Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6)

Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6) Page 88

He told her what he knew.

The shooting, the kidnapping, the claims of the farmer to have attached a bomb. To go off the next morning at 11:18.

Instinctively they both glanced at the clock. Ten past six in the evening. Seventeen hours left.

“Chief Superintendent Francoeur believes the kidnapper’s a frightened backwoods farmer, probably with a small marijuana operation, who panicked. They think there’s no bomb and no other plan.”

“But Chief Inspector Gamache doesn’t agree,” said Agent Nichol, reading from the note. “He wants me to monitor closely.” She looked up after a moment digesting the Chief’s instructions. “They’re monitoring closely upstairs I presume?”

She was unable, or unwilling, to rid her voice of bitterness. It was an annoying and annoyed little voice.

At a curt nod from Beauvoir she smiled and carefully folded the note. “Well I guess the Chief Inspector thinks I’m better.”

Agent Nichol stared at Beauvoir, willing him to contradict her. He glared at her.

“Must be,” he finally managed.

“Well, he’s going to have to do more than talk about dog toys. Tell him to pause.”

“Haven’t you been listening? A pause and the bomb will go off.”

“Does anyone really believe there’s a bomb?”

“And you’d risk it?”

“Hey, I’m safe and warm here. Why not.”

At a glare from Beauvoir she continued. “Look, I’m not asking him to go make a cup of coffee. Just a second here and there. Lets me record the ambient sound. Got it? Sir?”

Agent Yvette Nichol had started in homicide. Been chosen by Chief Inspector Gamache. Mentored by him. And had been a near complete failure. Beauvoir had begged the Chief to fire her. Instead, after many chances, he’d transferred her. To do something she needed to learn.

The one thing she clearly could not do.

Listen.

That was her job now. Her only job. And now Chief Inspector Gamache was putting his whole career, and perhaps Agent Morin’s life, into these incompetent hands.

“Why haven’t they traced the call yet?” Agent Nichol asked, swinging her seat back to the monitors and hitting some keys on her computer. The Chief’s voice was crisper now, clear. As though he was standing with them.

“They can’t seem to get a fix,” said Beauvoir, leaning over her chair, staring almost mesmerized at the dancing waves on the screens. “When they do it shows Morin in a different place as though he’s moving.”

“Maybe he is.”

“One moment he’s by the U.S. border the next he’s in the Arctic. No, he’s not moving. The signal is.”

Nichol made a face. “I think the Chief Inspector might be right. This doesn’t sound like something rigged up by a panicked farmer.” She turned to Beauvoir. “What does the Chief think it is?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“It would have to be something big,” Nichol mumbled as she focused on the screen and the voices. “To kill an agent and kidnap another then to call the Chief Inspector.”

“He needs to be able to communicate with us without Chief Superintendent Francoeur knowing,” said Inspector Beauvoir. “Right now all his messages are monitored.”

“No problem. Get me the code to his computer and I can set up a secure channel.”

Beauvoir hesitated, examining her.

“What?” she demanded, then smiled. It was unattractive, and again Beauvoir felt a warning tingle. “You came to me remember. Do you want help or not? Sir?”

“. . . Zora’s a handful, apparently,” came Gamache’s voice. “Teething now. She loves the blanket you and Suzanne sent.”

“I’m glad,” said Morin. “I wanted to send a drum set but Suzanne said maybe later.”

“Marvelous. Perhaps you could also send some caffeine and a puppy,” laughed Gamache.

“You must miss them, sir. Your son and grandchildren.”

“And our daughter-in-law,” Gamache said. “Yes, but they’re enjoying Paris. Hard to begrudge them that.”

“Damn it. He needs to slow down,” snapped Nichol, annoyed. “He has to give me pauses.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Well, hurry up,” said Nichol. “And get that code.” She turned her back on Inspector Beauvoir as he strode out the door.

“Sir,” he muttered as he bounded back up the stairs. “Sir. Shit-head.”

At the eighth floor he wheezed to a stop and gasped for breath. Opening the door a little he could see Chief Superintendent Francoeur not far away. Over the monitors came the familiar voices.