Page 112 of The Grey Wolf
“That’s possible, Armand. I’m just beginning to look into her. I don’t want to trip any alarms.”
That reminded Gamache of his other reason for checking in with the deputy commissioner of the RCMP.
“There are six water-treatment plants in Montréal. I need to knowwhich one is the most likely target, and who has the ability to get into the control systems.”
“Well, I can tell you that. Any good hacker could do it. If it can be designed, it can be hacked.”
“Names, I need names. One more thing. Are you aware that approval has been given for the sale of some key resource-based industries in Québec to American corporations?”
“That’s impossible. According to federal law, controlling interest needs to remain in Canadian hands.”
“Well, I think Charles Langlois uncovered proof that some significant exceptions have been made in the last few months. Could this be done without GAC knowledge?”
There was silence down the line as David Lavigne thought.
“I guess it could. GAC’s a consultative committee, not policy-making. Our main focus is anti-terrorism.”
“But it would need the Deputy Prime Minister’s approval.”
“Oui.”
While Jean-Guy rushed to the airport to get on the next flight to Washington, and Lacoste was over the Atlantic, on her way to Rome, Chief Inspector Gamache once again stood before the young priest at the diocesan headquarters.
“Désolé, mon père.I’m a few minutes late.”
“That’s okay. The Archbishop is looking forward to seeing you. Did you know that you’ve met before?”
“Yes. I remember.”
It was never far from his mind. When Archbishop Fleury had officiated at the funerals of Gamache’s agents, killed in the raid on the factory.
Gamache himself had been badly wounded, and Jean-Guy even worse. Both had survived, and Armand had even managed to make the funerals. He was determined to walk at the head of the cortège as it wound in slow march through the city. He only faltered, slightly, on the last few steps up to the cathedral.
Once inside, the congregation stood with a rumble that echoedaround the huge open space. And then there was silence. Complete and utter silence.
Chief Inspector Gamache, in full dress uniform, paused at the entrance, all eyes on him as he removed his hat and looked down the endless aisle. And wondered how he’d make it. But then he thought of his agents. Those dead. The suffering of the wounded. And the families.
He took a deep, ragged breath and gathered himself. His left hand clutching his hat, his right hand trembling, Armand Gamache managed a genuflect. As he did, Isabelle Lacoste moved to stand slightly behind him. At the ready.
Just in case.
Then, straightening up fully, Armand Gamache stepped forward to lead those young agents, in caskets behind him, one last time.
Yes, he remembered.
The actual meeting with the Archbishop had been brief. A handshake at the end of the funeral. But the more significant, the more intimate, had not been a meeting at all.
As Armand Gamache had started down the long. Long. Endless. Aisle. With the coffins behind him, followed by his officers in the homicide division, and behind them representatives from forces provincial, national, and international, he’d locked eyes with Archbishop Fleury. Waiting at the front. Watching.
The two men held each other’s stare, and Armand had the sense that the Archbishop was willing him forward. Supporting him in that agonizing journey to the altar.
Armand did not break step, did not break that stare, until he was in his place at the front, gripping the pew for support as the flag-draped coffins with the bodies of the young agents he’d mentored, led into that factory, and held as they’d died were placed on the dais. The silence was broken then. The cathedral was filled with the sobs of their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Wives and husbands and partners and children.
Only afterward, when he’d seen a photo in the newspaper, did he realize his face was wet with perspiration. Or tears.
“Chief Inspector.” Archbishop Fleury’s voice brought Gamache back to the present.
“Your Grace.”
