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“Yes. You think she’s working for Moretti? She’s not. She’s one of ours. That’s another reason I couldn’t defend myself. I couldn’t risk it becoming public.”
“What becoming public?” Beauvoir was struggling to take this in.
“Who the high-level informant within the Moretti organization is. Evelyn Tardiff was recruited by CSIS years ago to infiltrate the mob when she was just an agent.”
“You knew?”
“I was the Deputy Premier. There’s a lot I knew. Know. Tardiff has been invaluable, giving CSIS a heads-up about drugs and arms smuggling, human trafficking. Information about the activities of the New York mob. But not about the poison plot or whatever’s happening next. Because Moretti doesn’t know. He’s just the enforcer.”
“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” said Nichol.
“But if that’s true,” said Jean-Guy, “why would she put out these posts about Gamache and the American plans to take over Canada? Making it sound crazy.”
“Because she had no choice. If she hadn’t, Moretti and Caron would have known. Non, she had to.”
“But she’s done irreparable damage,” said Beauvoir. “No one’s going to believe us now.”
“There’s more, patron,” said Nichol. “Did you check your email?”
“No. Didn’t have time. Why?”
“This. I found this IP address in Charles Langlois’s first notebook.”
“You mean his second.”
“Non. I mean his first. He found this early on and didn’t realize its significance. Neither did you. You were all so focused on the second notebook, you didn’t bother to go back and reread the first.”
Beauvoir clicked on the link she’d sent.
Here was the plan that General Whitehead had alluded to. The one that might have killed him.
They were through the first door, but the next, the last before Prime Minister Woodford’s office, was even more heavily guarded.
Gamache and Lacoste released Shona. That ruse had run its course.
On seeing them, the senior officer stepped forward, her hand out, palm flat in their faces in the universal sign to halt.
“This is now a restricted area. We’re on lockdown. That applies to you too, Chief Inspector. I need you to go back to your holding room.”
Her voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of what she was saying. She would be obeyed.
There was no way they could push their way through. They’d never make it. They’d be tackled and arrested. At best.
At worst …
If their bodies couldn’t get through the door, maybe something else could.
Armand Gamache gave her a small, almost apologetic smile as one officer to another, then raised his voice. “WPR!”
“What’re you doing?” the senior officer demanded.
“WPR!” Gamache shouted again, this time at the top of his lungs.
“Stop it!” commanded the officer and nodded to her colleague, who approached Gamache, carbine pointed. Shona backed away, even as Lacoste moved to intercept the armed guard.
“War—” That was as far as Gamache got before the door was flung open.
“What the hell’s happening out here?” the Minister of Defense demanded.
