Page 64 of The Grey Wolf
“It’s the same woman, isn’t it? Jeanne Caron. The Chief of Staff to the Deputy Prime Minister of Canada.”
Armand nodded.
“Fucking hell.”
Gamache didn’t disagree.
“And she’s involved?”
“Up to her neck,” said Gamache.
“You obviously know her.”
Armand knew this would come up and had weighed what he would say. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jean-Guy with the truth. He trusted him with his life. But the truth involved Daniel, and that was the problem. He’d betrayed his son once, and Daniel would see this, rightly so, as yet another.
Before he could say anything, the door opened again. Both men turned around to see Isabelle Lacoste shaking water off her coat. Her hair was plastered to her skull, and strands, whipped by the wind, stuck to her cheeks.
“Jesus, Chief. Couldn’t you have been in the bistro?”
The little chapel had become damp and chilly, and even with the overhead light on, it was dark. And now smelled of wet wool.
Isabelle sat in the pew in front of them and leaned over the back to talk.
“Thank you for inviting my family down,” she said. “We’ve checked into the B&B.”
“I’m sorry there isn’t room in the house,” said Gamache.
“The kids think staying in a hotel is pretty cool. Their first time.” She and her husband had not, of course, told them why they’d suddenly decamped to the countryside. To a village with well water and a spring-fed stream running through it.
It was still far from certain that there was a threat to the drinking water, but Armand wanted to be safe. Just in case…
Though he wondered if this was how Noah had felt as he stood on the deck of the ark and stared at those left behind.
“They’re over at your place now. I would not advise returning any time soon unless you want Play-Doh to the side of the head.” She lifted her hand and removed a bright green glob from her wet hair. “Your house is insured, right?”
“Oui.” But his marriage was not. He thought he really should go home and rescue Reine-Marie. Soon…
Isabelle turned to Jean-Guy. “I saw the video you sent. So it’s confirmed. Jeanne Caron was Charles Langlois’s contact and probably the boss he talked about. She’s Chief of Staff to the Deputy PM. Does that mean he’s behind this?”
“Not just him,” said Jean-Guy. “If the PM gave him the counter-terrorism dossier, does that mean he’s involved too?”
They were staring at the Chief.
“I think we have to assume the worst.” It was, he knew, part of his job. To assume and prepare for the worst. To try to see it coming.
And what he now saw coming blotted out the sun.
“There’s something you need to know,” said Gamache. “Madame Caron called me on Sunday morning. She wanted to meet. I told her to go to hell.”
“Why would you do that?” asked Lacoste.
“And why would she call you?” asked Beauvoir.
“I don’t know what she wanted, but you need to know that we have a history. Years ago, when she was a young executive assistant and her boss was a newly elected member of Parliament, they asked me for a favor. To get his daughter off a manslaughter charge. I refused.”
“What happened?”
“Despite overwhelming evidence, she was acquitted. Then they came after me. But not just me. They found out about Daniel’s drug use.” As he spoke, Armand’s hands slowly closed. Clenched. “He was in court-ordered rehab, as part of his plea bargain. They had it reversed. Had him charged with trafficking. He never trafficked.”
