Page 102 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“Unlike text, video leaves a signature, a sort of tail. Especially one with an imbedded virus. A complex code of—”

“Stop explaining, just tell me. Where are they?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. But I can now get into their system. I can’t stay long—”

“What will that allow you to do?” The Chief Inspector was staring at him intently, trying to absorb every iota of information.

“I can copy their most recent messages, and with luck—”

“Have you done it?”

“Not yet. We should have a warrant.”

“Do it. Inspector Beauvoir, you’re the witness. I gave the order.”

Beauvoir nodded. Chief Inspector Gamache had just broken the law. And the cyber expert was about to, by following an order they all knew was illegal.

“If you’d rather not, show me how,” said Gamache. “And leave the room.”

“No, sir. I’ll do it.”

While Gamache and Beauvoir watched, the inspector touched a series of keys. Like a virtuoso, his fingers played softly over them.

“There.” Then he sat back and exhaled so forcefully it ruffled the papers on Gamache’s desk. “That’s as far as I dare go. We’re out. If any of them are on the system, it will have appeared as a blip, but any longer and—”

But Beauvoir and Gamache were no longer listening. They were leaning into the screen. The cybercrimes inspector had managed to copy six messages.

“Christ,” whispered Beauvoir. “There’s another attack. Tomorrow. They’ll hit another place tomorrow.”

He stared at Gamache, their faces so close he could count the Chief’s eyelashes, should he care to. Which he did not.

“In Saint Faustin,” said Gamache, as Beauvoir dug out a map and spread it on the desk. It was far easier to understand the logistics with a paper map than on a screen.

Gamache called in Isabelle Lacoste and the head of the tactical unit. They surrounded the desk.

Saint Faustin was a small town in the Beauce. They knew it, but not well.

“Three restaurants there. Poutine, burgers, and a pizza place.” Beauvoir looked up from his phone. “Which one?”

“Has to be the burger joint, no?” said the head of the tactical squad. “Given the subject line of that message to you, patron.”

“But is that too obvious?” Lacoste’s brow furrowed in lines that would never, from that moment on, leave her. “Could it be a trick?”

“What trick?” asked Beauvoir. “They don’t know we can see their messages.”

“Let’s hope,” said the cyber expert.

Gamache turned to the tactical officer. “We need blueprints of all three places and plans of attack.”

“Yessir.”

“And I’ll need every cop you can find. But not local cops, just in case word gets out.”

“Oui, patron.”

By opening hour next morning, each of the three restaurants was staffed by Sûreté officers, vests and weapons under their fast-food uniforms.

Cops, some from other forces, some retired and brought back to service, sat at tables in plain clothes, as customers. Some were in their seventies, but willing and able and eager to volunteer.