Page 71 of The Grey Wolf
“I need to find the Abbot.”
“Really? That’s your first move? Find some old monk with a partial recipe for an obscure liqueur? Don’t you think there’re more promising leads?”
“My people are looking into others, and you’re right, had it been just Dom Philippe and a ripped piece of paper, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought, but it isn’t. Not when the other part of that paper was sent to me by Jeanne Caron.”
Lavigne nodded. “That’s a good point. Somehow the two are related.”
“I don’t know how, but I think Dom Philippe found out about this and is afraid.”
“Or involved.”
“Non.” Armand shook his head. “I know the man. He couldn’t be.”
“And yet, by your reckoning, he knows about an imminent attack that could kill tens of thousands and he doesn’t say anything. Is that the act of a decent man?”
“I’ll find out soon enough. I’m heading to the monastery. I think he’s gone back there.”
“Won’t he know you’ll come looking?”
“Maybe that’s what he wants. It’s where he feels safest, in control. There’s something else,” said Armand. “Two others I need to know about. I can’t do it, for reasons that will be obvious. One is Evelyn Tardiff—”
“The head of your Organized Crime division?” said David, not hiding his surprise. “You think she’s involved?”
“And Madeleine Toussaint.”
“Are you shitting me?” He dropped his voice and all but rasped, “The head of the Sûreté? Jesus Christ. If those two are involved, then who’s flying your plane?”
David Lavigne meant it figuratively, but at that moment Armand had the same question, only his was real and urgent.
Who was flying the plane? The tiny single-engine craft bobbed and tossed and dropped and jerked. It shuddered and twisted, and Armand expected to see parts flying off. Was the pilot in control, functioning or panicking? Was he even still conscious?
At that moment there was a shout, at least confirming the pilot was alive, if not in control. There were no words, no instructions. Just a sort of cry from the cockpit.
Jean-Guy, never happy in confined spaces anyway, was almost comatose.
Armand, never happy with heights, was not much better.
This was never going to be a fun flight. Add in the fact they were almost certainly about to die, and neither man was functioning all that highly.
Armand was afraid to open his mouth now, in case he threw up. He swallowed hard and tasted bile and a burning in his throat. He looked over at Jean-Guy, who was pale, almost green. His face glistened with sweat. His eyes were wide and staring straight ahead. Helping the pilot fly the plane. Afraid to break focus, in case only his hypervigilance was keeping them aloft.
They’d both been in terrible, life-threatening situations. Shoot-outs. Firefights. But always with the ability to do something. To fight back. Even to run away. By now they were powerless. Strapped into the rear seat of a prop plane. With nothing to do. Except wait.
We wait. We wait.
Armand had taken his phone out and managed to type a message to Reine-Marie, just saying,I love you. I’m sorry.But he didn’t send it. He didn’t want to scare her. But now his finger hovered over the send icon.
The plane banked suddenly, lunging onto its side, throwing Armand against the window. His phone flew out of his hand and his cheek squished against the glass. He was forced, like it or not, to look down. There he saw not water but forest. A thick canopy of evergreens and then, below them, shrouded in mist, a familiar building came into sight.
Armand placed his hands on either side of his head and tried to push away from the window, but the force was too great. Jean-Guy’s body was pressing into his, trapping him.
Out the steamy window Armand could just make out the four wings of the monastery.
The plane was on its side, descending. The wings of the plane getting closer and closer to the wings of the building.
He wanted to shut his eyes, but did not. More than hiding fromwhat seemed inevitable, Armand wanted to see as much of this world as possible, before…
The plane gave another mighty convulsion and flipped over to the other side. Armand’s body smashed against Jean-Guy’s. He put his hands out to brace himself against the fuselage and push away from Beauvoir.
