Glass Houses

CHAPTER 29

A fine line of perspiration trickled down Chief Superintendent Gamache’s neck and soaked into his collar.

In the powerful air-conditioning of Sûreté headquarters, he could feel his sodden shirt growing clammy as it clung to his body.

He wished he’d had time for a quick shower and change into clean clothes, but that would have to wait until after this meeting.

The officers had stood as he entered the conference room, but he waved them to their seats and took his own chair at the head of the table.

Gamache looked at each of them, men and women of all ages, all ranks. Who’d sat around this table, in those same seats, at least once a week for almost a year.

He remembered the private interviews, as he’d decided the members of this inner circle. From the thousands of officers, he’d chosen these few, for their intelligence, their determination. Their ability to work as a team. To both lead and follow. They were chosen for their bravery and boldness and their loyalty.

Not to Gamache. Not to the Sûreté. Not even to Québec. But to the Québécois. To protect them. Perhaps at great cost.

He’d taken the most promising, and asked them to possibly, probably, almost certainly, destroy their careers. And they’d agreed.

Not, it must be admitted, without a fight sometimes, as the long view was obscured by leaping and waving and screaming immediate needs. And by their own training and morals. To stand aside, to do nothing, as crimes were committed. It was soul-destroying.

But they’d held together. Finally.

And now here they were.

For almost a year they’d put their plan into place. As well constructed, as focused, as hidden as the cartel they were trying to bring down.

A glass house, Judge Corriveau had called it. Transparent.

That’s what it was. And that’s what they were. Now.

A good hunter, Gamache knew, learned from his prey. And he’d learned from the cartel to be lean. Focused. Invisible.

To appear to be weak, while actually gathering strength.

But the time had come for exposure, on both sides. By the end of this night, one would be victorious. One would be shattered.

Grabbing a tissue, he wiped the perspiration from his face, no longer concerned about how it would be perceived.

“Tell me what you know.”

His gaze moved around the table and settled on Superintendent Toussaint, who was looking uncomfortable.

“Seems we were wrong, patron.”

“Is that so? About what?”

He knew the importance of appearing calm and controlled, even as his heart began to pound.

“The nesting dolls. There were two shipments, we now learn. One with the chlorocodide and the other without.”

“I see. And?”

“The one with the drugs left Mirabel last night. As soon as that huge shipment of fentanyl got across the border.”

“Has it crossed the border?” Gamache asked. His voice remained steady, though all depended on the answer to that question.

The room felt like it was teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“We don’t think so. We think it’s in the holding area.”

“You think?” asked Beauvoir, trying, with less success than the Chief Superintendent, to sound calm.

“Yes,” said Toussaint, an edge now to her voice. “Think.” She turned back to Gamache. “As far as our informant knows, it’s still in Québec. We have some indications that he’s right.”

“Really, now this is the same informant who told us earlier today that the shit, the krokodil, was still in the warehouse?” said Beauvoir.

“It is. He made a mistake.” Superintendent Toussaint’s voice was icy now. “You’ve heard of those. But he went back to confirm, at great personal risk. Then he contacted me.”

Toussaint and Beauvoir stared at each other.

“We have no way to be sure?” asked Gamache.

“Not without exposure, no,” said Toussaint.

“So we don’t really know where the drugs are,” said Beauvoir. “Except that they’re not in the warehouse.”

“Correct.”

“You said you have other indications, though,” said Gamache. “What’re those?”

“The head of the syndicate for the East Coast is in Vermont. Burlington.”

The officers looked at each other, then at Gamache.

“He could be there for any number of reasons,” said Toussaint. “We don’t know for sure…”

“It’s a short drive from there to the border,” said Beauvoir, his excitement overcoming his annoyance. “One of those reasons could be to meet the shipment.”

“And not just the shipment,” said Toussaint. She turned to look at Gamache. “It could mean they fell for it. More completely than we dared hope.”

“Go on,” said Gamache. He was thinking the same thing, but Toussaint had had more time to consider, and he needed to hear her thoughts.

“I think the head of the East Coast syndicate is in Vermont for more than a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. And more than the krokodil.”

Gamache nodded, slowly. Taking this in. Trying not to let his elation override his good sense. Trying not to race ahead to a conclusion he was desperate to arrive at.

It fell to Beauvoir to say what Gamache was thinking. What they were all thinking.

“A meeting’s been set up. When the exchange is made,” his voice was low, almost a whisper. “The heads of both the Québec and the East Coast cartels will be together, in one spot.”

“Holy shit,” said several of the officers.

“But which side of the border?” asked one. “Would he come into Québec? Would he dare?”

“What’s to stop him?” another asked. “Not the Sûreté, that’s for sure.”

That brought a round of laughter that verged on hysteria.

Chief Superintendent Gamache was relieved too, but he was also wary. It was at about this time that mistakes were made.

Just as he thought he was luring them into a trap, perhaps they were luring him. If they’d learned one thing about the cartel, it was that they were smart. They might be invisible, but that didn’t mean they didn’t see everything that was happening around them.

Gamache let the celebration go on. There’d been precious little to be happy about in recent months. Let them enjoy this moment. Eventually the excitement died down.

“Walk me through your thinking, Madeleine,” said Gamache.

“This’s the first shipment of chlorocodide across the border. It looks poised to become a significant drug, a huge moneymaker. Cheap to produce and an easy sell to a population always looking for the next great high.”

“It turns their skin into scales,” said one of the agents, reading the briefing bullet on krokodil.

“Right, and their brains to mush and eventually kills them young,” said Toussaint. “When has that ever stopped a junkie? These are not reasonable people making rational choices.” She turned back to Gamache. “You want my thinking? I think they’re meeting to discuss territory. Borders are for politicians, not drug runners. But I also think they’re meeting to size each other up. This is an indication of just how powerful the Québec cartel has become. What else would bring the head of the largest syndicate in the U.S. into the woods of Vermont?”

“He feels threatened?” asked Beauvoir.

“I think he might.”

“You think he’s come to kill the head of the Québec cartel?” asked another agent.

Toussaint thought. “No. I think he might be prepared to, but these are also businesspeople. It’s bad business to kill your supplier, unless there’s no choice. I think they want to come to an understanding.”

“The head of the Québec cartel is smart enough to figure all this out,” said Beauvoir.

“Oui, certainly,” said Toussaint. “And clever enough to be prepared to strike first.”

“Hell of a tête-à-tête,” said an agent.

“I think it’s time to let the DEA know,” said Toussaint. “This meeting can get out of control real fast and we’re going to need help.”

“When do you think this’s going down?” asked Gamache.

“Tonight, for sure. Probably shortly after nightfall. Before midnight, I think. They’ll want to get it done.”

“And you think they’ll meet at the crossing point?” asked Beauvoir.

“I do. It’s the safest place. We’ve proven to them that we have no idea it’s being used. The krokodil will be given to the U.S. syndicate. The money will come to the Québec cartel. And the heads of both syndicates will at least start the process of coming to a new understanding.”

Everyone, except Gamache, looked at the clock on the wall. He was perfectly aware of the time, but also of the folly of being pushed into a near-panicked decision.

“We do not tell the DEA,” he said.

There was a commotion, as everyone spoke at once. Objected at once. He let that die down too. And when there was silence, he spoke.

“If we told them that the heads of two of the largest syndicates in North America will be coming out into the open, that they’ll be meeting tonight, when a drug deal is going through, what do you think they’d do?”

He let them think, but only briefly.

“They’d mobilize,” he answered his own question. “They’d have to. We would too, if told the same thing. Even if they were willing to let us take the lead, there’d be so much activity, the syndicates couldn’t help but notice. No. There’re risks either way, but my decision stands. We do this alone. We stick to the plan that has brought us this far.”

“But what happens if the meeting is on the other side of the border, sir? Where we have no jurisdiction?”

“We might lose them both,” someone else jumped in.

“You let me worry about that,” said Gamache. “Focus on your own jobs tonight, and I’ll focus on mine.”

He’s not going to let that happen, Jean-Guy realized. One way or another, the head of one or both cartels would be brought to justice, if Armand Gamache had to drag them back across the border by the hair.

“Chief Inspector Lacoste is on site?” Gamache asked.

“She’s monitoring the head of the Québec cartel, and will let us know any movement,” said Toussaint.

“Bon. Inspector Beauvoir, you have the tactical plans?”

“I do.” He pointed to the ordnance maps on which he’d laid out where each of them would be positioned and what their objective would be. Plans every person in the room was very familiar with.

Their lives, and those of their comrades, depended on knowing exactly what would be expected of each of them. What each of their targets and objectives would be. Both primary and secondary.

They’d be a small force, so each agent had to be perfectly placed. Every person, every movement, precise.

The tactical team had been alerted, briefed, weeks ago, without being told the objective.

The Sûreté had two great advantages. They knew, after months of monitoring, exactly where the drugs would cross the border. And the syndicates had been lulled into believing the Sûreté was completely useless.

There was, though, another great advantage, Beauvoir knew. One perhaps less obvious. Motivation. Desperation even. Their backs were to the wall, to the ocean. This had to work.

But now something unexpected, though not unwelcome, had been added.

The head of the East Coast syndicate would also be there, and would no doubt bring his own small army.

A series of unknowns had been thrown into their carefully constructed plan.

The stakes had just gone higher, and the rewards had become almost inconceivable. But so had the dangers.

“They might not be relevant anymore,” Beauvoir warned, gesturing toward the maps.

“The American head might change the drop-off point,” Toussaint said. “There might be another one they prefer.”

Gamache could feel the tension rising. And he could sense the mammoth efforts each agent was making to keep their anxiety under control.

“They might. Or they might not. We can’t know. All we can do is go with what we do know, and be prepared to pivot. D’accord?”

“D’accord, patron,” they said as one.

Gamache thought for a moment, going over the strategy laid out in the plans. Then he turned to Beauvoir. “Do you think there’s a better way to do this?”

Beauvoir had also been quickly reviewing the plans, now indelibly in his head.

“I’ll need to adjust it,” said Beauvoir. “With the head of the syndicate there, there’ll be more security. And they’ll be more alert. But”—he thought about it—“I think the plan is still solid. As long as nothing else changes.”

“Your informant is with them?” Gamache asked, and Toussaint nodded.

“Bon,” said Gamache, getting to his feet. Everyone in the room rose with him. “If we have to makes changes on the fly, well, it won’t be the first time, will it?”

That brought laughter and knowing nods. Though the more veteran members of the team weren’t laughing so much anymore.

“I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”

As soon as the Chief Superintendent left, Beauvoir bent over the plans he’d worked on at home, for months, hoping this day would come.

When Honoré awoke in the night, he’d fed and soothed him while Annie slept. Rocking his son gently, and poring over the map, murmuring plans of attack.

How to hunt, arrest, and if necessary kill.

Not exactly Winnie the Pooh. Or Pinocchio. Not the bedtime story he’d hoped for his child. But if they were successful, it did increase Ray-Ray’s chances of growing up healthy and safe. Of never having to find out what happens when the straight road splays.

“All right.” Beauvoir got the attention of the assembled agents. “Let’s go through this.”

He glanced again at the large clock on the far wall.

Twenty to six.

Then he looked at the closed door. He had to speak to Gamache, before whatever was going to happen that night happened. There could be nothing left unsaid between them.

Armand Gamache loosened his tie and he pulled his damp shirt out of his slacks. Going over to his desk, his hand went to the drawer where he kept his clean shirts.

But then he hesitated and, instead, he dug into his pocket, and bringing out a key, he unlocked the top drawer. Sliding it open, he saw the notebook and napkin.

It had been a while, months in fact, since he’d looked at either.

Many lifetimes ago, many lives ago, he’d written those words on the crumpled napkin.

How many had died since then, because of them? Because of him? He hadn’t turned a blind eye to the drugs and violence. He’d seen perfectly clearly what was happening. Had asked for reports every day. Had counted the cost of lives ruined, lives lost. Because of what he’d let happen.

And still, he hadn’t acted.

But tonight he would.

Setting the napkin aside, Armand opened the notebook and forced himself to read what he’d written, what he’d begun, that cold November evening with Henri and Gracie curled by the fire, and Reine-Marie beside him on the sofa.

When he’d looked into that fire and considered doing the inconceivable.

He wondered if the Spanish conquistador Cortés had done the same thing, on the long journey to the New World. When had the thought first come to him? Had he considered the consequences, when he considered those fateful orders? Burn the ships. Did he know what slaughter lay ahead, for his soldiers and sailors and for the Aztecs, whose entire civilization was about to be wiped out?

And Gamache wondered if, when the conquerors’ feet hit the sand, and smoke filled the air, some other creature had come on shore with them.

Had the conquistadors noticed a dark figure following them? A terrible witness to the terrible deeds.

But, of course, the deeds would not be considered terrible for hundreds of years. Cortés was a hero, to everyone but the Aztecs.

In his quiet moments, later in life, as his own death approached, did Cortés wonder what he’d done? Did doubt creep into the room? Was an ageless cobrador standing at the foot of the bed?

And Churchill? Did doubt tickle him awake, the night Coventry was bombed? Or the night the great city of Dresden was firebombed, in retaliation for something that was not their fault?

Gamache picked up a pen and, turning to a blank page, he started to write.

He wrote about the huge shipment of drugs he’d let through the border the night before. When he could have stopped it.

He wrote about the lives that would be lost, because of that decision. His Coventry. His Dresden.

He wrote about Monsieur Zalmanowitz, and his career in tatters. He wrote about Judge Corriveau and the censure she would suffer, for letting them go instead of having them detained. As the law said she should have.

He wrote about the men, and women, and children who’d suffered as he’d ordered that only the minimum be done to arrest criminals. To focus their resources on the main target, but to also give the impression of complete and utter incompetence.

Armand Gamache wrote it all down. Sparing nothing. And when he’d finished with what had already happened, he went on. To what was about to happen. That night.

And when he stopped, Gamache laid down his pen, and closed the notebook. And placed the napkin carefully on top of it.

Then he went into his bathroom and had a shower, washing away the dirt and grime, the water salty to the taste. From the sweat. And something else rolling down his face.

“Patron?”

Beauvoir looked into the Chief Superintendent’s office. It was empty. But he heard the shower.

Jean-Guy stood there, unsure what to do. Go in. Go away?

He didn’t want to see his boss, his father-in-law, coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Or worse.

But neither could he leave without saying what needed to be said.

So he stepped into the room and closed the door and was about to take a seat when he saw the notebook out on the desk.

Curious, Jean-Guy approached. The shower was still on and, emboldened, Beauvoir opened the notebook and started reading. When the shower turned off, he quickly closed the book, replaced the napkin, and sat in the chair across from the desk.

The chief came out dressed in clean clothes and rubbing his head with a towel.

He stopped instantly upon seeing Beauvoir, who’d jumped out of his seat.

“Jean-Guy.”

“Patron.” He stood rigid, slender shoulders squared. “I’m sorry I left the courtroom today.” His voice was formal as though making a report, or reciting rehearsed lines. “It was unforgivable.”

And then the formality broke down and his shoulders loosened. “I don’t even know why I did it. We’ve been through worse. But I just…”

Armand stood there, listening. Not jumping in to finish the sentence. Neither rebuking, nor saying it was all right.

He gave Jean-Guy the space he needed, to say what he needed. In his own words and time.

“I got scared.”

There it was. A grown man, a senior officer in the Sûreté du Québec. Admitting he was afraid. And that, Gamache knew, took courage.

“Of what?” he asked.

“I was afraid I’d scream, ‘Don’t do it.’ Up until then, I knew we could go back. A line had been stretched, but hadn’t yet been crossed. You outright lying in court, perjuring yourself, was something that could never be undone. I knew there was really no choice, but I couldn’t watch.”

Gamache nodded, taking it in before he spoke. “I think there’s more to it.”

“Maybe,” admitted Beauvoir, intensely uncomfortable under the gaze.

“I think you lost some respect for me today. I don’t think you believed I would actually do it. Lie under oath, under any circumstances. It breaks every law that you and I believe in. It makes me a hypocrite.”

Was that it? Beauvoir asked himself. Did that explain it? Because the truth was, he couldn’t really explain it to himself. Even saying he couldn’t watch Gamache destroy his career didn’t justify his leaving. The Chief Superintendent had never put career first.

So what was it?

And he knew, at that moment, that Gamache was right. He’d left because he couldn’t watch this fall from grace. This sullying of someone who’d always been a mentor, an example. Who’d stood by his principles, stood by the law when most others were bending it to their own benefit.

But today, Gamache had done the same thing. And not just bent it, but broke it.

He never really believed this man, of all people, would lie under oath. In a courtroom. For any reason. When it came down to it, Jean-Guy had seriously thought another solution would be found. The Mounties would miraculously appear and all would be well.

But instead, in that hellhole of a courtroom, Armand Gamache had perjured himself.

Gamache watched Jean-Guy, and knew he’d hit the target. He hadn’t wanted to, had hoped he was wrong. But he could see now that there was another victim, another body in the ruins.

The respect Jean-Guy had for him. Not the worst of the corpses, for sure, but there was no denying the pain it had caused. In Jean-Guy’s eyes, he was now corrupt. No different from so many other senior Sûreté officers who’d sworn to uphold the law, but had broken it instead.

The fact the others had done it to amass fortunes, and Gamache had done it to bring the drug trade to its knees, did not really matter. The fact was, he’d proven himself no different from them.

Corruption starts small, often justifiable. A white lie. A minor law violated for the greater good. And then the corruption, like a virus, spreads.

“I hate to break it to you, Jean-Guy, but I crossed that line the first time I ordered that we step back and not make an arrest. I am being paid to uphold the law. It was an oath I’d taken, a duty entrusted to me. But I chose not to. Today, in court, I simply made my transgressions provable.”

“Does Judge Corriveau know? Is that why she called you into her chambers?”

“She suspects. She asked if the real murderer is still out there.”

“And what did you say?”

“I assured her that the defendant was the real murderer, but I’m not sure she believed it. She’s taking the night to think and will decide what to do about Monsieur Zalmanowitz and me in the morning.”

“But she let you go,” said Beauvoir, seeing what really mattered.

His brows drew together as he considered what the chief had said. He felt a heaviness in his chest. But then something occurred to him.

“If you crossed that line when you issued the orders, then I crossed it with you when I followed them.”

Gamache knew that was true, of course, but had chosen not to say anything. This night would be long enough, hard enough, without that weighing on Jean-Guy.

But the younger man had arrived there on his own. And now Gamache saw something unexpected. Far from adding to Beauvoir’s burden, he seemed lighter.

“I’m equally to blame,” Jean-Guy said, his face opening, the distress vanishing.

And Armand realized that the problem wasn’t so much that he’d fallen from grace in Beauvoir’s eyes, but that a chasm had opened up between them. But now they were at least in it together. The outhouse. The two-holer.

“We’re both in big shit.” Jean-Guy felt almost giddy with relief.

“Up to here.” Gamache lifted his hand over his head and returned to the bathroom to brush his hair, then came back, doing up his tie. “Everything’s ready?”

“Oui. Isabelle hasn’t called yet, but we need to be leaving now. The rest of the team’s getting their equipment together. I have your vest.”

“Merci.” Gamache went to his desk and, unlocking another drawer, he brought out his holster and gun and attached it to his belt before putting on his suit jacket. Rumpled, but dry at least.

The assault van would go down separately, and when it was dark the agents would get into position.

And wait.

He considered replacing the notebook and napkin in the drawer, and locking it. But realized it didn’t matter. And if something happened, and it all went south, the notebook would help investigators understand. If not agree.

The two men walked down the long corridor to the elevators. The gun felt uncomfortable, foreign, on the Chief Superintendent’s hip. He hated firearms. Their only purpose was to kill people. And he’d seen enough death to last many lifetimes.

“I should’ve stayed with you in the courtroom,” said Jean-Guy, as he punched the down button. Then he turned to Gamache. “Are we okay?”

“We were never not okay, Jean-Guy.” The elevator came and they got in. Just the two of them. “Did I ever tell you about my first tactical assault?”

“I don’t think so. You haven’t written a poem about it, have you?”

“An epic verse,” said Gamache, clearing his throat. Then he smiled. “Non. This is more prosaic. I was an agent, but not exactly a rookie. I’d been in the Sûreté for a couple of years. We were going after a street gang. Heavily armed. A full assault on their bunker.”

As he spoke, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at the floor numbers above the elevator door.

“I passed out.”

“Pardon?”

“As soon as the first shots were fired. Woke up with a medic slapping me.”

“Pardon?” Beauvoir repeated, turning to Gamache, who continued to stare at the numbers.

“I blamed it on heat stroke. The heavy equipment, the waiting, the sun beating down. But it wasn’t that. It was terror. I was so scared, I fainted.” He paused. “Though passed out sounds a little better.”

Now he turned to look at Jean-Guy, who was staring at him, incredulous.

“Only Reine-Marie knows that story. Knows the truth.”

Jean-Guy continued to stare, openmouthed.

“That episode forced me to take a hard look at myself,” said Gamache. “At whether I was really cut out for this, or if my fears would always get the better of me, and endanger those around me. But I loved the work and believed in it. And I realized I couldn’t be afraid and do what needed to be done. And so I worked on the fear.”

“Is it gone?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

Jean-Guy did.

It never went away completely. Not even for the Chief Superintendent.

As the elevator descended to the lowest level, Beauvoir remembered the predictions in the notebook, and the napkin laid so carefully on top of it.

The name of the restaurant was printed in cheerful red letters across the top.

Sans Souci. Without a care.

And below that, in black ink, Burn our ships.

He followed Gamache out of the elevator.

It wasn’t really, he knew, about less fear. It was about more courage.