A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,5
Into his eyes.
Not the eyes of the moron some were claiming in the tweets. Not the eyes of the cold-blooded killer others were depicting.
As the agent introduced himself, he caught a very slight scent of sandalwood and rose.
“Ah, oui,” said Gamache. “You were with the security detail at the National Assembly in Québec City.”
“Oui, patron.”
“Settling into Montréal all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaving the agent slightly stunned, and more than a little ashamed of what he’d said earlier, Gamache circled the table. Introducing himself to those he hadn’t met. Chatting briefly with the officers who’d worked under him in the past.
Then he looked around.
The chair at the head of the table was empty, and Gamache walked toward it, all eyes on him. Then, pulling out the seat to the right of it, he sat and nodded to the others to also take their places.
He’d arrived a few minutes early for the meeting, knowing it might be necessary to clear the air. And answer some questions. Get it out of the way before Jean-Guy Beauvoir arrived.
Truth be told, he had not expected that the air would be so foul.
“You were talking about a blog post, I believe,” he said.
He’d brought out a handkerchief and was wiping his eyes.
“A tweet, actually,” said the agent, and got a filthy look from the others. “Not important, sir.”
He put the phone down on the table.
“We’re not going to start out by hiding the truth from each other, are we? It was important enough to mention before I arrived. I’d rather colleagues didn’t talk behind my back.” He met their eyes, then smiled. “I know this’s awkward. I’ve read some of the posts. I know what they’re saying. That I should’ve been fired. That I should’ve been put in jail. That I’m incompetent, perhaps even criminally so. Is that right?”
He was no longer smiling, but neither was he angry. Armand Gamache was simply stating facts. Clearing the air by exposing the crap.
He leaned forward. “You can’t possibly think I have a thin skin, do you?”
Heads shook.
“Good. I doubt you’re going to read anything I haven’t heard before. Let’s get it out in the open. I’ll answer your questions, once, and then we can put it behind us. D’accord?”
The unhappy young man was again clutching his phone and willing the building to collapse.
No one reached the top rank of a police force as large and powerful as the Sûreté without being ambitious. And ruthless. And the agent knew what Gamache had had to do to get to the top. He also knew what they were saying about Gamache on social media. That he was no better than a sociopath.
And now that man was staring at him. Inviting him to walk into what was almost certainly a trap.
“I’d rather not, patron.”
“I see.” Gamache lowered his voice, though all could still hear the words. “When I was Chief Superintendent, I had a framed poster in my office. On it were the last words of a favorite poet, Seamus Heaney. Noli timere. It’s Latin. Do you know what it means?”
He looked around the room.
“Neither did I,” he admitted when no one spoke. “I had to look it up. It means ‘Be Not Afraid.’” His eyes returned to the unhappy young agent. “In this job you’ll have to do things that scare you. You might be afraid, but you must be brave. When I ask you to do something, you must trust there’s a good reason. And I need to trust that you will do it. D’accord?”
The agent looked down at his phone, clicked it on, and began reading.
“Gamache is a madman. A coward,” he read. His voice was strong and steady, but his face was a bright red. “He should be locked up, not sent back to duty. Québec isn’t safe as long as he’s there.”
The agent looked up, his eyes pleading to be allowed to stop. “They’re just comments, sir. Responding to some article. These aren’t real people.”
Gamache raised his brows. “Unless you’re suggesting they’re bots—”
The agent shook his head.
“—then they are real people. I’m just hoping they’re not Québécois.”
“That one’s from Trois-Rivières.”
Gamache grimaced. “Go on. Anyone else have one?”
They went around the table, reading wildly insulting posts.
“Gamache doesn’t even want to be back,” one agent read. “I heard he turned the job down. He doesn’t care about the people of Québec. He only cares about himself.” The agent looked up and saw a slight wince.
“Others are saying the same thing. That you didn’t want to come back to homicide. To work