“Half a day from the time we break into the first secure file?” Gamache asked.

“No,” said Jérôme. He spoke to Gamache, but was looking at Nichol. “She means twelve hours from our first effort.”

“Maybe less,” said Nichol.

“Twelve hours should be enough, don’t you think?” asked Thérèse.

“It wasn’t before,” said Jérôme. “We’ve had months and still haven’t found what we need.”

“But you didn’t have me,” said Nichol.

They looked at her, marveling at the indestructibility, and delusion, of youth.

“So when do we start?” asked Nichol.

“Tonight.”

“But, Armand—” Thérèse began. Jérôme’s hand had tightened over hers, to the point of hurting her.

“Gilles was right,” said the Chief, his voice decisive. “There’s a reason thieves work at night. Fewer witnesses. We have to get in and get out while everyone else sleeps.”

“Finally,” said Nichol, getting up.

“We need more time,” said Thérèse.

“There is no more time.” Gamache consulted his watch. It was almost one in the morning.

“Jérôme, you have an hour to get your notes together. You know where the alarm was tripped last time. If you can get there fast, we might be in and out with the information in time for breakfast.”

“Right,” said Jérôme. He released his grip on his wife’s hand.

“You get some sleep,” Gamache said to Nichol. “We’ll wake you in an hour.”

He went to the kitchen, and heard the door close behind him.

“What’re you doing, Armand?” asked Thérèse.

“Making fresh coffee.” His back was to her as he counted the spoons of coffee into the machine.

“Look at me,” she demanded. Gamache’s hand stopped, the heaping spoon was suspended and a few grains fell to the counter.

He lowered the spoon to the coffee can and turned.

Thérèse Brunel’s eyes were steady. “Jérôme’s exhausted. He’s been going all day.”

“We all have,” said Gamache. “I’m not saying this is easy—”

“You’re suggesting Jérôme and I are looking for ‘easy’?”

“Then what are you looking for? You want me to say we can all go to sleep and forget what’s happening? We’re close, we finally have a chance. This ends now.”

“My God,” said Thérèse, looking at him closely. “This isn’t about us. This’s about Jean-Guy Beauvoir. You don’t think he’ll survive another raid. That’s why you’re pushing us, pushing Jérôme.”

“This isn’t about Beauvoir.” Gamache reached behind him and clutched the marble countertop.

“Of course it is. You’d sacrifice all of us to save him.”

“Never,” Gamache raised his voice.

“That’s what you’re doing.”

“I’ve been working at this for years,” said Gamache, approaching her. “Long before the raid on the factory. Long before Jean-Guy got into trouble. I’ve given up everything to see this through. It ends tonight. Jérôme will just have to dig deeper. We all will.”

“You’re not being rational.”

“No, you aren’t,” he seethed. “Can’t you see Jérôme’s frightened? Scared sick? That’s what’s draining his energy. The longer we wait, the worse it’ll get.”

“You’re saying you’re doing this to be kind to Jérôme?” demanded Thérèse, incredulous.

“I’m doing this because one more day and he’ll crack,” said Gamache. “And then we’ll all be lost, including him. If you can’t see it, I can.”

“He’s not the one who’s falling apart,” she said. “He’s not the one who was in tears today.”

Gamache looked as though she’d hit him with a car.

“Jérôme can and will do it tonight. He’ll go back in and get us the information we need to nail Francoeur and stop whatever’s planned.” Gamache’s voice was low and his eyes glared. “Jérôme agrees. He, at least, has a backbone.”

Gamache opened the door and left, going up to his room and staring at the wall, waiting for the trembling in his hand to subside.