Page 165 of The Grey Wolf
The metal detectors squealed when he went through, and Gamache apologized, taking out the handgun. His RCMP escort smiled, and instead of making him leave it behind, the young man handed it back to Gamache.
“I trust you, sir.”
“Merci.”
As they stood in the elevator, Armand clasped his hands behind his back and felt the bulge of the holster on his belt. He watched the numbers count up and was determined that he would drag the truth from Jeanne Caron if it was the last thing he did. Before this nice young man, Diane’s brother, was forced to shoot him.God, forgive this child. Forgive me.
Gamache followed the RCMP officer to the polished wooden doorat the end of the corridor. The brass plaque said,Jeanne Caron, Chief of Staff.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up from the Premier of Québec. The next on the list was the Mayor of Montréal. From there he’d go on to the Mayor of Québec City. The first person he’d called was the head of public works. It was vital that she be on the conference call. Not, Gamache had written and underlined, the cabinet minister in charge of public works, but the engineer who knew how the water-treatment plants actually worked.
It was time.
Jean-Guy punched in the number and waited for the Mayor to answer.
If the Chief wasn’t back by the time the conference call was scheduled, he’d instructed Beauvoir to handle it himself.
Beauvoir started to make notes. How to convince men and women who didn’t want to believe it that the unbelievable was about to happen. That an attack they’d supposedly prepared for was in the works. The worst-case scenario was unfolding, and they needed to put those preparedness plans in place.
Though it was clear, by his hesitation to tell them, that Gamache did not believe those plans were up-to-date or would do anything other than panic the population. But the people had a right to know. Had a right to defend themselves and their families.
As General Whitehead had predicted, the attack wouldn’t even have to happen for society to fall apart. In fact, all that had to happen was that the warning be issued. Armand Gamache, in choosing to tell the leaders, who would have no choice but to make a public announcement, would effectively be doing the terrorists’ work for them.
Beauvoir looked at the families streaming in and out of the Parliament buildings and realized these were probably the last few hours of normalcy in their lives.
What was Gamache doing in there? With a gun.
Just then, he heard sirens approaching.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, just as the Mayor of Montréal answered.
“Excusez-moi?”
“We can’t find him.”
“What do you mean?” said the Abbot of Grande Chartreuse. “How hard could it be? He’s a cloistered monk.”
“Brother Robert’s not in his cell,” said the lay monk. “He might be in the showers or the chapel. We’re looking. He might be preparing the recipe.”
“The what?” asked Dussault. “Not the recipe for Chartreuse.”
Lacoste pulled up the photo on her phone and shoved it in the Abbot’s face. “Is this the recipe for Chartreuse?”
“How should I know? I’m not one of the holders.” But the Abbot looked at it more closely. Then at her, more closely. “Where did you get this?”
“Dom Philippe.”
“The Gilbertine. The one who came to see Frère Robert.”
“Yes. Dom Philippe took away part of the recipe and a bottle of your privately labeled liqueur. He gave them to my chief.”
“Why?”
“The Abbot wanted us to come here. To find out what Frère Robert knows about a terrorist attack.”
“You got all that from two fragments of what might or might not be the recipe we’ve guarded for a thousand years? God help us if you ever get your hands on a scrap of the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
“So Frère Robert was chosen to be one of two keepers of the Chartreuse recipe?” said Dussault, trying to catch up. “But he’d only just arrived. Why give it to him?”
