But so great was Jér?me’s concentration that he didn’t seem to notice. He and Nichol talked about packets and encryption. Ports and layers.
When breakfast was put beside them the two barely looked up. Both were immersed in their own world of NIPS and countermeasures.
Gamache poured himself a coffee and leaned against the old map by the window, watching. Resisting the temptation to hover.
It reminded him a little of the rooms of his tutors at Cambridge. Papers piled high. Notepads, scribbled thoughts, mugs of cold tea and half-eaten crumpets. A stove for heat, and the scent of drying wool.
Gilles sat in what they’d begun to call his chair, at the door of the schoolhouse. He ate his breakfast and, when he was finished, poured himself another mug of coffee and tipped his chair back against the door. He was their deadbolt.
Gamache looked at his watch. It was twenty-five past four. He felt like pacing, but knew that would be annoying. He was dying to ask how it was going, but knew that would simply break their concentration. Instead, he called Henri and put on his coat, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. In his panic, he’d left his gloves on the platform with the satellite dish and he sure as hell wasn’t going back for them.
Thérèse and Gilles joined them, and they went for a stroll.
“It’s going well,” said Thérèse.
“Yes,” said Gamache. It was cold, and clear, and crisp, and dark. And quiet.
“Like thieves in the night, eh?” he said to Gilles.
The woodsman laughed. “I hope I didn’t insult you with that.”
“Far from it,” said Thérèse. “It’s a natural career progression. Sorbonne, chief curator at the Musée des beaux-arts, Superintendent of the S?reté, and finally, the pinnacle. A thief in the night.” She turned to Gamache. “And all thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome, madame.” Gamache bowed solemnly.
They sat on a bench and looked across to the schoolhouse, with its light muffled by the blankets. The Chief wondered if the quiet woodsman beside him knew what would happen if they failed. And what would happen if they succeeded.
In either case, all hell was about to break loose. And come here.
But at this moment there was peace and quiet.
They walked back to the schoolhouse, Henri leaping and catching the snowballs, only to have them disappear in his mouth. But he never stopped trying, never gave up.
An hour later Jér?me and Nichol tripped their first alarm.
THIRTY-FOUR
The phone woke Sylvain Francoeur and he grabbed the receiver before the second ring.
“What is it?” he said, instantly alert.
“Sir, it’s Charpentier here. There’s been a breach.”
Francoeur got up on one elbow and waved his wife to go back to sleep.
“What’s that mean?”
“I’m monitoring network activity, and someone’s accessed one of the restricted files.”
Francoeur turned on the light, put on his glasses, and looked at the clock on the bedside table. The bright red numbers said 5:43 A.M. He sat up.
“How serious?”
“I don’t know. It might not be anything. As instructed, I called Inspector Tessier and he told me to call you.”
“Good. Now explain what you saw.”
“Well, it’s complicated.”
“Try.”
Charpentier was surprised that so much menace could be contained in such a small word. He tried. His best. “Well, the firewall’s not showing that an unauthorized connection’s been made, but…”
“But what?”
“It’s just that someone opened the file and I’m not sure who it was. It was within the network, so the person had access codes. It’s probably someone within the department, but we can’t be sure.”
“Are you telling me you don’t know if there has been a breach?”
“I’m saying there has, but we don’t know if it’s someone from the outside, or one of our own. Like a house alarm. At first it’s hard to tell if it’s an intruder or a raccoon.”
“A raccoon? You’re not seriously comparing the S?reté’s state-of-the-art, multimillion-dollar security system with a house alarm?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s only because it’s state-of-the-art that we found it at all. Most systems and programs would’ve missed it. But it’s so sensitive, sometimes we find things that don’t need to be found. That aren’t threats.”
“Like a raccoon?”
“Exactly,” said the agent, obviously regretting the analogy. It had worked with Tessier, but Chief Superintendent Francoeur was a whole other beast. “And if there is an intruder, we can’t yet tell if there’s a purpose, or if it’s just some hacker out to make trouble, or even someone who wandered in by mistake. We’re working on it.”