“I’m not an idiot, Chief Inspector. You asked for untraceable satellite equipment. You’re not building a robot army. If you were going in through the front door you could do that from home or your office. This is something else. You brought me here to help you break in. But it won’t work.”
“Why not?” Despite himself, he was interested.
“Because while all this shit might get you connected, and even hide where you are for a while, you need a code to get into the deepest files. Your own S?reté security code will give you away. So will Superintendent Brunel’s. You know that.”
“How much do you know about what we’re doing?”
“Not much. I knew nothing until yesterday, when you asked for my help.”
They stared at each other.
“You invited me here, sir. I didn’t ask. But when you asked for help, I agreed. And now you treat me like your enemy?”
Gamache was having none of her mind games. He knew there was a far more likely reason she’d agreed to come down. Not loyalty to him, but to another. She was in the B and B to report to Francoeur, and had he not been distracted by his concern for Jean-Guy, he’d have caught her at it.
“I invited you because we had no choice. But that doesn’t mean I trust you, Agent Nichol.”
“What do I need to do to gain your trust?”
“Tell me why you were in the B and B.”
“I wanted to warn you that without a security code, none of this will work.”
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
Gamache knew she was lying. She didn’t need to tell him about the code privately.
“What have you told Francoeur?”
“Nothing,” she pleaded. “I’d never do that.”
Gamache glared at her. Once the computer was turned on. Once the satellite connection was made. Once Jér?me opened that door and stepped through, it was just a matter of time before they were found. Their only hope rested with the embittered young agent in front of him, trembling with cold and fear and indignation, real or forced.
Time was running out to save Beauvoir, and to find out what Francoeur’s goal was. There was a purpose here that went well beyond hurting Gamache and Beauvoir.
Something far bigger, put in place years ago, was maturing now. Today. Tomorrow. Soon. And Gamache still didn’t know what it was.
He felt slow, stupid. It was as though all sorts of clues, elements, were floating in front of him, but one piece was missing. Something that would connect them all. Something he’d either missed or hadn’t yet found.
He now knew it involved Pierre Arnot. But what was their goal?
Gamache could have screamed his frustration.
What role did this pathetic young woman play in all of this? Was she the nail in their coffin, or their salvation? And why did one look so much like the other?
Gamache brought his parka forward and zipped it up with a hand so cold he could barely tell he was holding the zipper. Putting his gloves back on, he scooped up the heavy cable at her feet.
As Nichol watched, Chief Inspector Gamache put the thick black cable over his shoulder and leaned forward, lugging it through the forest, in a direct route to the schoolhouse.
After a few steps he felt it grow lighter. Agent Yvette Nichol’s snowshoes plodded along in the trail he was making, picking up the slack.
She fell in behind him, puffing with the effort and relief.
He’d caught her. He might even suspect. But he hadn’t gotten the truth from her.
*
Thérèse Brunel got Jér?me and Gilles settled in the schoolhouse, in front of the woodstove. Heat radiated from it and the men stripped off their heavy parkas, hats, mitts, and boots and sat with their feet out, as close as they could get to the fire without themselves bursting into flames.
The room smelled of wet wool and wood smoke. It was warm now, but Gilles and Jér?me were not.
After shoving more wood into the stove, Thérèse went over to Emilie’s to get Henri, then to the general store, where she picked up milk, cocoa and marshmallows. The hot chocolate now simmered in a pot on top of the stove, and the scent joined that of wet wool and wood smoke. She poured it into mugs and topped each with a couple of large, soft marshmallows.
But the hot chocolate shook so badly in Gilles’s hands, Thérèse had to take the mug from him.
“You asked what this is about,” she said.
Gilles nodded. His teeth chattered violently as he listened, and he alternately hugged himself and held his hands out to the stove as she spoke. His beard had melted a wet stain on his sweater.
When she finished speaking, Thérèse handed him back his hot chocolate, the marshmallow melted to white foam on the top. He gripped the warm mug to his chest like a little boy, frightened by a scary story and trying to be brave.
Beside him, Jér?me had remained quiet while his wife described what they were looking for, and why. Dr. Brunel kneaded his feet, trying to get the blood flowing again. Pins and needles stabbed his toes as the circulation returned.
The sun was now barely visible over the dark forest, the forest that still contained Armand Gamache and Agent Nichol. Thérèse turned on the lights and looked at the blank monitors her husband had set up that morning.
What if this doesn’t work?
They’d have made a very poor Scout troop, she thought. Not only were they unprepared for this to fail, they were using stolen equipment to hack into police files. If there were badges for deception, they’d be covered in them.
They heard heavy footsteps on the wooden porch, and Thérèse opened the door to find Armand there, puffing with exertion.
“You all right?” she asked, though they both knew she was really asking, “Are you alone?”
“Never better,” he gasped. His face was red from exertion and the bitter cold. Dropping the cable on the stoop, he entered the schoolhouse, followed a moment later by Agent Nichol. Her face was no longer pallid. Now it was blotched, white and red. She looked like the Canadian flag.
Thérèse exhaled, unaware until that moment just how concerned she’d really been.
“Do I smell chocolate?” Gamache asked, through frozen lips. Henri had run over to greet him and the Chief was on one knee, hugging the shepherd. For warmth as much as affection, Thérèse suspected. And Henri was happy to give him both.
Space was made by the woodstove for the newcomers.
Thérèse poured them mugs of hot chocolate, and after Gamache and Nichol had stripped off their outerwear, the five sat silently around the woodstove. For the first couple of minutes Gamache and Nichol shuddered with cold. Their hands shook and every now and then they spasmed as the bitter winter, like a wraith, left their body.
Then the little schoolhouse grew quiet, except for the odd squeal of a chair leg on the wooden floor, the crackle of the fire, and Henri’s groans as he stretched out at Gamache’s feet.
Armand Gamache felt he could nod off. His socks were now dry and slightly crispy, the mug of hot chocolate warmed his hands, and the heat from the stove enveloped him. Despite the urgency of their situation, he felt his lids grow heavy.
Oh, for just a few minutes, a few moments, of rest.
But there was work to be done.
Putting down his mug, he leaned forward, hands clasped together. He looked at the circle huddled around the woodstove in the tiny one-room schoolhouse. The five of them. Quints. Thérèse, Jér?me, Gilles, Armand, and Nichol.
And Nichol, he thought again. Hanging off the end. The outlier.
“What’s next?” he asked.