“Yessir.”
He just managed to get to a bathroom. Locking the stall door, he retched, and retched. Until only fetid air burped up, from deep down inside him.
*
“Call for you, Chief.”
“Is it important?”
His secretary looked through the open door into his office. In all the years she’d worked for Chief Inspector Gamache, he’d never asked that question. He’d trusted that if she put a call through, it was, in her judgment, worth taking.
But he’d seemed distracted since he’d returned from his meeting with Superintendent Brunel and had spent the past twenty minutes staring out the window.
“Would you like me to take a message?” she asked.
“No, no.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll take it.”
“Salut, patron,” came Olivier’s cheerful voice. “Hope I’m not disturbing you.” He went on without waiting for an answer. “Gabri asked me to call to make sure you still want your room for tonight.”
“I thought I’d already spoken with him about that.” The Chief heard the slight annoyance in his voice, but did nothing to change his tone.
“Look, I’m just passing along the message.”
“Has he double-booked or something?”
“No, it’s still available, but he wants to know how many you’ll be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, will Inspector Beauvoir be coming down?”
Gamache exhaled sharply into the receiver.
“Voyons, Olivier,” he began, then reined himself in. “Listen, Olivier, I’ve been through this as well. Inspector Beauvoir’s on another assignment. Inspector Lacoste will be staying in Montréal to continue the investigation from here, and I’ll be coming down to Three Pines, to look into that end of the case. I’ve left Henri with Madame Morrow so I have to come down anyway.”
“No need to get all upset, Chief,” snapped Olivier. “I was just asking.”
“I’m not upset”—though it was clear he was—“I’m just busy and have no time for this. If the B and B is available, fine. If not, I’ll collect Henri and come back to Montréal.”
“Non, non. It’s available. And stay as long as you want. Gabri isn’t taking any bookings leading up to Christmas. Too involved with the concert.”
Gamache wasn’t going to be dragged into that conversation. He thanked Olivier, hung up, and looked at the small clock on his desk. Almost one thirty.
The Chief Inspector leaned back in his chair, then he swung it around so that his back was to the office and he faced the large window that looked out onto snowy Montréal.
One thirty.
*
It was one thirty.
Beauvoir took another deep breath and leaned back against the rumbling van. He tried closing his eyes, but that made the nausea worse. He turned his face so that the cold metal was against his hot cheek.
An hour and a half and the raid would begin. He wished the van had windows, so he could see the city. The familiar buildings. Solid, predictable. Jean-Guy was always more comfortable with the man-made than the natural. He tried to imagine where they were. Were they over the bridge yet? Were there buildings outside, or forests?
Where was he?
*
Gamache knew where Beauvoir was. He was on a raid scheduled to begin at three.
Another raid. An unnecessary raid, ordered by Francoeur.
The Chief closed his eyes. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Then he put on his coat. At the door to his office he watched Inspector Lacoste give orders to a group of agents. Or try to.
They were among the new agents, transferred in when Gamache’s own people had been transferred out and spread around the other divisions of the S?reté. To everyone’s surprise, the Chief Inspector hadn’t protested. Hadn’t fought it. Had barely seemed to care or notice as his division was gutted.
It went beyond unflappable. Some had begun to wonder, quietly at first and then more boldly, whether Armand Gamache even cared anymore. But still, as he approached the group, they grew quiet and watchful.
“A word, Inspector,” he said, and smiled at the agents.
Isabelle Lacoste followed Gamache back to his office, where he closed the door.
“For chrissake, sir, why do we have to put up with that?” She jerked her head toward the outer office.
“We just have to make the best of it.”
“How? By giving up?”
“No one’s giving up,” he said, his voice reassuring. “You need to trust me. You’re a great investigator. Tenacious, intuitive. Smart. And you have limitless patience. You need to use that now.”
“It’s not limitless, patron.”
He nodded. “I understand.” Then, hands gripping the edges of his desk, he leaned toward her. “Don’t be bullied off course. Don’t be pushed from your center. And always, always trust your instinct, Isabelle. What does it tell you now?”
“That we’re screwed.”