Page 118 of The Grey Wolf
The waiter brought it, placing the perspiring glass on the face of the President of the United States. Beauvoir picked up the coasters strewn on the wooden table and saw that each had a caricature of a famous politician. Most American, but some foreign. None, that he could see, Canadian. Since Canada, as far as America’s political elite knew, did not really exist. And if it did, it was merely an inconvenient extension of their nation. A sort of annoying younger sibling that sometimes tried to assert itself but could always be put in its place.
Jean-Guy was early. Which was good. He needed to send an update to Gamache. He looked up when his peripheral vision alerted him to someone approaching.
“Monsieur Beauvoir?”
Jean-Guy stood up. “Oui.Yes. General Whitehead?”
The two men shook hands. Whitehead’s grip all but encased Jean-Guy’s hand.
The handshake, like the man, was robust. But not, Beauvoir felt, designed to dominate.
Tall and solid and clean-shaven, with trim white hair, the General would have been distinguished no matter what he wore, but the fact he was in the most impressive uniform Beauvoir had ever seen made him even more so. Other patrons were looking over and, recognizing the man, were trying to catch his eye. But the General remained focused on the stranger in their midst.
Albert Whitehead had met Armand Gamache when the Chief had been, for a short but significant time, the head of the Sûreté du Québec. General Whitehead was the Chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for the United States. The most senior soldier in the world.
The Chief Inspector and General had formed a fast friendship that went beyond their jobs. But encompassed, like the handshake, what each did for a living.
“I won’t be much use to Armand soon,” said Whitehead as he took a seat. “I expect to be replaced before long. Change of government.”
“You think the President will lose the upcoming election?”
“I do. Most in this room do too.” He glanced around. “But a year is an eternity in politics, so who knows. That looks good.” He turnedto the waiter. “John, I’ll have the same. Shirley Temple with two cherries.”
Whitehead turned back to Jean-Guy. “I developed a taste for it when taking my grandchildren out. My grandson tells me that a Roy Rogers is the boy version, but I still prefer to ask for a Shirley Temple. Old school.”
Again, he smiled in a way that was, and was meant to be, disarming. It was the secret weapon of the man who controlled so many actual weapons.
Whitehead raised his glass. “To your very good health, sir.”
“And yours, sir.”
“Please, call me Bert. Armand asked for this meeting but didn’t say what it was about.” Now the jovial man in the impressive uniform became less jovial and even more impressive, as Jean-Guy was treated to a glimpse of the force behind the smile.
Armand had advised Jean-Guy to tell Whitehead everything.
“Everything,patron?”
“Oui.If he’s going to help us, he needs to know. We’re asking him to give us classified information. We can’t be seen to be holding back ourselves.”
“D’accord.”
And so, in the dim basement bar, as secrets floated all around them, Jean-Guy Beauvoir sipped his Shirley Temple and added to the confidences, while the Chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff sipped his Shirley Temple and listened to a tale of impending slaughter.
“Don’t look up.”
Reine-Marie had stepped away from their embrace and held Armand’s eyes.
It was, of course, impossible now for him not to.
Raising his gaze, he saw a series of lumps stuck to the living room ceiling.
“Were those there when we bought the place?”
“Yes, Armand. Yes, they were.” She was smiling as she watched her husband’s brows rise, then his eyes narrow.
“How? Why?” He found it difficult to formulate a question. “What?”
“Papa.” Florence had taken her grandfather’s hand and was dragging him farther into the room. “That one’s mine.”
