“Ten,” said Beauvoir.
“Keep them there, and invite Ruth to join you.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Beauvoir.
Lacoste flushed the toilet in case the bodyguard could hear Beauvoir’s raised voice down the line.
“Honoré,” said Jean-Guy forcefully, as though Gamache hadn’t taken that in. Then, more quietly, “Honoré.”
It was as though Jean-Guy’s entire world had come down to one word.
“Annie,” he whispered.
Two words.
Reine-Marie, thought Gamache.
“They have to stay. It’s safe. They’re there to talk, not shoot up the place.”
“How do we know?” asked Beauvoir, his voice unnaturally high. “Wouldn’t be the first time a parlez turned into a bloodbath.”
“Non. If one or both had that in mind, they’d be meeting in the woods, with their soldiers. Not in the bistro. They’re brutal, but not stupid.”
He sounded more confident than he actually was. But Chief Superintendent Gamache understood that a leader could not afford to reveal his own emotions. He couldn’t demand courage in others while quaking in fear himself.
“If we didn’t see this coming,” said Beauvoir, “we probably won’t see what’s coming next. They could do the exchange right there, in the bistro. In front of everyone. We’re the ones who convinced them it’d be safe. We did this.”
“He’s right,” said Lacoste, running the water now. “What do I do then? I’d have to arrest them, or try. In a roomful of people.”
Honoré, thought Gamache. Annie. Reine-Marie.
Not just people.
Beauvoir’s foot pressed harder on the gas. The car was going 140 kilometers an hour, and gaining speed. They’d turned off the highway and were on secondary roads. Roads not designed for speed. The car bounded off ruts, flying then bumping to the asphalt.
But Gamache didn’t tell him to slow down. If anything, it was all he could do not to shout at him to hurry up. Speed up.
“Get Ruth to the bistro,” Gamache repeated, his voice low. “And go and join Reine-Marie and Annie. The head of the American cartel probably won’t know who they are, but the Canadian does. They’d never believe we’d put them in harm’s way.”
There was silence.
None of them could believe it either. Especially Gamache.
But there was no choice. To have Isabelle remove Reine-Marie and Annie and Honoré would almost certainly alert the cartel, and they must already be on the lookout for anything unusual.
They might be confident that they were in no danger, but they’d still be vigilant. It was animal instinct. And these people were animals.
“Are you sure?” Lacoste whispered.
From anyone else, in any other circumstances, Gamache might have been annoyed at this questioning of his orders. But he understood her need to be absolutely clear.
“Oui.”
“Okay,” she said. Just before she hung up, he heard one last word. “Merde.”
Merde, he agreed.
But this time it wasn’t the signal that all was going well. It was just merde.
Lacoste hid the handset in her pocket and unlocked the door.
“Désolé,” she said to the older man, who was examining her. “Sorry. That time of the month.”
She put a hand over her uterus and he immediately backed up before she could tell him more. But just to be on the safe side, she mumbled, “Cramps.”
*
As soon as Lacoste had hung up, Gamache called Toussaint and gave her the update. There was a long silence.
“Bon,” she said, her voice crisp. No sign of panic. “What do we do? You want us in the village?”
“No, go to the border, stick to the plan. Whatever happens, the chlorocodide has to cross into the States, and the only thing we know for sure is where it’ll happen. Your informant is watching the church?”
“Yes. We’ll at least know when the drug is being moved. And if they don’t use the established route?” Toussaint asked.
“Then you’ll be in the forest for nothing, and Beauvoir, Lacoste and I will take care of it.”
He said it so calmly, as though he was talking about mending a fence.
There was silence again.
“All actions contain an element of luck,” he reminded her. “Besides, we’re all in. There’s a great advantage in that.”
“Our backs to the sea. Yes, patron. This’ll work, because it has to.” She laughed softly and wished that was actually the equation. “Good luck,” she said, either forgetting to say merde or not wanting that to possibly be the last thing they ever said to each other.
“Oui. Good luck to you, Madeleine.”
*
Matheo and Lea were sitting at a table in the far corner by the time Lacoste returned. Away from the others. But close to the two Americans.
She carefully replaced the phone, making sure no one saw, and went into the kitchen to say hello to Anton. And to warn him.
“Bonjour,” he said, greeting her. “I’d have thought you’d be in the city.”
“I was, but wanted to get away just for a few hours. Too hot. I’m not the only one.”
“I bet,” he said, going back to work, then looking up when she didn’t speak.
“Matheo and Lea are here,” she said. “And maybe Patrick, though I haven’t seen him.”
Anton put down his knife and looked at her. “Why?”
“I don’t know, but I thought you should be warned.”
That wasn’t completely true. Isabelle Lacoste had a pretty good idea why Matheo and Lea were in the bistro and she didn’t want Anton to get involved.
“Merci.” He looked grim and took a deep breath. “I have to testify in a few days. I’ve been dreading it. I hear they’ve been rough on Monsieur Gamache.”
“Well, they always are.”
“Even the Crown attorney and the judge? Aren’t they on the same side?”
“Trials are funny things,” she said. Trying to make what had happened in the courtroom sound normal. “It’s my turn tomorrow.”
“Where’re they sitting?” asked Anton. “So I can avoid them.”
“In the corner.”
“By the two Americans?”
“You know them?”
“Never seen them before, but one considers himself a chef. After trying the soup”—Anton nodded toward a bowl—“he asked if I’d give them the recipe.”
Lacoste looked down at the notebook and the page headed Watermelon Gazpacho with Mint and Mango.
She wanted to eat the paper.
“I notice that Ruth isn’t out there. Do you mind if I call her?”
“Be my guest. Might be the first time her phone’s ever rung. I wonder if she’ll know what it is.”
Isabelle smiled, knowing that the young chef and the old poet had established a sort of friendship. Based on him giving her free food, and her giving him grief. And both knowing what happened when the straight road splayed.
Lacoste went to the phone attached to the wall and dialed. After about ten rings, during which Isabelle imagined her searching the small home for whatever was ringing, Ruth picked up.
“Hello,” she shouted into the receiver.
“Ruth, it’s Isabelle Lacoste. I’m at the bistro. We’re having drin—”
“Be right over,” Ruth yelled, then hung up.