“Ridiculous,” said the ornery member. “What would Champlain be doing buried under the Old Homestead? We all know he was either buried in the chapel, which burned, or in the cemetery, not hundreds of yards away in a field.”
“Champlain was a Huguenot,” said Émile, his voice barely audible. “A Protestant.” He held out the book. A bible.
“But that’s impossible,” snapped Jean. There was a hubbub of agreement. Hands snatched at the bible and the uproar subsided as it made the rounds and the men saw the evidence.
Samuel de Champlain, inscribed in ink. The date, 1578.
It was an original Huguenot bible, a rare find. Most had been destroyed in the various Inquisitions, burned along with their owners. It was a dangerous book, to the church and to whoever possessed it.
Champlain must have been a devout man indeed to have kept such a thing, and to have been buried with it.
The room was quiet, just the mumbling and crackling of the fire. Gamache took the bible back and replacing it in his satchel along with Chiniquy’s journal he said, “Excusez-moi,” to the group lost in their own thoughts, and left the room.
Outside he took the call and noticed there’d been twenty-seven calls from a variety of people. Reine-Marie, his son Daniel and daughter Annie. From Superintendents Brunel and Francoeur and Agent Isabelle Lacoste. From various friends and colleagues, and from Jean-Guy Beauvoir whose call was now coming in.
“Bonjour, Jean-Guy. What’s happened?”
“Chief, where’ve you been?”
“In a meeting, what’s going on?”
“There’s a video, gone viral on the Internet. I just heard about it from Peter Morrow, then Lacoste called and a few friends. More calls are coming in. I haven’t seen it yet.”
“What is it?” But even as he asked he could guess, and felt a sickening feeling in his stomach.
“It’s from the tapes, the ones recorded at the raid.”
Everyone had worn tiny cameras integrated into their headsets, to record what happened. Investigators had long realized a verbal debrief wasn’t enough. Even well-intentioned cops would forget details, especially in the heat of the moment, and if things went badly, as they often did, cops could stop being “well intentioned” and start lying.
This made lying harder, though not impossible.
Each camera showed what each officer saw, and what each officer did, and what each officer said. And, like any film, it could be edited.
“Chief?” Beauvoir asked.
“I see.” He felt like Beauvoir sounded. Upset, suddenly exhausted, bewildered that anyone would do this and that anyone would want to see such a thing. It was a violation, especially for the families. His officers’ families.
“I’ll call,” he said.
“I can, if you’d like.”
“No, merci. I’ll do it.”
“Who would do this?” Beauvoir asked. “Who even has access to the tapes?”
Gamache lowered his head. Was it possible?
He’d been told there were three gunmen. But there’d been more, many more. Gamache had assumed it was a mistake. Dreadful, but unintentional.
He’d doubled the number of suspects, and assumed instead of three there were six.
Knowing that to be on the safe side.
He’d been wrong.
He’d brought six agents with him. Chosen them. Handpicked. And he’d brought Inspector Beauvoir. But not Agent Yvette Nichol. She’d stood there, her tactical vest already on. Her pistol on her belt. Her eyes keen. She would go with them into the factory. The place she’d found by following the sounds. By listening more closely than she’d ever listened in her life.
To the trains. To their frequency. To their cadence. Freight trains. A passenger train. A plane overhead. A hoot in the background. A factory.
And whispers. Ghosts in the background.
Three of them, she’d said.
With Inspector Beauvoir’s furious help they’d narrowed and narrowed. Winnowed, whittled. Pored over train timetables, over flight paths, over factories old enough to still use whistles.
Until they knew where Agent Paul Morin was being held.
But there was another goal. The La Grande dam. To save the young agent would be to alert the suspects that their plot against the dam had been discovered. And if they realized that they might destroy it right away, before the tactical squad could be moved into place.
No. A choice had to be made. A decision had to be made.
Gamache could see Agent Nichol standing by the door. Ready. And her rage when told his decision.
