How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,120

moon of wintertime,” he whispered to himself. “When all the birds had fled.”

Please, Lord, please.

“Twas in the moon of winter—”

And then he saw it.

A light. Then the darkness. Then a light.

They were connected. It had begun.

* * *

“Is it working?” Thérèse asked as soon as they opened the door of the old schoolhouse.

“Perfectly,” said Jérôme, his voice almost giddy. He typed in a few instructions and images popped up and disappeared, and new ones came on. “Better than I’d imagined.”

Gamache looked at his watch. One twenty.

The countdown had begun.

“Holy shit,” said Nichol, her eyes round and bright. “It works.”

Chief Inspector Gamache tried to ignore the surprise in her voice.

“What now?” Thérèse asked.

“We’re in the national archives,” Jérôme reported. “Agent Nichol and I talked about it and decided to split up. Double our chances of finding something.”

“I’m going in through a terminal in a school library in Baie-des-Chaleurs,” said Nichol. On seeing the surprise in their faces, she lowered her eyes and mumbled, “I’ve done this before. Best way to snoop.”

While Jérôme and Thérèse seemed surprised, Gamache was not. Agent Nichol was born to the shadows. To the margins. She was a natural snooper.

“And I’m going in through the Sûreté evidence room in Schefferville,” said Jérôme.

“The Sûreté?” asked Thérèse, looking over his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“No,” he admitted. “But our only advantage is to be bold. If they trace us back to some Sûreté outpost, it might just confuse them long enough for us to disappear.”

“You think so?” asked Gamache.

“It confused you.”

Gamache smiled. “True.”

Thérèse also smiled. “Off you go then, and don’t forget to play dirty.”

Thérèse and Gamache had brought Hudson’s Bay blankets from Emilie’s home, and the two made themselves useful by putting them up at the windows. It would still be obvious that someone was in the schoolhouse, but it would not be obvious what they were doing.

Gilles arrived and brought in more firewood. He fed chopped logs into the stove, which began pouring out good heat.

For the next couple of hours, Jérôme and Nichol worked almost in silence. Every now and then they’d exchange words and phrases like 418s. Firewalls. Symmetric keys.

But for the most part they worked quietly, the only sounds in the schoolhouse the familiar tapping of keys, and the muttering of the woodstove.

Gamache, Gilles, and Henri had returned to Emilie’s home and brought back bacon and eggs, bread and coffee. They cooked on the woodstove, filling the room with the aroma of bacon, wood smoke and coffee.

But so great was Jérôme’s concentration that he didn’t seem to notice. He and Nichol talked about packets and encryption. Ports and layers.

When breakfast was put beside them the two barely looked up. Both were immersed in their own world of NIPS and countermeasures.

Gamache poured himself a coffee and leaned against the old map by the window, watching. Resisting the temptation to hover.

It reminded him a little of the rooms of his tutors at Cambridge. Papers piled high. Notepads, scribbled thoughts, mugs of cold tea and half-eaten crumpets. A stove for heat, and the scent of drying wool.

Gilles sat in what they’d begun to call his chair, at the door of the schoolhouse. He ate his breakfast and, when he was finished, poured himself another mug of coffee and tipped his chair back against the door. He was their deadbolt.

Gamache looked at his watch. It was twenty-five past four. He felt like pacing, but knew that would be annoying. He was dying to ask how it was going, but knew that would simply break their concentration. Instead, he called Henri and put on his coat, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. In his panic, he’d left his gloves on the platform with the satellite dish and he sure as hell wasn’t going back for them.

Thérèse and Gilles joined them, and they went for a stroll.

“It’s going well,” said Thérèse.

“Yes,” said Gamache. It was cold, and clear, and crisp, and dark. And quiet.

“Like thieves in the night, eh?” he said to Gilles.

The woodsman laughed. “I hope I didn’t insult you with that.”

“Far from it,” said Thérèse. “It’s a natural career progression. Sorbonne, chief curator at the Musée des beaux-arts, Superintendent of the Sûreté, and finally, the pinnacle. A thief in the night.” She turned to Gamache. “And all thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome, madame.” Gamache bowed solemnly.

They sat on a bench and looked across to the schoolhouse, with its light muffled by the blankets. The Chief wondered if the quiet woodsman beside him knew what would happen if they failed.