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“For God’s sake,” he snapped. “This’s a matter of national security. Come with us if you have to.”
One of the guards stepped forward, and for an instant Gamache thought he was about to arrest them. Instead, he frisked all three.
“No phone?” he said to Shona, who just glared.
“We already checked,” said Lacoste. “She doesn’t have one.”
The guard frisked Shona again, then held up the two phones he’d confiscated. “These will be at the entrance to the building when you leave.”
“Understood,” said Gamache. He’d anticipated this. Even depended on it.
The guards stepped aside.
“What’ve you got?”
Jean-Guy had just arrived back in Three Pines. As much as he desperately wanted to go to Ottawa to help the others, he knew with that assassination attempt and the lockdown of Parliament, there was no way he could get to them.
Besides, he had to get back here.
When Nichol didn’t answer, he stepped forward and turned the screen toward him. As he did, he noticed that Agent Nichol was just staring ahead. Shocked.
“What’s he doing here?” came a voice from outside the study.
Reine-Marie was standing stock-still in the living room. Dead in her tracks. She’d seen Jean-Guy’s parked car from the kitchen window and headed to the study, anxious for an update. But didn’t make it to her son-in-law.
She stood staring at Marcus Lauzon. It was as though she’d been hit in the face by a two-by-four. Here was the man who’d put her son into prison, and back into addiction, and knowingly pushed him to the brink of suicide.
The man standing not two feet away would have essentially murdered Daniel if his parents hadn’t intervened.
She’d had nightmares about this. About coming face-to-face with Marcus Lauzon.
“Madame Gamache,” Lauzon began, before Jean-Guy grabbed his arm and yanked him into the study.
Jean-Guy looked at his mother-in-law, a woman he loved as much as his own mother, perhaps more. And saw an accusation of betrayal there.
“Désolé” was all he could think to say before closing the door.
Nichol had turned to him, her face ashen.
“She is working for Moretti.” Nichol’s voice was barely audible. “I traced back those posts mocking Gamache about the American plan. The stories originate from Chief Inspector Tardiff’s encrypted address. They’re being spread by journalists she regularly uses.”
“Oh, shit,” said Beauvoir, sitting down and reading the screen. “No one’s going to believe it now.”
“Who do you mean?” asked Marcus Lauzon, approaching the screen. “Who’s ‘she’?”
“Who’s he?” asked Nichol, turning to the new person. Then she recognized him. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Almost,” said Beauvoir. “I think they were about to kill him. I had to bring him with me.”
“Not sure he’s much safer here.” Just before the door had closed, she’d seen Madame Gamache’s face. And fists.
“Who’re you talking about?” Lauzon leaned closer to the computer. “Evelyn Tardiff? The head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté?”
“How do you know her?”
“Well, she had Sunday lunch here with me. But I knew her long before that. Or of her, at least. She’s working for CSIS.”
“The intelligence service?” said Beauvoir.
