control Chief Superintendent Armand Gamache exhibited only came from those with no natural enemies. It would be a potentially fatal error to mistake his calm for lethargy.
An apex predator who quoted Gandhi, she marveled. And she wondered if that made Monsieur Gamache more, or less, dangerous.
And she wondered if his only real enemy was himself.
Maureen Corriveau then remembered that passing fancy, as she’d walked down the cobblestone street to meet Joan for lunch. That these two adversaries were actually allies, and only pretending to be at each other’s throats.
But what could make them do such a thing?
She knew the answer, of course. There was only one reason they were acting as they were.
To trap an even bigger predator.
Judge Corriveau looked over at the defendant.
Was it possible someone who looked so very weak, so beaten, was something else entirely?
“Before we broke for lunch, you were telling us, Chief Superintendent, about bringing the news of Katie Evans’s murder to her husband,” said the Crown. “We left you in the restaurant.”
“The bistro, oui,” said Gamache, and saw, with satisfaction, Zalmanowitz bristle at the small correction.
For his part, Barry Zalmanowitz watched the head of the Sûreté, sitting so comfortably in the witness box, and was grateful it wasn’t difficult to attack the man.
Despite their cordial lunch, he didn’t have to pretend to loathe Gamache. He actually did. And had for many years. How many times had they argued about a prosecution? Sometimes the Crown refused to lay charges against a person Gamache believed was a killer. But Zalmanowitz argued there wasn’t enough, or strong enough, evidence.
Your fault, Gamache, Zalmanowitz had said.
And Chief Inspector Gamache, then the head of homicide for the Sûreté, had all but called him a coward, who wouldn’t risk a prosecution unless there was absolutely no chance of losing.
Yes, it was ironic that this whole plan rested on everyone believing they detested each other. The beauty of the plan was that they actually did.
As he paced the courtroom and watched the still man in the witness box, he couldn’t detect any outright rancor on Gamache’s part. Though there was wariness.
So great was the threat that Armand Gamache had been forced to approach a man uniquely situated to help. But one he didn’t like and didn’t trust.
It had been the most extraordinary meeting of Zalmanowitz’s career.
Gamache had flown to Moncton and driven to Halifax, while Zalmanowitz had flown directly there.
They’d sat in a diner at the waterfront. A dive even by the questionable standards of the dockworkers and fishermen who surrounded them.
And there, in the shadow of ships bound for ports around the world, the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté had outlined his plan to the Chief Crown Prosecutor.
And when he’d finished, and was completely and utterly exposed, Armand Gamache had waited. A very slight tremble in his right hand the only hint of stress.
The head of the Crown Prosecutor’s office had sat there, stunned. At the hubris of the man. At the scope of the plan. At his stupidity, bordering on brilliance, to come to the last person on earth likely to help him. And ask not just for help.
“You’re asking me to end my career.”
“Almost certainly. And I’ll end mine.”
“Yours has barely begun,” Zalmanowitz reminded him. “You’ve just come out of retirement. You’ve been the Chief Superintendent for a nanosecond. I doubt you even know where the toilet is on your floor. I have thirty years in the Crown’s office. I’m the head of the whole fucking thing. And you want me to not only throw it all away, but risk imprisonment? At the very least, humiliation? You want me to bring shame on my whole career and family?”
“Yes, please.”
Gamache had looked so sincere when he’d said that, before breaking into a smile. But for just a moment Zalmanowitz had wondered if this was some sort of elaborate scheme to get rid of him. Have him self-destruct. Lure him into doing something if not outright illegal then surely unethical.
And have him not simply fired, but ruined.
But looking into those eyes, searching that face, Zalmanowitz realized that Gamache was many things, but he was not cruel. And that would have been cruel.
Armand Gamache was serious.
“I need to go for a walk,” said the Crown, and when Gamache started to get up, Zalmanowitz forcefully put out his hand. “Alone.”
He’d walked and walked and walked, up and down the pier. Past the huge container ships. He smelled the seaweed, the rust, the fish.