Page 16 of The Grey Wolf
“Madame Gamache?”
“Non.”
It was warm and Armand was in a suit and tie. He was tempted to take off his jacket, but decided to just loosen his tie and undo the top button of his white shirt.
At seven minutes past four a man walked through the door, looked around, then, fixing on Gamache, approached.
He wore a hoodie, with the hood up, on this warm afternoon. His hands were in the bulging front pouch of the sweatshirt. He was stocky and walked with the rolling, wary gait of a boxer approaching an adversary.
This was not the man from the video. Armand felt a sudden jab of concern, bordering on fear.
Was it a setup after all?
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lacoste get up. In a flash he took in the customers, including an elderly man and his granddaughter, standing between Lacoste and the man, who was getting closer. They were in her line of sight. Line of fire.
Gamache gave a subtle gesture to Lacoste to hold where she was. He could see her hand on her hip, resting on the concealed weapon. Ready. The other agents had also stood up. The grandfather, sensing something, was looking around and instinctively reached for the little girl.
Agents were stepping forward, trying to get around the clog of people at the bar who were ordering coffees and pastries and just becoming aware that something unusual was happening.
Those staring at the TV and unaware burst into cheers as Italy scored a decades-old goal.
Gamache had an imperfect view of his people, which meant they had an imperfect view of him and the stranger approaching. If the man pulled a gun, they’d have no clear shot.
The grandfather placed his large hand on the girl’s shoulder and guided her so that she stood behind him.
All this happened quickly, as these things did. Within a second or two.
“May I?” The man indicated the chair.
“I’m actually expecting someone,” said Gamache, tense, his palms flat under the table, prepared to push it over, into the newcomer. And then leap. Perhaps avoiding a shot, perhaps not, but at least knocking the gunman to the floor and giving his agents time to swarm.
“You’re expecting me.” The man swept the hoodie off and sat.
His face, close-up, was ruddy, worn by the sun and wind. This manspent a lot of time outdoors. He was, Gamache estimated, in his mid- to late twenties. No piercings or tattoos that he could see. Hair cut short. His eyes alert, clear. More grey than blue, but perhaps they were the sort that changed with clothing.
“Can you place your hands on the table, please?” Gamache asked, even as he moved his own to grip the edges. To shove the table forward if…
The man looked a little surprised but complied. He splayed his fingers. They were strong, and oddly sensitive, Gamache thought. More those of a pianist than a boxer. While tanned, his hands were not calloused. His cuticles and nails were nibbled and torn.
With the removal of his hands, the pouch at the front of his grey sweatshirt flattened. No weapon there.
And with that, it was over. The tension drained from the room almost as quickly as it had appeared. Though the agents remained standing, staring. Their eyes in target-acquisition mode.
The grandfather was still protecting his granddaughter. He followed the stares of those around him, into the corner where a large man sat gripping the table. And then he saw the man release the table and fold his hands together in front of him.
And the elderly man’s face relaxed into a smile. He lifted his protective hand from his granddaughter’s thin body.
“What is it?” she asked, picking up on the tension and then the lack of it.
“Rien,” he said with relief. Nothing. Bending down, he pointed to the man sitting at the back of the café and whispered to her. The girl turned to look, her eyes wide. The first famous person she’d ever seen.
The grandfather was now completely relaxed, believing if Chief Inspector Gamache was there, they’d be safe.
He was, as it turned out, wrong.
“You’re not the same person who dropped the package at my office.”
“Do I look stupid?”
