Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(69)

It was impossible to hide her disgust.

“We just stepped aside. Didn’t even warn the Americans. Oh, but I didn’t tell you. The dealers were generous enough to leave several kilos behind. For local consumption. We’ve also lost track of that.”

“Merde.”

He did the calculation. The internal S?reté research ordered by Gamache at the outset, so they’d all go into this with a clear understanding of the consequences, estimated that six people died for every kilo of cocaine that hit the streets. Even more for heroin.

Way more for fentanyl.

In doing nothing, they’d just killed hundreds. Perhaps thousands.

More bombs on Coventry.

“You know what that meeting was about?” She waved toward the now empty chairs around the table. “They don’t know about the shipment, but they do know that there’ve been no significant arrests for trafficking in almost a year. They’re apoplectic, and I don’t blame them. Fortunately you arrived before I had to come up with some sort of near-reasonable explanation. But I’ll tell you, Jean-Guy, there’re rumors. You’ve probably heard them.”

“I have.”

“They want to believe in Gamache. They want to trust him. But he isn’t making it easy. And it’s not just Gamache, it’s all of us. Every superintendent, every chief inspector, is facing a possible revolt. A mutiny. You think this’s funny?” she asked, on seeing his face.

“Just the word. I was imagining you with a peg leg and a parrot.”

“Those’re the mutineers. I’m the one set adrift in the Pacific, drinking my own piss and eating cuticles for dinner.” She held up her hands for him to see her cuticles, which were in fact nibbled. “There’ve been no significant arrests in my division in months. None. Apparently there are no more serious crimes. Most of my agents have been reassigned to community policing or prevention—”

“All important.”

“Agreed. But not at the expense of ignoring actual crime. It’s like telling doctors to hand out vitamin pills and forget about treating cancer. You and I know what we’re actually doing. You and I know why we’re doing it. But they don’t. As far as the rank and file can tell, we’re sitting around with our thumbs up our asses. And that’s what our supporters are saying. If Gamache knew half of what the agents and inspectors think—”

Beauvoir gave a gruff laugh. “You think he doesn’t know? Of course he does. He knows perfectly well what they’re saying, and why.” Jean-Guy leaned toward her and lowered his voice, forcing her to meet him halfway. “He was very clear. He warned us. And we all jumped on board, all excited, all pumped up at the thought of breaking the major drug ring in Québec with one shattering blow. Winning not just a skirmish here and there, or even a battle, but the war. But he warned us. There’d be hell to pay. And now that hell’s here, and the bill’s due, you’re complaining?”

Toussaint squirmed a little in her chair. “They won’t follow him forever, you know. We’re running out of time.”

“They won’t or you won’t?”

“There are limits.”

“Do you want out?”

The two glared at each other. Madeleine Toussaint outranked Jean-Guy Beauvoir. But that was more a consequence of his choice rather than his competence.

In private they treated each other as what they were. Equals.

“How do we just sit by, Jean-Guy?” she asked, softening her voice. “It goes against all my instincts, all my training. How do we just let people die, when we can save them?”

“I know,” he said. “I feel it too. But if we’re successful…”

“Yes, yes, I know all that. That’s what got us to support this plan. But…?”

“What happens if we fail?” said Beauvoir. She nodded. “Then we fail. But at least we tried.”

“You’re not rallying the troops now, Jean-Guy. It’s me you’re talking to. I’ve been in the trenches too long to be mollified.”

“All right, I’ll tell you what’ll happen. In Chief Superintendent Gamache’s desk there’s a notebook. And in it he’s written, longhand, exactly what he sees happening, if this fails. Do you want to go look?”

“He’s told us,” she said. “He outlined it that first day, at that first meeting. The risks and rewards.”

“True, and what he said was accurate, at the time. But it was a forecast. A best guess. But things have become clearer, as the weeks and months have gone on.”

“It’s worse than we thought?” She clearly didn’t want to ask, but did anyway.

“As we’ve appeared weaker, organized crime, gangs, traffickers have grown stronger. Bolder.”

“Which is what we’re counting on.”

“Oui. So they’ll also grow reckless. That’s the crack we’ve been looking for.”

“So to speak,” she said, and actually smiled.

He did not. Instead, his handsome, haggard face grew even more serious.

“It’ll be even worse than anyone thought, Madeleine. If we fail. This will be the second catastrophe to hit the S?reté, and by association the government of Québec, in rapid succession. First the corruption scandal, and now what would appear to be complete incompetence—”