Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(85)

“Where we expected?”

“Exactly there,” said Beauvoir. “Our informants watched it.”

“And the DEA?”

“Know nothing about it. We’ve lost track of it now. As per your instructions.”

Jean-Guy had no idea why he’d said that last bit, except an infantile desire to cause pain. To drill home what this man had done, which was so much worse, surely, than anything he himself had done.

Beauvoir had thought he was beyond the childish lashing out, but apparently not. It was back, and rested, and more powerful than ever. He braced for the counterattack, hoping for some brutal response. That would justify his own attack.

He waited for the clever, cleaver word.

But there was silence.

A look, thought Beauvoir. Prayed Beauvoir. A smug little assassin glance. Something. Anything. But there was nothing. Just eyes that were thoughtful, almost gentle.

“We expected that,” Beauvoir continued. “But there was something unexpected.”

“Go on,” said Gamache.

“They didn’t take it all with them. They left some fentanyl behind. To sell here.”

Now there was a reaction. Chief Superintendent Gamache’s eyes widened.

“How much?”

“At least ten kilos. We’ve lost track of that as well.”

Don’t say it, Beauvoir warned himself. No need to say it.

“Of course.” He said it.

Gamache tensed and there was a quiet intake of breath, as another thrust hit home.

“Of course,” he whispered. And slowly lowered himself to the spectator’s bench.

He sat there and did the calculations. According to the report he’d commissioned, there were at best fifty deaths per kilo of fentanyl. It wasn’t difficult to do the math.

Seventy kilos of fentanyl now in the United States.

More than three thousand deaths.

And in Québec? Five hundred people alive today who would die. Because of what he’d decided to do. Or not do. And there could be many, many more. Deaths that Armand Gamache had just sanctioned.

“Monsieur,” the clerk called.

Gamache turned to look at him, and the man’s expression changed instantly. From officious to afraid. Not of Gamache, but of what he saw in the Chief Superintendent’s face.

Zalmanowitz saw it too, and guessed what Gamache was being told.

And felt both sick and elated. Relieved and appalled. Something had changed. Something had happened.

Could it be that their plan was working? God help them.

“Merci.” Gamache got up. “I have to go. The judge wants to see Monsieur Zalmanowitz and me. It shouldn’t take long.”

Beauvoir could guess what it was about.

“There’s more,” he said.

“Oui?”

“A small shipment of a new drug is sitting in a warehouse at Mirabel. It was flown in two days ago in a load of nesting dolls.”

He took the paper out of his pocket and handed it to Gamache, who put on his reading glasses.

“The same cartel?” Gamache asked, without looking up.

“Oui.”

The chief still wore his suit jacket, and Beauvoir could see that the white shirt beneath it was soaked through with perspiration.

“Chlorocodide?” Gamache read, then looked up, meeting Beauvoir’s eyes.

“Codeine derivative. Popular in Russia but not, as far as we know, over here yet. This would be the first. It’s known on the street as krokodil. Very potent, very toxic.”

“And it’s just sitting there?” asked Gamache. “For two days, you say?”

“Oui.”

“Two days,” Gamache said softly, under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he focused on some distant target. “Could it be?”

Then, as Beauvoir watched, Chief Superintendent Gamache closed his eyes. And dropped his head. His shoulders sagging. With a new burden? Or was it relief?

He put out an unsteady hand, touching the bench in front of him, to steady himself. Jean-Guy Beauvoir thought, just for an instant, that he might be about to pass out. From heat. From stress. From smoke inhalation.

There was a long exhale from Gamache that sounded like, “Ohhhh.”

Then his hand closed into a fist, crushing the paper. And he looked up.

“I have to see the judge,” he said, removing his glasses and drawing a handkerchief across his eyes. To wipe away the sweat, thought Beauvoir. “I’ll text you when I’m out. Convene a meeting in the conference room.”

“Who with?”

“Everyone.” Gamache handed the paper back to Beauvoir, then he stepped toward Zalmanowitz and the clerk. But stopped and considered Beauvoir for a moment. “You know what that means?”

He pointed to the paper in Beauvoir’s hand.

“It means we have a chance.”

Beauvoir felt the familiar flutter in his chest and rush of adrenaline.

Gamache gave a curt nod. “We’ll know soon.”

Then he headed toward the door held open by the clerk.

“Patron,” said Beauvoir.

But it was too soft, and Gamache was too far away. And it was, Jean-Guy knew, probably too late.

*

Judge Corriveau leaned back in her chair and looked at the two men.

She’d spent the past few minutes alone in her chambers and, after rubbing her armpits with a cold washcloth and throwing water on her face, she tried to work out a strategy.