“I can’t stop him,” said Lambert. “Not until I find out where he is, where he’s coming from.”
Francoeur watched, powerless, as file after file was opened, tossed aside, and the intruder moved on. Ransacking, then racing ahead.
He looked at the clock. Almost ten in the morning. Almost there.
But so was the intruder.
And then, suddenly, the frantic online search stopped. The cursor throbbed on the screen, as though frozen there.
“Christ,” said Francoeur, his eyes wide.
* * *
Gamache and Thérèse stared at the screen. At the name that had come up. Buried at the deepest level. Below the legitimate dossiers. Below the doctored documents. Below the fixed and the fraud. Below the thick layer of merde. There was a name.
Chief Inspector Gamache turned to Jérôme Brunel, who also stared at the screen. Not with the astonishment his wife and his friend felt. But with another overwhelming emotion.
Guilt.
“You knew,” whispered Gamache, barely able to speak.
The blood had gone from Jérôme’s face and his breathing was shallow. His lips were almost white.
He knew. Had known for days. Since he’d tripped the alarm that had sent them into hiding. He’d brought this secret with him to Three Pines. Lugged the name around with him, from the schoolhouse to the bistro to bed.
“I knew.” The words were barely audible, but they filled the room.
“Jérôme?” asked Thérèse, not sure what was the greater shock. What they’d found, or what they’d found out about her husband.
“I’m sorry,” he said. With an effort he pushed his chair back and it squealed on the wooden floor, like chalk on a blackboard. “I should’ve told you.”
He looked into their faces and knew those words didn’t come close to describing what he should have done. And hadn’t. But their gaze had shifted from him back to the terminal, and the cursor blinking in front of the name.
Georges Renard. The Premier of Québec.
* * *
“They know,” said Francoeur. He was on the phone to his boss and had told him everything. “We have to move ahead with the plan. Now.”
There was a pause before Georges Renard spoke.
“We can’t move ahead,” he said at last. His voice was calm. “Your part isn’t the only element, you know. If Gamache is that close, then stop him.”
“We’re still working to find the intruder,” said Francoeur, trying to bring his own voice, and breathing, under control. To sound both persuasive and reasonable.
“The intruder isn’t critical anymore, Sylvain. He’s obviously working with Gamache. Feeding him the information. If the Chief Inspector’s the only one who can put it all together, then ignore the intruder and go after him. Plenty of time later to deal with the others. You said he’s in some village in the Eastern Townships?”
“Three Pines, yes.”
“Get him.”
* * *
“How long before they find us?” Gamache asked as he walked toward the door. Gilles brought his chair down as the Chief approached, so that the front legs thumped onto the floor. He stood up and pulled the chair aside.
“An hour, maybe two,” said Jérôme. “Armand…”
“I know, Jérôme.” Gamache took his coat off the peg by the door. “None of us is blameless in this. I doubt it would have mattered. We have to focus now, and move forward.”
“Should we leave?” Thérèse asked, watching as Gamache put on his coat.
“There’s nowhere to go.”
He spoke gently, but firmly, so that they could harbor no false hope. If there was a stand to be taken, it would have to be here.
“We now know who’s involved,” said the Chief. “But we still don’t know what they have planned.”
“You think it’s more than covering up hundreds of millions of dollars in graft?” asked Thérèse.
“I do,” said Gamache. “That’s a happy by-product. Something to keep their partners quiet. But the real goal is something else. Something they’ve been working on for years. It started with Pierre Arnot and ends with the Premier.”
“We’ll see what we can find on Renard,” said Jérôme.
“No. Leave Renard,” said Gamache. “The key now is Audrey Villeneuve. She found something and was killed. Find out everything you can about her. Where she worked, what she was working on. What she might’ve found.”
