No use pretending otherwise.
Inspector Langlois hung up the Chief’s parka.
“I’ve been following the fall-out from it all, of course. The main question seems to be why we didn’t realize the attack was coming.”
Langlois searched Gamache’s face, anxious for an answer. But he’d find none there.
“The people who did this were patient. The plan a long time in the making,” said the Chief at last. “It moved so slowly as to be invisible.”
“But something that big—” Inspector Langlois’s question was the same as everyone else’s. How could they have missed it?
Misdirection. And cunning. And the ability of the attackers to adapt. That was how, thought Gamache.
He accepted the chair indicated but said nothing.
Langlois sat across from him. “When did you realize it was more than a simple kidnapping?”
Gamache was quiet. He saw again Inspector Beauvoir returning from seeing Agent Nichol in the basement of S?reté headquarters. Where Chief Inspector Gamache had placed her a year or more ago. A job he knew she’d hate, but needed to learn. Listening to other people. And not talking.
She needed to learn to be quiet.
Beauvoir had not been happy at bringing Agent Nichol in. Neither had he, for that matter. But he could see no other option. Chief Superintendent Francoeur was off chasing the kidnappers, down paths Gamache was more and more convinced were being laid out by the kidnappers themselves. Leading the S?reté here and there. Morin’s transmissions appearing to pop up all over the vast province. The trace a farce.
No. They needed help. And the embittered young agent in the basement was the only one he could turn to.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur would never think of her. No one ever did. And so Gamache could operate quietly, through her.
She says she needs the password for your computer, Beauvoir scrawled longhand. So that nobody else will see our messages. She also wants you to pause as long as possible when speaking with Morin so she can get some ambient sound.
Gamache nodded and without hesitation handed over his private password. He knew he was giving her access to everything. But he also knew he had no choice. They were blind. Not even Morin could help them. He was tied up facing a wall, and a clock. He’d done the best he could, describing his surroundings. The concrete floors, the dirt, the impression he had that wherever he was, it was abandoned. Paul Morin described the silence.
But he’d been wrong. The place wasn’t abandoned. Nor was it silent. Not quite. He’d been fooled by the headset, which made clear Gamache’s voice from miles away, but muffled any sound just feet away.
But Agent Nichol had found it. Slight sounds in the silence.
“The premier seems relieved it hasn’t reached the political level, yet,” said Langlois, crossing his legs. “The damage has been contained.”
Seeing Gamache’s blank face he immediately regretted his comment.
“Désolé, I didn’t mean that. I was in the funeral cortege. Far behind you, of course.”
Gamache smiled slightly. “It’s all right, it’s hard to know what to say. I suspect there’s no right thing. Don’t worry about it.”
Langlois nodded then, making up his mind, he leaned forward. “When did you realize what was going on?”
“You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?” It was said with some humor, just enough to cut the edge off the words.
“I suppose not. Forgive me. I know you’ve given your depositions but as a cop I’m just curious. How did we all miss it? Surely it was obvious? The planned attack was so,” Langlois searched for a word.
“Primitive?” asked Gamache at last.
Langlois nodded. “So simple.”
“And that’s what made it effective,” said Gamache. “We’ve spent years looking for a high-tech threat. The latest bomb. Bio-industrial, genetic, nuclear. We searched the Internet, used telecommunication. Satellites.”
“But the answer was right there all along,” said Langlois, shaking his head in amazement. “And we missed it.”
I’ll find you. I won’t let anything happen to you.
I believe you, sir.
In the brief pauses Gamache provided in his conversation with Paul Morin they’d picked up distant sounds, like the whispers of ghosts deep in the background.
Agent Morin wasn’t alone. The “farmer” hadn’t abandoned him after all. Others were there, speaking softly, softly. Walking softly, softly. Making almost no noise. But some. Enough for the delicate equipment and surprisingly sensitive ears to find.
And the words they’d spoken? It had taken hours, precious hours, but Nichol had finally isolated one crucial phrase.
La Grande.
Over and over she’d played it for Beauvoir, examining each syllable, each letter. The tone, the breath. Until they’d reached a conclusion.
La Grande. The power dam that held back trillions of tons of water. The giant dam that was ten times the size of any other in North America. That provided hydroelectricity for millions, hundreds of millions, of people.
Without it much of Canada and the States would be plunged into a dark age.
The La Grande dam was in the middle of nowhere, near impossible to get to without official permission.
Gamache had looked at his watch at that moment, when Beauvoir and Nichol had written him from the basement. Sent him the sound bite so he could hear what they’d found.
It was three in the morning. Eight hours left. He and Morin had been discussing paint samples and names. Banbury Cream. Nantucket Marine. Mouse Hair.
In a few strides Gamache was over at the huge ordinance map of Québec on his wall. His finger quickly found the La Grande River, and the slash across it that had diverted and dammed the flow, killing thousands of acres of old-growth forest, herds of caribou and deer and moose. Had stirred up mercury and poisoned native communities.
But it had also been a miracle of engineering and continued to provide power decades later. And if it was suddenly removed?
Chief Inspector Gamache’s finger made its dreadful way south, tracing the torrent that would be created when all that water was suddenly released, all that energy suddenly released. It would be like nuclear bombs tumbling down the length of the province.
His finger hit Cree villages then larger and larger towns and cities. Val-d’Or. Rouyn-Noranda.
How far down would the water get before it petered out, before it dissipated? Before all its energy was spent? How many bodies would be swept down with it?
Now Paul Morin was talking about the family cat peeing in his father’s printer.
Had Morin been taken there? Was he being held at the dam?
I’ll find you.
I believe you, sir.
“Sir?”