Thérèse Brunel turned to Gamache.
“You didn’t,” she whispered.
“I had to, Thérèse.”
“You could’ve just stuck a gun in our mouths,” she said. “Would have been less painful.”
She grabbed the Chief’s arm, yanked him a few paces away from the truck, and whispered urgently into his face. “You do know she’s one of the people we suspect of working with Francoeur, of leaking the video of the raid? She was in the perfect position to do that. She had the access, the ability and the personality to do it.” Thérèse shot a look at the figure creating a dark hole against the cheerful Christmas lights. “She’s almost certainly working with Francoeur. What’ve you done, Armand?”
“It was a risk I had to take,” he insisted. “If she’s working with Francoeur we’re sunk, but we would’ve been anyway. She might be one of the few who could leak the video, but she’s also one of the few who can get us back online.”
The two senior Sûreté officers glared at each other.
“You know that, Thérèse,” said Gamache urgently. “I had no choice.”
“You had a choice, Armand,” Thérèse hissed. “For one thing, you could have consulted me. Us.”
“You haven’t worked with her, I have,” said Gamache.
“And you have such insight into people? Is that it, Armand? Is that why Jean-Guy’s where he is? Is that why your department deserted you? Is that why we’re hiding here and our only hope is one of your own former agents, and you don’t even know if she’s loyal or not?”
Silence met those words. Silence and a long, long exhale of what looked like steam.
“Excuse me,” he said at last, and walked past Thérèse Brunel to the road.
“Can I help?” Jérôme asked a little awkwardly. He’d heard what Thérèse had said. He suspected this young woman had too.
“Go inside, Jérôme,” said Gamache. “I’ll look after this.”
“She didn’t mean it, you know.”
“She meant it,” said Gamache. “And she was right.”
When the Brunels had gone inside, he turned to the newcomer.
“You heard that?”
“I did. Fucking paranoid.”
“Do not use that language with me, Agent Nichol. You’ll be respectful of me, and the Brunels.”
“So that’s who that is,” she said, peering into the night. “Superintendent Brunel. I couldn’t tell. Heady company. She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t trust you.”
“And you, sir?”
“I asked you down here, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you had no choice.”
It was too dark to see her face, but Gamache was sure there was a sneer there. And he wondered just how big a mistake he might have made.
TWENTY-FOUR
The next morning all four of them worked to install the equipment Agent Yvette Nichol had brought with her from Montréal. They carried it up the hill, from Emilie’s home to the old schoolhouse.
Olivier had given Gamache the key, but had asked no questions. And Gamache had offered no explanations. When he’d unlocked the door a puff of stale air met him, as though the one-room schoolhouse had been holding its breath for years. It was dusty and still smelled of chalk and textbooks. It was bitterly cold inside. A black potbellied woodstove sat in the middle of the floor, and the walls were lined with maps and charts. Math, science, spelling. A large blackboard above the teacher’s desk dominated the front of the room.
Most of the students’ desks had gone, but a couple of tables sat against the wall.
Gamache surveyed it and nodded. It would do.
Gilles showed up and helped them carry the cables and terminals and monitors and keyboards.
“Pretty old stuff,” he commented. “Are you sure it still works?”
“It works,” snapped Nichol, and studied the grizzled man. “I know you. We met when I was here last time. You talk to trees.”
“He talks to trees?” Thérèse muttered to Gamache as she passed, carrying a box of supplies. “Two for two, Chief Inspector. Who’s next? Hannibal Lecter?”
Within the hour all the equipment had been moved from Emilie’s home to the old schoolhouse. Agent Nichol had proved more helpful than anyone, especially Gamache, could have hoped. Which only increased his discomfort. She only questioned his orders once.