Glass Houses

CHAPTER 7

“Not coming home tonight?” Reine-Marie asked Armand when he called that evening.

“Afraid not. I’ll stay in the Montréal apartment. Too much to do here and court starts early.”

“Would you like me to drive in? I can bring something from the bistro.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m not much company, I’m afraid. And I have to work.”

“The trial?”

“Oui.”

“Are things going your way?”

He rubbed his forehead and considered the question. “It’s hard to tell. So many things have to come together just right. There seems such a fine line between falling into place and falling apart.”

Reine-Marie had seen him worried about court cases, the testimony of certain witnesses especially. But in this case, he was the only witness so far. What could worry him so soon?

“Will you get a conviction?”

“Yes.”

But his answer was too swift, too certain, for a man usually so measured and thoughtful.

“What are you doing for dinner?” she asked.

“Grabbing something here at the office.”

“Alone?”

Armand glanced through the crack in the door into the conference room, where Jean-Guy, Isabelle and the other officers were bent over maps. Mugs of coffee and platters of sandwiches from the local brasserie sat on the long table, along with jugs of water, laptops and papers. Beyond all that, he saw the lights of Montréal.

“Oui.”

Chief Superintendent Gamache rejoined the team and, putting his glasses back on, he bent over the large map of Québec.

Transparencies were layered on top of it. Each with different patterns, in different colors.

Bold slashes. Of red. Of blue. Of green. Of black Magic Marker. Though hardly, Gamache thought, examining the patterns, magic.

Held up on their own, the bright lines on the transparencies were meaningless. But once laid on top of each other, and then on top of the map of Québec, the lines coalesced. A casual observer might think it was a subway route map. A very large subway and an extremely busy route.

And they wouldn’t be far wrong.

It was, in effect, a map of the underworld.

Lines snaked down the St. Lawrence River. Others came down from the north. Many branched from Montréal and Québec City. But they all made for the border with the United States.

Superintendent Toussaint, the new head of Serious Crimes, picked up a blue marker from the cup on the conference table.

It was, for some of the younger members of this inner circle, like picking up a hammer and chisel, so crude was this method of mapping. They were used to laptops and more precise, more powerful, tools.

But the map, and those transparencies, had a great advantage. No one could hack them. And, when separated, no one could decode what they meant.

And that was vital.

“Here’s the latest information,” said Madeleine Toussaint. “Our informant on the Magdalen Islands says a shipment arrived two days ago on board a cargo ship from China.”

“Two days?” asked an agent. “Why’s it taken so long to get the information?”

“We’re lucky to get it at all,” said Toussaint. “We all know what’ll happen if they find our informant. And he knows too.”

She lowered the pen until a blue blotch appeared on the islands, hanging out in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

“Do we know how much?” asked Beauvoir.

“Eighty kilos.”

They looked at her in silence.

“Of fentanyl?” asked Isabelle Lacoste.

“Oui.” Toussaint lifted the marker. Blue for fentanyl.

They looked at each other. Eighty kilograms.

It would be the largest shipment in North America. By almost double. Certainly the largest they knew of.

The cartels were growing bolder and bolder.

And why not? They went almost unchallenged.

Everyone in that room turned to Chief Superintendent Gamache, who was staring at the tiny group of islands floating in the salt water between Gaspé and Newfoundland. A prettier spot would be hard to find. Or a more perfect place for trafficking.

Windswept, isolated, sparsely populated. And yet on a major trade route for cargo vessels from, and to, the whole wide world.

It was a port of entry into Québec. Into Canada. A kind of back door. A revolving door. Given short shrift by authorities who were busy investigating the major ports, air and sea.

But the tiny, achingly beautiful Magdalen Islands were the sweet spot.

And from there?

Gamache looked at the various bold lines in different colored marker. Originating in different points of Québec, but all heading in the same direction.

The border. La frontière.

The United States.

Almost all the lines, all the colors converged, and went straight through a tiny village not even on the map. Gamache had had to pencil it in.

Three Pines.

But it was now obliterated by the Magic Markers making for the border.

Drugs flowed into the United States through that hole in the border, and money flowed back.

Tons of cocaine, methamphetamines, heroin had moved across the border there. For years.

When Gamache assumed the leadership of the Sûreté and realized the extent of the drug problem in and through Québec, he realized something else. Only a fraction of the trafficking could be accounted for through the traditional routes.

So how was the rest getting across?

Armand Gamache, the new Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté du Québec, had assigned teams to investigate those drugs made in Québec, and those imported. Those consumed here, and those destined for a more lucrative market.

He set up teams. Scientists, hackers, ex-cons, informants, marine and aviation experts, biker gang infiltrators, dock workers, union officials, packagers, and even marketers were recruited. Most had no real idea what the end goal was, or even who they were working for. Each formed a small cell, with a single problem to solve.

And while the drugs were funneled to one point, so was all this information.

Chief Superintendent Gamache.

A decisive blow had to be landed. Not a series of small irritants, but a hard, fast, effective strike. At the heart.

After almost a year of intense investigation, the lines on the transparencies had grown. Intersected. Entwined. And a pattern had appeared.

But still Chief Superintendent Gamache didn’t act.

Despite pleading by some of his senior officers, Armand Gamache waited, and waited. Bearing the brunt of increasing private and professional and political criticism, from a public and colleagues who saw only a growth in crime and inaction on the part of the Sûreté.

Then, finally, the team had found what they were looking for. The person at the head of all this.

The break had come through collaboration, intelligence, courage on the part of undercover agents and informants.

And the appearance of a dark figure on a sleet-slashed village green.

Though few people knew that was the pivot point, and Gamache was desperate to keep it that way.

The officers looked at Chief Superintendent Gamache. Waiting for him to say something. To do something.

Superintendent Toussaint lowered the bright blue Magic Marker and drew a line on the transparency, from the harbor on the Magdalen Islands, around the curve of the Gaspé Peninsula. The marker squealed as it slowly traveled down the great St. Lawrence River. Finally turning inland. And down, down.

Until the blue line hit the border.

There Toussaint’s hand stopped.

She looked at Gamache. Who stared at the map. At the mark.

Then he looked up, over his glasses. Past his officers to the wall, and the schematic.

A map of a different sort. It showed not how the drugs, and money, and violence flowed, but how the power flowed.

Photographs were affixed to the chart. Some mug shots, most clandestine photos taken by a high-powered lens.

Men and women going about their lives. Apparently quite normal. On the outside. Their skin stretched across the void inside.

And at the top, where all the lines and images converged, was simply a dark silhouette. No picture.

Faceless. Featureless. Not quite human.

Armand Gamache knew who it was. Could indeed have placed a face there. But chose not to. In case. He stared for a moment into that dark, blank visage, then shifted his attention back to Superintendent Toussaint. And nodded.

She hesitated, perhaps to allow him time to change his mind.

There was utter silence in the room.

“You can’t,” said Toussaint quietly. “Eighty kilos, sir. It might be on the move already. I haven’t heard back from our informant. At least let us put people in place.”

Chief Superintendent Gamache took the marker from her hand, and without hesitation he drew one final line.

A slash across the border, as the opioid poured out of Québec and into the United States.

Armand Gamache put the cap back on the marker with a firm click and looked up into the faces of his most trusted officers and saw the same expression there.

They were appalled.

“You have to stop it,” said Toussaint, her voice rising before she was able to modulate it. “You can’t let it cross the border. Eighty kilos,” she repeated, her outrage threatening to break free again. “If you don’t—”

Gamache stood up straight. “Go on.”

But she fell silent.

He scanned the other faces and didn’t have to ask who agreed with her. Clearly it was the majority opinion.

But that didn’t make it the right one.

“We stay the course,” he said. “I made it clear when we set up this operation almost a year ago. We have a plan and we stick to it.”

“No matter the consequences?” demanded another of the officers. “Yes, we have a plan. But we have to be responsive. Things change. It’s crazy to stick to a plan just because we have it.”

Gamache raised his brows, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry, patron,” said the officer. “I didn’t mean crazy.”

“I know what you meant,” said Gamache. “The plan was made before we had all the information.” The officer nodded. “It was made in a cold, clinical, logical environment.” More nods.

“Why are we bothering to risk lives to get this information?” Another officer waved at the map. “If we aren’t going to act on it?”

“We are acting,” said Gamache. “Simply not in a way the cartels expect. Believe me, I want to stop the shipment. But this entire operation is about the long view. We hold firm. D’accord?”

He looked at each of them, one at a time. Handpicked. Not because they’d bend to his will, conform, but because they were smart and experienced, ingenious and creative. And courageous enough to speak their minds.

And speak they did. But now it was his turn.

Gamache considered before speaking. “When we go on a raid and bullets are flying and chaos threatens, what do we do?”

He looked at all of them, each of whom had been in that situation. As had Gamache.

“We keep our heads and we keep our nerve. And we keep control of the situation. We focus. We do not give in to distractions.”

“Distractions?” said Toussaint. “You make this sound like a noise off to the left.”

“I’m not trivializing this shipment, the decision or the consequences, Superintendent.”

He glanced over, briefly, at the schematic on the wall. Drawn to the dark face.

“Never lose sight of the goal,” he said, returning his gaze to his subordinates. “Never.” He paused to let that sink in. “Never.”

They shifted, but began to stand a little straighter.

“Every other officer in your position has abandoned the strategy,” continued Gamache. “They’ve bailed. Not because they were weak, but because the consequences were so great. There was a screaming need for action. And it is screaming.” He put his finger on the fresh mark. “And it is a need. Eighty kilos of fentanyl. We need to stop it.”

They nodded.

“But we can’t.”

He took a long, deep breath and focused briefly on the lights of the city behind them. And beyond that, in the long view, the mountains. And the valley. And the village.

And the goal.

Then he brought his eyes, and his thoughts, back to the conference room.

“We monitor,” said Chief Superintendent Gamache, his voice brisk now. “From a distance. We do not interfere. We do not stop the shipment. D’accord?”

There was just a moment’s hesitation before first one, then all said, “D’accord.”

Agreed. It was grudging, but it was given.

Gamache turned to Superintendent Toussaint, who had been silent. She looked down at the map. Then over at the chart on the wall. Then back to her boss.

“D’accord, patron.”

Gamache gave a curt nod, then turned to Beauvoir. “A word?”

Once back in his office, with the door firmly closed, he turned square to Beauvoir.

“Sir?” said the younger man.

“You agree with Superintendent Toussaint, don’t you.”

It was not a question.

“I think there must be a way to stop the shipment without letting them know that we’ve worked it out.”

“There might be,” agreed Gamache.

“We’ve seized smaller shipments,” said Beauvoir, taking advantage of what he saw as an opening, a softening of his boss’s position.

“That’s true. But they were headed through the traditional routes, crossing the border at a predictable place. If all seizures stopped, the cartels would know something was up. This one is huge and almost certainly headed right to the place they think we don’t know about. If they trust the route with this much fentanyl, it means they feel it’s safe, Jean-Guy. But it only works if we allow them to believe it.”

“You’re not saying this is good news.”

“It’s what we hoped would happen. You know that. Look, I know this is particularly difficult for you—”

“Why does it always come down to that?” demanded Beauvoir.

“Because we can’t separate our personal experiences from our professional choices,” said Gamache. “If we think we can, we’re deluding ourselves. We have to admit it, examine our motives, and then make a rational decision.”

“You think I’m being irrational? You’re the one who’s always accusing me of not trusting my instincts. Well, you know what they’re telling me now? Not just my instincts, but yes, my experience?”

Beauvoir was all but shouting at Gamache.

“This is a huge mistake,” said Beauvoir, lowering his voice to a growl. “Allowing that much fentanyl into the U.S. could change the course of a generation. You want to know about my personal stake? Here it is. You’ve never been addicted,” he said. “You have no idea what it’s like. And opioids? Designer drugs? They get right into you. Change you. Turn you into something horrible. Everyone keeps repeating, ‘eighty kilos.’” He waved toward the door and the conference room across the hall. “What’s heading for the border isn’t a weight, isn’t a number. There’s no measure for the misery that’s heading our way. A slow and wretched death. And not just for the addicts you’re about to create, but how about all the other lives that’ll be ruined? How many people, alive today, healthy today, will die, sir, or kill? Because of your ‘rational’ decision?”

“You’re right,” said Gamache. “You’re absolutely right.”

He waved toward the sitting area of his office. After a moment’s hesitation, as though weighing if it was a trap, Jean-Guy took his usual chair, sitting stiffly on the edge.

Gamache sat back, trying to get comfortable. Abandoning that, he too sat forward.

“There’s a theory that Winston Churchill knew about the German bombing of the English city of Coventry before it happened,” he said. “And he did nothing to stop it. The bombing killed hundreds of men and women and children.”

Beauvoir’s tense face slackened. But he said nothing.

“The British had cracked the German code,” Gamache explained. “But to act would’ve meant letting them know that. Coventry would have been saved. Hundreds of lives would’ve been saved. But the Germans would’ve changed the code and the Allies would have lost a huge advantage.”

“How many were saved because of that decision?” Beauvoir asked.

It was a terrible calculus.

Gamache opened his mouth, then closed it. And looked down at his hands.

“I don’t know.”

Then he raised his gaze to Beauvoir’s steady eyes. “There’s some suggestion the English never did use their knowledge, for fear of losing their advantage.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Though it was clear he was not.

“What good’s an advantage if you’re not going to use it?” Beauvoir asked. More astonished than angry. “And if they allowed the bombing of that city—”

“Coventry.”

“—what else did they allow?”

Gamache shook his head. “It’s a good question. When do you use up all your currency? When are you being strategic, and when are you being a miser, hoarding it? And the longer you hold it, the harder it is to give up. If you have only one shot, Jean-Guy, when do you take it? And how do you know when that time comes?”

“Or maybe when you finally do take that shot, it’s too late. You’ve waited too long,” said Beauvoir. “The damage done is way more than any good you could do.”

All of Beauvoir’s rage had dissipated as he looked at Chief Superintendent Gamache. Struggling with that question.

“People will die, Jean-Guy, when that fentanyl hits the streets. Young people. Older people. Children, perhaps. It will be a firestorm.”

Gamache thought of his visit to Coventry with Reine-Marie, many years after the bombing. The city had been rebuilt, but they’d kept the shell of the cathedral. It had become a symbol.

He and Reine-Marie had stood a long time in front of the altar of the ruined cathedral.

Just days after the bombing, someone had etched words into one of the walls.

Father Forgive.

But forgive whom? The Luftwaffe? Goering, who unleashed the bombers, or Churchill, who chose not to stop them?

Was it courage or a terrible misjudgment on the part of the British leaders, safe in their homes and offices and bunkers hundreds of miles away?

As he was safe, high above the streets of Montréal. Far from the firestorm he was about to unleash. Saint Michael, he remembered. Coventry Cathedral had been dedicated to the archangel. The gentle one who came for the souls of the dying.

He glanced down at his index finger and was surprised to see a bright blue line. As though the eighty kilos of fentanyl would be traveling straight through him on its way south.

Armand Gamache stood astride the route from the Magdalen Islands to the U.S. border. A line that passed through an insignificant little village in a valley.

He had a chance, now, the power to stop it.

Gamache knew he would be marked for the rest of his life by the decision he was making this night.

“Isn’t there something you can do?” asked Jean-Guy, his voice hushed.

Gamache remained silent.

“Have a quiet word with the DEA? Warn them?” Jean-Guy suggested.

But he knew that wouldn’t happen.

Gamache’s jaw was tight, and he swallowed, but said nothing. His deep brown eyes remained on his second-in-command. His son-in-law.

“How long do you think it will take the fentanyl to reach the border?” Gamache asked.

“If it left immediately? It should cross tomorrow night. Maybe sooner. It might already be on its way.”

Gamache nodded.

“But there’s probably still time to intercept,” said Beauvoir, though he knew what he really meant was that there was time for Gamache to change his mind.

But he also knew that would not happen. And deep down, Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew it should not happen.

The fentanyl had to cross the border. Their secret had to be protected.

To be used later. In the final coup de grâce.

Armand Gamache nodded and, getting up, he headed to the door. And he wondered if, when he left his office that night to return to the small apartment he and Reine-Marie kept in Montréal, a dark figure would detach itself from the shadows and follow him.

Come to collect a debt Chief Superintendent Gamache knew he could never repay.

All he could really hope for was forgiveness.