Page 198 of The Grey Wolf
“It’s worse than you know, Armand. You obviously didn’t realize that we could only get enough of the neurotoxin for one cylinder, so we decided to focus on Pump One. This one”—he gestured toward the partly open door—“was going to get brucellosis. Nasty stuff, but not as lethal as…” He looked at the container, which the man was holding away from his body as though that would protect him should it leak.
“You closed down Pump One. Clever. And even locked it so no onecould get in or out. Also smart. But what wasn’t so smart was bringing the botulinum with you. For safekeeping. You will go to your maker knowing instead of preventing a catastrophe, you’ve caused one. You brought the poison straight to us.”
“Why?” said Armand. He’d given up playing for time. Time was up.
“Why would I do this? If you knew what happens next, you wouldn’t need to ask.” He watched as the heavy metal door to Pump Two closed behind the gunman. “Hard to believe something that small will kill so many. But then, a 9-millimeter bullet will kill a, what? Six-foot man?”
Gamache was straining to hear, not his words, which washed over him, but the sound of the turbines slowing. The sound that would tell him Beauvoir had succeeded.
But there was no change.
“What do we do about them?” Manon pointed at the men and women sprawled on the floor.
At least one, maybe more, was among the plotters. They only knew about the senior engineer. Beauvoir had bound and gagged them all. In case.
“Leave them.” Another blast of gunfire and the door finally gave way. With one last glance at the monitor, at Armand on his knees, Jean-Guy shouted, “Come on!”
Was Jean-Guy still alive? Armand was beginning to doubt it. If he was, the turbines would be slowing down by now.
He thought of Annie. Of Honoré and Idola.Désolé. Désolé.
And why hadn’t they killed him yet? What were they waiting for? He had his answer within seconds.
“Where did you hide them?”
“What?”
“Langlois’s notebooks,” he shouted, his words rising above the roar of the water.
Armand remained silent, staring ahead. It was a shame, he thought, that the last thing he’d see were the wordsPump Two. It was also a shame that that was one of his last thoughts.
But no. He didn’t have many options left, but he did have one.
As David Lavigne shouted at him, he conjured up the backyard in early evening in the height of summer. Sitting with Reine-Marie. Listening to the rustle in the woods as a chipmunk scurried or a deer strolled by. On its own way home.
As he took Reine-Marie’s hand, he heard birdsong and the unruly cicadas, their call comforting now.
And all around them fireflies danced.
How lucky he’d been. To be of a generation that believed it would last forever. The forests and clean rivers, the fresh air.
His was the last generation, as it turned out.
He was, he also knew, of the generation that was responsible for its murder.
His head was forced forward by a huge hand so that his chin was practically on his chest. And the muzzle pressed more firmly against his skull, and he felt a stab of panic. Of disbelief. He was about to die.
He took a deep breath and smelled old garden rose and the musky scent of the forest.
He thought of the woman in Chicoutimi and the man in Gaspé. And how terrified they must have been. He at least knew why he was about to be executed.
He wondered if that made it easier. Perhaps.
“It’s done.” The word was heavily accented. Russian. Of course they’d hire Russian mercenaries. They’d want the witnesses to testify that it was foreign terrorists who’d done this. Not domestic.
“The notebooks. Where are they?”
When he refused to talk, Lavigne leaned closer. “I will go to your peaceful little village, Armand, and tear it apart. And then I will burn it down, along with everyone in it. Starting with Reine-Marie. Then Annie. Daniel. Florence—”
