Page 192 of The Grey Wolf
This was burning time they didn’t have. If Gamache got to thepump before they got to the control room… and the red lights went on… and they saw in the monitors what was happening…
“Do you know who’s on duty in the command center?”
“Lavoie.”
“Oh, good. He might let us in.” Again she lowered her voice. “I hope not. I just want to get this over with and put him on the flight back to Gaspé. It’s almost shift change. You getting ready to go home?”
“Twenty minutes to go,” said the man. “Then I’m off for a week.”
“Have fun,” said Manon, moving away.
“You too,” the man said, with a sympathetic smile. “By the way, the men’s toilet on the third floor is blocked.”
Gamache got to the bottom of the stairs, and opening the door he came face-to-face with a guard holding an assault rifle.
Both were startled, but Gamache reacted more quickly.
The man was just swinging his rifle around when Gamache slugged him on the side of the head with his own gun. Grabbing the now unconscious man, he dragged him into the stairwell, and after quickly patting him down, he zip-tied the man’s hands to the railing and picked up his assault rifle. Far from standard issue for security.
This was no guard.
He yanked the door open, expecting to meet resistance. What he met was a wall of near-deafening noise.
Water was roaring by on either side of the long, wide corridor. Great torrents from the St. Lawrence were being filtered through sand before entering the pump room and being sent into homes and hotels and offices and schools and hospitals in Montréal.
There was no place to hide now, no time to hide. As he ran, Gamache took the clip off the rifle and tossed it into one of the rushing rivers, then threw the rifle into the other.
He got to Pump One in less than twenty seconds. Not wasting time to see if anyone was descending on him, he brought out Manon Lagacé’s ID card and tapped.
Nothing.
He tried again. Nothing.
It was like at the grocery store when his credit card refused to work and other patrons were staring at him. Annoyed.
But this was far more than an annoyance.
He was about to try one more time when he remembered her instructions. Place, don’t tap. He pressed the card against the screen and heard a clunk.
The metal door opened.
The man dressed as a guard and standing by the door turned, stared. He reached for his holster, but by then Gamache had his gun in the man’s face.
“What the fuck—”
“Drop your weapon. Hands where I can see them.”
The man did.
Gamache scanned the room. Five people, all in white smocks, were turning to look. Their eyes widening. And Armand realized they must think he was the saboteur. Which meant the terrorists hadn’t yet made their move. But it also meant it was impossible for him to tell who was who.
He realized it didn’t matter. He had to assume they were all guilty.
“Everyone, on the floor. Phones out, slide them here. Hands on top of your heads.” He patted the guard down. Nothing in his pockets, not even ID. This was a pro.
He zip-tied his hands and picked up the dropped weapon, shoving it in his belt before moving quickly to the control panel by the huge pump.
“What the hell are you doing?” one of the workers shouted. But got no answer.
