women of all ages, all ranks. Who’d sat around this table, in those same seats, at least once a week for almost a year.
He remembered the private interviews, as he’d decided the members of this inner circle. From the thousands of officers, he’d chosen these few, for their intelligence, their determination. Their ability to work as a team. To both lead and follow. They were chosen for their bravery and boldness and their loyalty.
Not to Gamache. Not to the Sûreté. Not even to Québec. But to the Québécois. To protect them. Perhaps at great cost.
He’d taken the most promising, and asked them to possibly, probably, almost certainly, destroy their careers. And they’d agreed.
Not, it must be admitted, without a fight sometimes, as the long view was obscured by leaping and waving and screaming immediate needs. And by their own training and morals. To stand aside, to do nothing, as crimes were committed. It was soul-destroying.
But they’d held together. Finally.
And now here they were.
For almost a year they’d put their plan into place. As well constructed, as focused, as hidden as the cartel they were trying to bring down.
A glass house, Judge Corriveau had called it. Transparent.
That’s what it was. And that’s what they were. Now.
A good hunter, Gamache knew, learned from his prey. And he’d learned from the cartel to be lean. Focused. Invisible.
To appear to be weak, while actually gathering strength.
But the time had come for exposure, on both sides. By the end of this night, one would be victorious. One would be shattered.
Grabbing a tissue, he wiped the perspiration from his face, no longer concerned about how it would be perceived.
“Tell me what you know.”
His gaze moved around the table and settled on Superintendent Toussaint, who was looking uncomfortable.
“Seems we were wrong, patron.”
“Is that so? About what?”
He knew the importance of appearing calm and controlled, even as his heart began to pound.
“The nesting dolls. There were two shipments, we now learn. One with the chlorocodide and the other without.”
“I see. And?”
“The one with the drugs left Mirabel last night. As soon as that huge shipment of fentanyl got across the border.”
“Has it crossed the border?” Gamache asked. His voice remained steady, though all depended on the answer to that question.
The room felt like it was teetering on the edge of a cliff.
“We don’t think so. We think it’s in the holding area.”
“You think?” asked Beauvoir, trying, with less success than the Chief Superintendent, to sound calm.
“Yes,” said Toussaint, an edge now to her voice. “Think.” She turned back to Gamache. “As far as our informant knows, it’s still in Québec. We have some indications that he’s right.”
“Really, now this is the same informant who told us earlier today that the shit, the krokodil, was still in the warehouse?” said Beauvoir.
“It is. He made a mistake.” Superintendent Toussaint’s voice was icy now. “You’ve heard of those. But he went back to confirm, at great personal risk. Then he contacted me.”
Toussaint and Beauvoir stared at each other.
“We have no way to be sure?” asked Gamache.
“Not without exposure, no,” said Toussaint.
“So we don’t really know where the drugs are,” said Beauvoir. “Except that they’re not in the warehouse.”
“Correct.”
“You said you have other indications, though,” said Gamache. “What’re those?”
“The head of the syndicate for the East Coast is in Vermont. Burlington.”
The officers looked at each other, then at Gamache.
“He could be there for any number of reasons,” said Toussaint. “We don’t know for sure…”
“It’s a short drive from there to the border,” said Beauvoir, his excitement overcoming his annoyance. “One of those reasons could be to meet the shipment.”
“And not just the shipment,” said Toussaint. She turned to look at Gamache. “It could mean they fell for it. More completely than we dared hope.”
“Go on,” said Gamache. He was thinking the same thing, but Toussaint had had more time to consider, and he needed to hear her thoughts.
“I think the head of the East Coast syndicate is in Vermont for more than a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. And more than the krokodil.”
Gamache nodded, slowly. Taking this in. Trying not to let his elation override his good sense. Trying not to race ahead to a conclusion he was desperate to arrive at.
It fell to Beauvoir to say what Gamache was thinking. What they were all thinking.
“A meeting’s been set up. When the exchange is made,” his voice was low, almost a whisper. “The heads of both the Québec and the East Coast cartels will be together, in one spot.”