A look, thought Beauvoir. Prayed Beauvoir. A smug little assassin glance. Something. Anything. But there was nothing. Just eyes that were thoughtful, almost gentle.
“We expected that,” Beauvoir continued. “But there was something unexpected.”
“Go on,” said Gamache.
“They didn’t take it all with them. They left some fentanyl behind. To sell here.”
Now there was a reaction. Chief Superintendent Gamache’s eyes widened.
“How much?”
“At least ten kilos. We’ve lost track of that as well.”
Don’t say it, Beauvoir warned himself. No need to say it.
“Of course.” He said it.
Gamache tensed and there was a quiet intake of breath, as another thrust hit home.
“Of course,” he whispered. And slowly lowered himself to the spectator’s bench.
He sat there and did the calculations. According to the report he’d commissioned, there were at best fifty deaths per kilo of fentanyl. It wasn’t difficult to do the math.
Seventy kilos of fentanyl now in the United States.
More than three thousand deaths.
And in Québec? Five hundred people alive today who would die. Because of what he’d decided to do. Or not do. And there could be many, many more. Deaths that Armand Gamache had just sanctioned.
“Monsieur,” the clerk called.
Gamache turned to look at him, and the man’s expression changed instantly. From officious to afraid. Not of Gamache, but of what he saw in the Chief Superintendent’s face.
Zalmanowitz saw it too, and guessed what Gamache was being told.
And felt both sick and elated. Relieved and appalled. Something had changed. Something had happened.
Could it be that their plan was working? God help them.
“Merci.” Gamache got up. “I have to go. The judge wants to see Monsieur Zalmanowitz and me. It shouldn’t take long.”
Beauvoir could guess what it was about.
“There’s more,” he said.
“Oui?”
“A small shipment of a new drug is sitting in a warehouse at Mirabel. It was flown in two days ago in a load of nesting dolls.”
He took the paper out of his pocket and handed it to Gamache, who put on his reading glasses.
“The same cartel?” Gamache asked, without looking up.
“Oui.”
The chief still wore his suit jacket, and Beauvoir could see that the white shirt beneath it was soaked through with perspiration.
“Chlorocodide?” Gamache read, then looked up, meeting Beauvoir’s eyes.
“Codeine derivative. Popular in Russia but not, as far as we know, over here yet. This would be the first. It’s known on the street as krokodil. Very potent, very toxic.”
“And it’s just sitting there?” asked Gamache. “For two days, you say?”
“Oui.”
“Two days,” Gamache said softly, under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he focused on some distant target. “Could it be?”
Then, as Beauvoir watched, Chief Superintendent Gamache closed his eyes. And dropped his head. His shoulders sagging. With a new burden? Or was it relief?
He put out an unsteady hand, touching the bench in front of him, to steady himself. Jean-Guy Beauvoir thought, just for an instant, that he might be about to pass out. From heat. From stress. From smoke inhalation.
There was a long exhale from Gamache that sounded like, “Ohhhh.”
Then his hand closed into a fist, crushing the paper. And he looked up.
“I have to see the judge,” he said, removing his glasses and drawing a handkerchief across his eyes. To wipe away the sweat, thought Beauvoir. “I’ll text you when I’m out. Convene a meeting in the conference room.”
“Who with?”
“Everyone.” Gamache handed the paper back to Beauvoir, then he stepped toward Zalmanowitz and the clerk. But stopped and considered Beauvoir for a moment. “You know what that means?”
He pointed to the paper in Beauvoir’s hand.
“It means we have a chance.”
Beauvoir felt the familiar flutter in his chest and rush of adrenaline.
Gamache gave a curt nod. “We’ll know soon.”
Then he headed toward the door held open by the clerk.
“Patron,” said Beauvoir.
But it was too soft, and Gamache was too far away. And it was, Jean-Guy knew, probably too late.
*
Judge Corriveau leaned back in her chair and looked at the two men.
She’d spent the past few minutes alone in her chambers and, after rubbing her armpits with a cold washcloth and throwing water on her face, she tried to work out a strategy.
She would, she decided, keep on her robes. To remind them they were in the presence not of a woman. Not even of a person. But of a position. A symbol.
Justice.
Besides, it made her feel both powerful and protected. And hid the perspiration stains. And the water that had dribbled down her blouse.
The other strategy she was putting into action, or inaction really, at that moment.
She was making them stand.
A fan had been placed in her office and it swiveled, blowing warm air over them, puffing up her robes, which had the undesired effect of lifting and flapping. Not the dignified image she’d hoped to project.
It also, when the fan swung her way, blew her now stringy hair into her face so that she was forced to constantly brush it out of her eyes and spit it out of her mouth.
The two men stood quite still, their hair rising only slightly as the breeze brushed by them.
She got up, turned off the fan, took off her robes, ran her fingers through her hair, and gestured to the two chairs in front of her desk.
“Sit.”
They sat.
“All right,” she said. “It’s just us. As far as I know the room isn’t bugged.” She looked at both men and raised her brows in inquiry.
They looked at each other, and lifted their shoulders. If it was, it wasn’t them.
“Good.” She paused for a moment. All the fine speeches she’d crafted, all the clever arguments, all the justified anger put into pithy phrases were thrown out when faced with Barry Zalmanowitz and Armand Gamache.
Two men who had served justice for much longer than she had. Served their province. Served their consciences. Often at great personal risk, and cost.
“What’s going on?” she asked, calmly meeting their eyes. When neither spoke, she added, “You can tell me.”
The air was heavy in the room. Humid, sticky, close. Time trickled by.
Zalmanowitz opened his mouth, his lips trying to form words, sentences, cogent thoughts. Then he glanced to his right, at Gamache.
And wished he hadn’t. In the instinctive gesture, he’d given something vital away. Something the astute judge couldn’t fail to see.
Whatever was happening, it had been Chief Superintendent Gamache’s idea.
Gamache looked down at his hands, clasped together on his crossed legs, and spent a moment collecting his thoughts. There were so many ways to handle this badly, and maybe no way to do it right.
He didn’t dare look at his watch, or even glance at the small carriage clock on the judge’s desk.
But he was aware of time going by. Of the officers gathering in the conference room of S?reté headquarters. Of the matryoshka dolls at Mirabel and what nested inside them.
They might have left already, those cheerful little ornaments, with something nasty inside.