The Grey Wolf (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #19)

by Louise Penny

Now he saw his companion for who he really was. Not some ruined creature chosen at random and being set up. This man was at the center of it all. He knew everything. The man smiled and nodded. His demeanor, his posture, his face, his entire being transformed into someone else.

“You need to tell me who he is.”

“Charles” shook his head. “Not until I know if he can be trusted. I owe him that much. He’s either incredibly brave or…” Or, thought Gamache. He’d met his share of the “ors.” But he’d also met his share of incredibly brave people. He thought, despite the lying, that he might be in the company of one at that moment.

“You think the Sixth Family is now trafficking in tin foil?” She’d used the nickname for the Moretti family. After the five leading mob families in the US, this Montréal mafia family was considered the sixth. Powerful and ruthless, it had consolidated its hold on territory after the paterfamilias had died.

“What worries me is the other part of the portfolio. International trade is more and more connected to international terrorism. And domestic too, for that matter. A way to funnel money from one country to another. From one entity to another.”

He needed David Lavigne, the leading expert on domestic and international terrorism, who also had a seat on the GAC committee. But the same thing that made him a perfect choice to help in the investigation also made him the perfect choice to be recruited by whoever was behind this. Caron? Lauzon?

“What happened when the FLQ kidnapped and killed a politician, and set off bombs in Montréal back in 1970?” He was referring, of course, to the October Crisis. It was a rhetorical question since both knew the answer. But still, he said it. “The Prime Minister invoked the War Measures Act.” “Oui. And this PM would too. Would have to.” “Civil liberties would be suspended,” said Gamache. “The Charter of Rights and Freedoms frozen.

“Dominican. Domini Canis,” said Simon. “Hound of the Lord. They were the Inquisition.”

“And where is Brother Sébastien?” asked Gamache. “I didn’t see him either.” “He got a message from a colleague in the Vatican, an American, I think, and left for Rome.” “How long ago was this?” Frère Simon considered. “It was after the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist.” “Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day,” said Jean-Guy. “Late June.”

“Chartreuse, the real Chartreuse, is made in only one place. By the Carthusian brothers in France. Only two monks at any one time know the recipe. It’s been a tightly guarded secret for centuries. When one brother dies, his recipe is passed to another.”

“Because with secrets comes power. And this was no ordinary secret. It was first given to a monk back in 1605, by an alchemist. He said it was an elixir.”

And angelica stems, which no one had heard of, but which were a major ingredient in the liqueur. Alone these factors told the investigators nothing. Put together, it seemed, as the monk said, obvious.

“How did you know the letter to Dom Philippe was from Frère Sébastien?” he asked, and immediately knew he’d found a crack in the calm veneer. The monk looked uncomfortable. Just a little. But for men who did not do a lot of talking, their faces, their bodies, spoke for them. An eye roll became an assault, a turned back a declaration of war. A smile was an invitation.

“I asked you a question, Frère Simon,” Gamache called after the receding figure, then strode down the long corridor after him. “Answer me. Did you open the mail?” He almost reached out to grab the monk but stopped himself. He watched as Frère Simon was enveloped by the shadows, until the monk became just a glowing silhouette filled with darkness.

“Either way, Caron ended up with it. But why does that page matter? It’s not even the full recipe for Chartreuse. And honestly, even if it was, who really cares? What does this have to do with a plan to poison the water?”

“He was here,” said Jean-Guy, in a whisper. “Charles Langlois was here. He brought this map with him. To hide it.” Gamache nodded. It seemed a reasonable leap, onto fairly solid ground.

How easily humans could adjust to darkness. To dark thoughts and darker deeds. Until, finally, the darkness became normal. And they no longer missed, or looked for, or trusted, the light.

After hanging up, Armand shot off another message to Isabelle. She’d arrived in Rome and had checked into her hotel close to the Vatican. He updated her on Claude Dussault and sent his contact information. Then he sat in his car and took out the two pieces of paper. Dom Philippe had left one part for him, along with the bottle, to make sure he knew about the Grande Chartreuse connection. That now seemed obvious. But still obscure and troubling was how Jeanne Caron got her portion. And why she put it in the coat she’d had stolen from his home.