Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(39)

Gamache nodded thoughtfully, and took a long, deep breath. “He’s right. In part. The situation as it stands is untenable, unwinnable. As I said in the meeting, the war on drugs is lost. So what do we do?”

Toussaint shook her head.

“Think,” he said, intense.

And she did. What to do when your position was unwinnable?

You either give up, or—

“We change.”

He smiled. And nodded. “We change. But not slightly. We need a radical change, and that, unfortunately, cannot come from the old guard. It needs bold, creative new minds. And brave hearts.”

“But you’re—”

She stopped herself just in time. Or perhaps, not quite in time.

Chief Superintendent Gamache looked at her with amusement.

“Old?”

“Er.”

“Er?” he asked.

“Older,” she said. “Désolé.”

“Don’t be. It’s true. But someone has to be in charge. Someone has to be expendable.”

Madeleine Toussaint knew then that her husband might’ve been right about many things, but he’d been wrong about one. She was not the goat tethered to the ground. To draw the predators.

Gamache was.

“We have a great advantage, Superintendent,” said Gamache, his voice crisp and businesslike again. “Several actually. Our predecessors spent most of their energy on breaking their own laws and covering up. They also spent much of their time on internecine wars. Firing at each other, sometimes literally. Crime got out of control, partly because the attention of the top S?reté officers was on their own corruption, and partly because the cartels paid good money for blind eyes.”

“They blinded their own eyes,” said Toussaint. “For money and power.”

“Yes. Very Greek.” But he didn’t look amused. And she wondered if that was a joke or if he really did see it as an ancient tragedy playing out in modern-day Québec.

“And now?” she asked.

“You said it yourself. We change. Everything. While appearing to change nothing.” He looked at her, studying her. “The only reason we police as we do is because someone a century ago organized us this way. But what worked then doesn’t work now. You’re young. Use that to your advantage. Our adversaries are expecting the same old tactics.”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. But it was filled with energy, awe even.

“Reinvent, Madeleine. Make it new and bold. Now’s our chance. While no one thinks we can do it. While no one’s looking. Your husband isn’t alone. Everyone thinks that the S?reté is irreparably damaged. Not just in reputation, but that there’s rot. And the whole thing is teetering. And you know what? They’re right. So we can either spend our time and energy and resources propping up a mortally damaged institution, or we can begin again.”

“And what do we do?” she asked, swept up in his excitement.

He leaned back. “I don’t know.”

She felt herself deflate, but only slightly. Part of her was pleased to hear it. It meant she could contribute rather than just implement.

“I need ideas,” Gamache said. “From you. From the others. I’ve been thinking about it.”

He’d spent many autumn mornings and evenings, Henri and Gracie at his feet, sitting on the bench above Three Pines. The one inscribed Surprised by Joy and, above that, A Brave Man in a Brave Country.

He’d looked at the tiny village, going about its life, and then beyond that, the mountains and forest and ribbon of golden river. And he’d thought. And he’d thought.

He’d turned down the job of Chief Superintendent of the S?reté, Québec’s top cop, twice. Partly because he didn’t want to be the one on the bridge when a ship he’d once so admired went down. And he couldn’t see any way to save it.

But the third time he was asked, he again took himself up to the bench, and he thought. About the corruption. The damage done.

He thought about the S?reté Academy and the young recruits. He thought about a life of peace. Of quiet. Here in Three Pines. Off the map. Off the radar.

Safe.

Reine-Marie had often joined him. They’d sit side by side, quietly. Until one evening, she’d spoken.

“I was just thinking about Odysseus,” she’d said.

“Oddly”—he turned to her—“I was not.”

She’d laughed. “I was thinking about his retirement.”

“Odysseus retired?”

“He did. As an old man he was tired. Of war. He was even tired of the sea. And so he took an oar and walked into the woods. He walked and walked, until he found a people who had no idea what an oar was. And there he made his home. Where no one would know the name Odysseus. Where no one would have heard of the Trojan War. Where he could live out his life anonymously. In peace.”

Armand had sat very still and very silent for a long time, looking at Three Pines.

And then he’d gotten up, and returned home. And made a phone call.

Odysseus’s battle was done. His war won.

Gamache’s wasn’t yet won. Or lost. There was at least one more battle.

And now here he was in a bistro in Old Montréal with a very young superintendent, talking about ships.