He waved at his monitors and all but called her “little lady.”
Lacoste didn’t have time for diplomacy. She’d shown him her S?reté ID and told him what was about to happen. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t been eager to close the bridge.
Now she walked around the counter and stuck her Glock under his chin. “It’s no joke,” she said, and saw his eyes widen in terror.
“Wait,” he begged.
“Explosives are attached to the piers and will be set off any moment now. The bomb squad will be here in a few minutes but I need you to close the bridge, now. If you don’t, you’ll go down with it.”
When the Chief Inspector had told her the target and ordered her to close the bridge, she’d been faced with a problem. Who to trust?
Then it struck her. The security guards on the bridge. They couldn’t know what was about to happen, or they’d have gotten out of there fast. Anyone still working on the bridge could be trusted. The question now was, could they be convinced?
“Call your squad cars back in.”
She waited, her gun still trained on him, while he radioed the cars and ordered them back.
“Download this.” She handed the guard a USB key and watched as he put it in his computer and opened the files.
“What are these?” he asked, scanning them. But Lacoste didn’t answer, and slowly, slowly his face went slack.
She returned her gun to its holster. He was no longer looking at it, or her. His eyes, and attention, were completely focused on the screen. A couple of his colleagues arrived back at the guard post. They looked at Lacoste, then at him.
“What’s up?”
But the look on his face stopped any banter.
“What is it?” one asked.
“Call the Super, get the bomb squads out, close the bridge—”
But Lacoste didn’t hear any more. She was back in her car and heading over the bridge. To the far shore. To the village.
*
Gamache sped along the familiar, snow-covered secondary road. His car fishtailed on a patch of ice and he took his foot off the accelerator. No time for an accident. Everything that happened from here on in needed to be considered and deliberate.
He spotted a convenience store and pulled into it.
“May I use your phone, please?” He showed the clerk his S?reté ID.
“You have to buy something.”
“Give me your phone.”
“Buy something.”
“Fine.” Gamache picked up the closest thing he could find. “There.”
“Really?” the clerk looked at the pile of condoms.
“Just give me the phone, son,” said Gamache, fighting his desire to throttle this amused young man. Instead he brought out his wallet and put a twenty on the counter.
“If you want to use the can you’ll have to buy something else,” the kid said as he rang up the sale and handed Gamache the phone.
Gamache dialed. It rang, and rang. And rang.
Please, oh please.
“Francoeur.” The voice was clipped, tense.
“Bonjour, Chief Superintendent.”
There was a pause.
“Is that you, Armand? I’ve been looking for you.”
The connection kept cutting in and out, but Sylvain Francoeur’s voice had become happy, friendly. Not in a sly way, but he seemed genuinely pleased by the call. As though they were best friends.
It was, Gamache knew, one of the Chief Superintendent’s many gifts, the ability to make an imitation appear genuine. A counterfeit man. Anyone listening, and there could be any number, would be in no doubt about Francoeur’s sincerity.
“Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been out of contact,” said Gamache. “Tying up loose ends.”
“Exactly what I’m doing. What can I do for you?”
In the old schoolhouse, Francoeur watched as the agents worked. He pressed the phone to his ear and stood by the window, barely able to get the signal. “You’ll have to speak up. I’m in a village with very poor reception.”
Gamache felt as though he’d swallowed battery acid.
So Sylvain was already in Three Pines. Gamache had miscalculated, thinking it would take Francoeur longer to find the place. But then another dose of acid hit his insides. Francoeur must have found someone who knew the way.
Jean-Guy.
Gamache took a deep breath and steadied his voice. Tried to make it sound casual, polite, slightly bored.
“I’m heading out your way, sir. I was wondering if we could meet.”
Francoeur raised his brows. He’d expected to have to hunt Gamache down. It never occurred to him that Gamache’s hubris was so great it consumed all good sense.
But apparently it did.
“Fine with me,” said Sylvain Francoeur cheerfully. “Shall we meet here? Inspector Tessier tells me there’s an interesting satellite dish set up in the woods. I haven’t seen it yet. He thinks it might have been put there by the Aztecs. Do you know it?”
There was a pause.
“I do.”
“Good. Why don’t we meet there.”
Francoeur hung up. He knew Gamache would never make the rendezvous. Agents were closing in and would pick up the Chief Inspector any moment now.