. No grandchildren. Just a magnificent view, out to sea.
On the flight, Gamache looked down at the fields, and forests, and snow, and lakes and considered what he’d done.
Michel was right, of course. It was dangerous, though it wasn’t a game.
What would happen, he wondered, if he couldn’t control it and the antibiotic, the virus, went viral?
What had he just sent in? What gate had he opened?
*
Instead of going back to Three Pines when they landed, Armand drove to S?reté headquarters. But first he dropped Reine-Marie at their daughter’s home. Annie was four months pregnant with her first child and was showing now.
“Coming in, Dad?” she asked from the door. “Jean-Guy will be home soon.”
“I’ll be back later,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.
“No rush,” called Reine-Marie, and closed the door.
At headquarters, Armand pressed the top button in the elevator and was swept up to the office of the Chief Superintendent.
Thérèse Brunel looked up from her desk. Behind her, the lights of Montréal spread out. He could see three bridges and the headlights of cars filled with people heading home. It was a commanding view, and behind the desk was a commanding presence.
“Armand,” she said, rising to greet her old friend with an embrace. “Thank you for coming in.”
Chief Superintendent Brunel indicated the sitting area and they both took seats. In her late sixties now, the slight, elegant woman had come to policing late in life and had taken to it as though she had been born to investigate crime.
She’d risen fast through the ranks, passing her old professor and colleague Chief Inspector Gamache, until she could rise no further.
Her office had been redecorated in soft pastels since the former chief superintendent had been, what? “Replaced” was not really the word.
While she’d been promoted beyond Gamache, they both knew it was a function of the politics within the S?reté, and not competence. But still, she held the rank and commanded the office and the force with confidence.
Armand handed her his dossiers and watched as she read. He got up and poured them both drinks, giving her one and taking his to the wall of glass.
It was a view that never failed to move him, so much did he love Québec.
“There’s going to be hell to pay, Armand,” she finally said.
He remained where he was but turned and saw that while her face was serious, stern even, there was no criticism. It was simply a statement of fact.
“Oui,” he agreed, and turned back to the view as she returned to the documents.
“I see you’ve changed some of the students,” she said. “I’m not surprised. The problem will come from the faculty. You’re replacing at least half of them.”
Now he walked back to his chair and sat, placing his almost untouched drink on the coaster and nodding. “How could there be significant change if the same people are in charge?”
“I’m not disagreeing or arguing with you, but are you prepared for the blowback? These people will lose their pensions, their insurance. And they’ll be humiliated.”
“Not by me. They’ve done it to themselves. And if they want to sue, I have the proof.” He looked not at all concerned. But neither was he triumphant. This was the tail end of a tragedy. And there was a sting in it.
“I doubt they’ll sue,” she said, replacing the last file on the pile. “But neither will they go without a fight. It simply won’t be in public, or in the courts.”
“We’ll see,” he said, sitting back. His face grim and determined.
Armand watched as she turned to the final stack of dossiers. These were the files on the men and women he planned to invite to teach at the academy. To replace the men and women he was about to fire.
Showing the list to Thérèse was a courtesy on his part. Chief Superintendent Brunel had no authority over the academy. The academy and the S?reté were two separate entities, connected theoretically by a common belief in the need for “Service, Integrity, Justice.” The motto of the force.
But the previous head of the school had commanded in name only. The reality was, he bowed to, then bent and finally broke under the demands of the former head of the S?reté, who ran the school as his personal training ground.
But Chief Superintendent Francoeur was no longer the head of the S?reté. No longer with the force. No longer on this earth. Gamache had seen to that.
And now Gamache was cleaning up the merde the man left behind.
The first step was to establish autonomy, but also a courteous collaboration with his counterpart at the S?reté.
Commander Gamache watched as Chief Superintendent Brunel made her way down the pile of proposed professors, occasionally making notes or small comments, mumbling to herself. Until she reached the final dossier. She stared at it, then, without even opening it, she looked up at Gamache and held his eyes.
“Is this a joke?”
“No.”
She looked back down but didn’t touch the manila file. It was enough to see the name.
Michel Brébeuf.
When she looked up again, there was anger, bordering on rage, on her face.
“This is madness, Armand.”
CHAPTER 3
Serge Leduc waited.
He was prepared. All morning his iPhone had buzzed with text messages from colleagues, other professors at the academy, to say that the new commander was going to visit them.
At eight in the morning they’d assumed it was a courtesy call. Armand Gamache was making the rounds to introduce himself and perhaps ask their opinions and advice.
By nine o’clock a slight pall of doubt had descended, and the texts became more guarded.
By eleven, the stream of information had become a trickle as fewer and fewer messages appeared in Professor Leduc’s inbox. And those that did were curt.
Have you heard from Roland?
Anyone know anything?
I can hear him coming down the corridor.
And finally, by noon, Leduc’s iPhone had fallen silent.
He sat in his large office and looked at the books lining his walls. On weapons. On federal and provincial regulations. On common law and the Napoleonic Code. There were case histories and training manuals. The wall space not taken up with textbooks was allocated to his citations and an old etching of the parts of a musket.