Shit, he thought. Another drug, another plague. Another bomb on poor Coventry.
“It’s a codeine derivative,” Toussaint was saying. “Popular in Russia. This shipment comes from Vladivostok. It arrived at Mirabel in a container of nesting dolls. It’s just sitting in a warehouse.” She leaned toward him, her voice urgent. “We can confiscate it. To push back, just a little. It’s a tiny shipment. It won’t make a dent in the cartel, but it’ll make a huge difference to morale in this division. And others.”
“It’s just sitting there, you say?” asked Beauvoir.
“Oui. Can I call Gaugin and give the word?”
“Non,” he said, adamant. “Do nothing.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It can’t matter, just let my people make some arrests. Throw them this, I’m begging you.”
“Madeleine, why do you think it’s just sitting there? Big or small, wouldn’t they normally try to get it on its way? What’re they waiting for?”
Now she paused. Considering. “Are you asking because you know the answer?”
“No, but I’m beginning to have an idea.”
“What?”
Beauvoir had grown very still, but his eyes darted and his mouth opened slightly.
“Tell me more about this chlorocodide.”
“Well, as far as I know, this is the first shipment into Québec, probably the first into Canada. Not sure about the States, but if it’s there it’s not yet in large quantities. Its street name is Russian Magic. Also known as krokodil.”
“So this would be like an amuse-bouche?”
She almost smiled. “You could say that. Something to get people started. To whet their appetite. They’re sophisticated, these traffickers.”
“They’re also brilliant marketers,” said Beauvoir. “Calling something krokodil. Appeals to kids. Sounds urban. Edgy.”
“It’s also called that because it makes their skin all scaly. Like a crocodile.”
“Oh, Christ,” he sighed.
He, better than Toussaint, better than most, knew the desperation of the junkie. And how detached from normal human behavior they became. They already felt and acted subhuman. Why not look it too?
They didn’t care.
But he did.
“This’s how it starts,” he said, taking off his glasses and tapping the paper, in an unconscious imitation of something Gamache often did. “They bring in a small amount, to prime the pump. Build up demand. The drug is all the more desirable because it’s hard to get.”
He knew the routine.
Dealers dealt in drugs, but also in human nature.
“So why leave it in a warehouse at Mirabel?” he asked. “What’re they waiting for?”
“For the big shipment of fentanyl to make it through?” Toussaint suggested.
“Yes, almost certainly. But it’s crossed the border. What’s stopping them now?”
They stared at each other, hoping the other might come up with an answer.
Then Beauvoir smiled. It was tiny, frail. But it was there.
“They’re waiting to see what happens at the trial,” he said.
And Madeleine Toussaint’s face opened in astonishment, then relaxed into a smile. “My God, I think you’re right.”
Beauvoir stood up and tilted the slip of paper toward her. “May I?”
She stood up too, and after hesitating for just a moment, she nodded.
Beauvoir folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
“What’re you going to do?” she asked as she followed him to the door.
“I’m going to show this to Chief Superintendent Gamache as soon as he gets out of court.”
“And what’ll he do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Push him, Jean-Guy. Make him act,” she said. “He has to give the word.”
“Look, no one has more at stake than he does,” said Beauvoir.
“That’s not true. He won’t lose a son or daughter to addiction. He almost certainly isn’t going to suffer a home invasion by some drug-addled crazy, or be shot on the street for drug money. You have a young son.”
“Honoré, oui.”
“I have a son in high school and two daughters heading there soon. We have more at stake. We have everything to lose. This cannot fail, Jean-Guy.”
“I know.”
And he did know.
“Wait.” She reached out and drew Beauvoir back into the office, and closed the door. “Did he do it?”
“What?”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Did Chief Superintendent Gamache commit perjury today? Did he lie about the bat and the hidden door in the church basement?”
“He did.”
She grew very still, then glanced at the pocket where the slip of paper now sat.
“Then we might have a chance. But what do I tell my agents?”
“You’ll think of something. This started with you, Madeleine. You can’t distance yourself, even if you want to.”
“You can’t possibly blame me for this,” she said, her defenses slamming back into place.
“I’m not blaming. One day you might even be given the