Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 36

“Damn,” said Beauvoir.

He sat back in the chair and stared at the screen.

It hadn’t worked. The number on the back of Clara’s painting wasn’t the code.

He’d been so sure of it. Had had Agent Cloutier reenter it. Two more times.

Nothing.

“Sorry, patron. It was a good idea,” she said, and Beauvoir couldn’t help but think that things were pretty desperate when Cloutier was patronizing him.

“We’ll get it eventually,” she said, not making him feel better. “But I do have some news. Bernard Shaeffer’s handed over the information and access to the offshore money. It’s a numbered account in Lebanon. Let me show you.”

She brought it up, and there, very clearly, was the name Anthony Baumgartner and the amount. Just over seven million.

Beauvoir raised his brows. “A lot, but not actually as much as I expected.”

“Me too,” she said. “The numbers don’t tally. According to the statements, the clients, all told, gave Baumgartner several hundred million. So where’s the rest?”

“In another account,” said Beauvoir, thinking. “With another person.”

“Shaeffer?” asked Agent Cloutier.

Chief Inspector Beauvoir was nodding. Thinking.

Another reason for murder. Suppose Baumgartner realized his former lover wasn’t quite as stupid, not quite as intimidated as he thought? Suppose he found out Shaeffer was stealing from him?

He’d confront Shaeffer. And Shaeffer would have killed him. Would have to, if he wanted to be free of Baumgartner and keep the fortune.

Beauvoir looked at the painting, then turned it back around so that Ruth was again scowling at him.

“A code can be symbols as well as numbers and letters, right?”

“Yes. It’s even better, more secure, if some symbols are used. Why?”

“There’s a symbol for you. And numbers.”

He pointed to the lower right corner.

Gamache drove slowly down rue Ste.-Catherine, scanning the street.

Then, finding a parking spot, he pulled in and got out. His cell phone was connected to the agents tracking Amelia as she closed in on the back-street factory.

But right now Gamache had someone else he had to find.

“A little girl,” he said to a prostitute. “She’s five or six. Red Canadiens hat.”

“You don’t want a little girl,” she said. “You want a big girl.”

She grabbed her breasts.

“I don’t mean for that,” he said, his voice so stern the woman lowered her hands and stopped the act.

“You her father?” asked the prostitute. “Grandfather?”

“I’m a friend. Have you seen her?”

“Yeah, with Anita this afternoon.”

“Anita’s dead.”

“Oh, not Anita too.” She looked up and down the street. “I can’t help you. I’m just trying to stay alive.”

“You want to stay alive?” he said, handing her a fifty. “Get off the streets.”

“And go where, honey? Your place? You and your nice wife gonna help me? Get out of the way and let me do my job.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “There’s a new drug that’s killing people. It killed Anita. Stay away from it.”

“You look like a nice man. Let me give you some advice. Stay away from here.”

But, of course, he couldn’t leave. As the prostitute watched, he walked up one side of the street, then down the other.

His face grew numb in the bitter cold. He had to turn his back now and then against the wind, to catch his breath. But he kept on.

Talking to near-frozen junkies and trannies and whores.

But while most knew who he was talking about, none knew where the little girl was.

And then he saw. A bit of red. Down an alley. Disappearing into a doorway.

He followed, quickly. Once at the door, he yanked it open and saw a man holding the girl by the hand. Leading her down the corridor and into a room.

Gamache shouted, and the man, looking back and seeing him, shoved the girl into the room and slammed the door.

Breaking into a run, Gamache got to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it.

“Open up.”

When there was no response, he threw himself against it. Again. And again.

Finally he broke through and stumbled into the room.

A man stood there. Middle-aged, or at least aged. Disheveled. Eyes sunken and red.

He held the girl in front of him, his large hand around her small throat.

“Give her to me,” said Gamache, advancing into the room.

“I found her.” His hand tightened around her throat. “She’s mine.”

“You need to let her go.”

“I won’t.”

Gamache knelt down and looked into the little girl’s eyes. But they were unfocused. Staring blankly ahead. Her mouth was open, and she was breathing rapidly. The Canadiens tuque had fallen off, and Gamache could see her hair, blond, filthy, matted.

“Can you close your eyes?” he asked her gently. She just continued to stare. “It’s going to be all right. No one will hurt you.”

But he suspected she’d heard that before. Just before she’d been hurt. Maybe beyond repair.

“I’m here to help,” he said. “I know you might not believe it, but I am.”

Then he stood back up.

“I won’t hurt her,” he said to the man. “But I will hurt you unless you let her go, right now.”

“Fuck o—” was as far as he got.

Gamache took a long, rapid stride forward and hit the man so hard in the face that his nose broke. He dropped to the floor, bleeding, as Gamache grabbed the girl and lifted her into his arms.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, holding her tight and averting her fixed gaze from the broken man on the floor. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Behind him he heard the man screaming. But the sound got fainter and fainter as Gamache and the girl went down the corridor and out into the cold night.

He got her buckled into his car and gave her a chocolate bar from his glove compartment. Jean-Guy thought he didn’t know about the stash, but he did.

The girl just held it in front of her. Like a celebrant holding the cross.

“My name’s Armand,” he said, swinging the car back onto Ste.-Catherine. His voice was calm. Intentionally authoritative. “I’m with the police. You’re safe now. I promise. I have a granddaughter your age. She lives in Paris. Her name’s Florence. We call her Florie. She has a younger sister named Zora. What’s your name?”

But she remained mute. Frozen in place. Barely even blinking.

Just then the cell phone burst into life.

“We’ve got it,” said the agent. “The factory’s in an abandoned building down a side street just off St.-André, north of Ste.-Catherine. She’s gone inside. Should we go in?”

Gamache pulled over and hit his phone, about to say no, but the Montréal commander got there first.

“No” came the crisp voice. “Wait for us. We’re five minutes away. Chief Superintendent, I have you even closer.”

Gamache knew exactly the area the agents were talking about. And he was close.

He looked at the little girl. He couldn’t leave her alone in the car. But neither could he take her with him.

He scanned the street and saw the answer.

“Chief Superintendent Gamache?” came the voice of the Montréal tactical commander.

“I’ll be there in two minutes,” he said, and then, stopping the car in the middle of the street, he bundled the girl in his arms, whispering calmly, gently, “Everything’s fine. You’re safe.”

But he wondered, even as he spoke, if that was the biggest lie so far.

Pushing open the door into the diner, he looked around, then walked up to the waitress who’d served him two days earlier.

“My name’s Gamache, I’m with the Sûreté. I have to go. Please look after her until either I return or someone from the Sûreté comes to get her.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You must.” He placed the girl in one of the booths and turned to the worn waitress. “Please.”

She held his eyes for a moment, then gave a curt nod.

“Merci.” Gamache brought out his wallet and gave her all he had. Then he knelt down and held the girl’s dirty face between his large hands. Bringing out his handkerchief, he wiped her face and said quietly, “It’ll be all right. This nice woman will bring you a hot chocolate and something to eat. No one will hurt you.”

He stood up and looked at the waitress. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

She frowned and looked unhappy about all this. But he could see it was an act.

The girl would be safe.

He left, running across the street, dodging traffic, then up St.-André. He’d pulled out his phone and called Jean-Guy.

It rang and rang as he ran.

“Patron—”

“They’ve found the factory. It’s off St.-André, north of Ste.-Catherine. You can track using my signal. And, Jean-Guy, there’s a little girl in that diner we were in, on Ste.-Catherine. Have Lacoste come and get her. Hurry.”

Without waiting for a reply, he clicked back to the map and the pulsing blue dot. And the white dot. On the horizon. Getting closer.

Beauvoir stood up and instinctively put his hand to his hip. And felt his gun there.

“I need to go.”

“But we just broke the code. We’re in.”

By then Cloutier was talking only to Ruth, who continued to scowl. Though she did seem to be seeing something, very far away.

“What do you mean, you’re going out?” demanded Lacoste’s husband.

“And so are you. You need to … drive me.”

While their neighbor looked after the kids, they drove into downtown Montréal.

“I’m not sure this’s safe,” said Isabelle’s husband, glancing around.

“It could be worse,” said Isabelle, staring out the window and wondering about the others.

Amelia was warm. Finally.

The cold that had gotten into her core and gripped her bones was letting go. Thawing.

She felt the heat slowly spreading, radiating out along her arteries and veins.

And she felt her muscles relax. Go limp. It felt … wonderful.

She’d bucked and fought, but they’d pinned her down. Here. In the factory she’d worked so hard to find.

She’d followed the man into the basement of the building and found something she’d only ever seen in class, at the academy. In training footage of raids on labs.

Hundreds of people were working at long tables. They wore protective gear. Masks. Rubber gloves. Smocks. In front of each was a scale, sensitive enough to show micrograms.

“Better stay back,” the man said. “Did you know that the Russians used carfentanil in that hostage taking a few years ago? They pumped it into the air supply, to knock everyone out. But they had no idea what they were dealing with,” he said with a laugh. “Killed most of the hostage takers and hundreds of hostages.”

“All I know is that it’s an elephant tranquilizer,” said Amelia, standing as far back as she could from the long tables and the mounds of white powder.

“It was, but this”—he gestured toward the tables—“is another generation. Evolution. It’s a wonderful thing but can also be a bit confusing. For instance, when this shit fell into our hands a few months ago, we knew what we had but didn’t know how much to put in each hit.”

He spoke matter-of-factly, as though talking about a soup recipe.

“So we experimented. As the release got closer, we began giving it to different people to see what happened.”

Amelia looked down at her arm. Then at him.

“That’s what this means. You wrote it on everyone you experimented on.”

“Yes. The name of the drug, David, and the dosage. You got a quarter gram. Others weren’t so lucky. But now we know the best hit. We don’t want to kill too many of our customers. Of course, if they’re stupid enough to take more than one dose at a time … well. Too dumb to live, I guess. Evolution.”

“You fucker. You gave it to me?”

“You brought it on. Showing up out of nowhere. Asking questions. Beating up my dealers. You didn’t think you could just arrive on the streets and take over? You really thought I’d allow it?” He laughed again, then grew serious. “I know who you really are. Not the one-eyed man. You’re as blind and stupid as the rest of them, Amelia Choquet. Cadet in the Sûreté Academy.”

“Former. I was kicked out.”

“Mmm, yes. Trafficking. And yet instead of arresting you, they just threw you out? Now, why was that?”

“Why do you think? Oh, wait a minute. You think this’s a setup? Yes, that makes sense, you dumb turd. That way I could get kicked out, move into a shithole with a junkie, and freeze my ass off. I’m living the dream. You think you’re so clever. But we both know that this”—she nodded toward the long tables—“fell into your lap. And you’re going to need help keeping it. Once this hits the streets, every dirty cop, every mob boss, every gang member, every wannabe cartel chief will be after you. You’re right. I’m not the one-eyed man. I have two good eyes, and what I see is you gutted in some alley. You need me.”

He was nodding. And then he looked past her and raised his brows.

Hands gripped her shoulders, and she was dragged backward onto the floor.

She fought, at one point thinking she’d broken free, but then a blow knocked her down and almost out. Dazed, she was turned onto her back, so that she was staring into his eyes.

“I don’t think so,” the man whispered, kneeling over her. “You’re too dangerous. You betray everyone and everything, and eventually you’d betray me.”

He stood up and nodded to someone. “Do it. Then toss her out.”

Amelia bucked and fought and shouted. And felt the needle go in.

Then felt the warmth. Then it got hotter and hotter. Until it began to burn. Until her blood felt like it had turned to lava.

She opened her mouth to scream, but her eyes just rolled to the back of her head. Then turned red.

Gamache found the agents, their weapons drawn.

They gestured toward a door where two well-armed guards stood.

Then the agents pointed up. More guards stood on a fire escape and on the roofs of surrounding buildings.

Gamache gave a curt nod, then carefully backed down the alley. He turned, only to find the tactical commander and his assault team.

“Two out front,” Gamache whispered. “Two on the fire escape opposite and three on the roofs.”

He gestured, and the commander nodded.

“Got it.” He handed Gamache a mask. “Do you have a weapon?”

“No,” said Gamache.

“I might get shit for doing this, but—”

He pressed an automatic into Gamache’s hand.

“Merci.”

“Let us go in first.”

“Of course.”

The commander signaled behind him. Weapons were raised, and with a few rapid silenced shots the guards dropped.

Gamache was about to move forward, right behind the commander, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

It was Beauvoir, his own gun drawn.

“Patron,” Jean-Guy whispered.

“Lacoste?”

“On her way to the girl.”

As he spoke, his sharp eyes were on the door, with the tactical team pouring through.

He started to move forward, but Gamache stopped him. “Amelia Choquet’s in there.”

“So she did lead you to the stuff,” said Beauvoir. “Fucking junkie. What did I—”

“She’s with us. She’s following my orders. We have to find her. Here.” He handed Jean-Guy the mask. “Put this on.”

The fight was brutal.

The tactical team arrived in force and didn’t hesitate to use that force, firing on the armed guards with precision.

They moved swiftly through the lab, the first wave targeting those with weapons, the next wave of armed officers shoving workers away from the tables. Pushing them against the wall. Frisking those who complied. Subduing those who did not.

Beauvoir, gas mask on, went through ahead of Gamache and almost fell over the body.

He gestured to Gamache to back out, and, grabbing the collar of Amelia’s coat, he dragged her back through the door. Away from any drug that might be floating in the air. Kicked up by the attack.

Once out the door, Beauvoir ripped off his mask and knelt by Gamache, who was on his knees beside Amelia.

Beauvoir kept his gun trained on the open door as automatic fire burst out. Ignoring it, Gamache wasted no time feeling for a pulse. He pulled the syringe from his pocket and plunged it into Amelia.

Her eyes were open. Glassy. Red. As though possessed.

Only then did he feel for a pulse as Beauvoir, still focused on the open door, called for medics.

“How is she?”

“No pulse.”

Gamache tore open her coat as bullets hit the bricks above them. Beauvoir ducked, instinctively, but Gamache kept on with the compressions. Counting. Under his breath, his face fixed, his focus complete. Ignoring the gunshots all around.

“Three. Four. Five.”

Beauvoir sensed movement through the door into the lab at the same moment he heard a click. Turning quickly, he saw the gun rising. Pointing at them.

A young guy held the weapon like an expert.

But Beauvoir was more expert. He fired. Three quick shots. Boom, boom, boom. And the man dropped.

When the ringing from the shots stopped bouncing off the walls, he heard Gamache beside him, still counting. Not losing a beat.

“Twenty-nine. Thirty.”

The medics arrived.

Gamache bent lower and gave Amelia two breaths.

“Carfentanil,” he said, continuing the compressions while Beauvoir watched the door into the lab and counted for him.

“Seven. Eight. Nine.”

“I gave her the antagonist,” said Gamache as he rocked back and forth, keeping the rhythm of the compressions.

“Which one?” asked the medic, kneeling beside him and preparing the defibrillator.

“Naltrexone. Less than a minute ago.”

“Okay,” said the medic. “Step aside.”

Gamache did, watching as the medics worked on Amelia. And other medics moved forward into the factory. To care for the wounded. Even as the shots continued. And more wounded were made.

Gamache looked over at Jean-Guy, who was now kneeling beside the young man he’d shot. And killed.