“Oui,” he said. “We’ll see. The Cyber Crimes division suspected her, you know.”
“What happened?”
“They rejected her for being unstable. I don’t believe Francoeur would work with someone he couldn’t control.”
“And so you brought her here?”
“Not as a witty companion, but because of that.”
He tipped a piece of wood in Nichol’s direction and Superintendent Brunel followed it. And saw, again, the awkward young agent sitting under the desk. Quietly, intently, turning the chaos of wires and cables and boxes into orderly connections.
Thérèse turned back to Gamache, her eyes unyielding. “Agent Yvette Nichol may be good at her job, but the question I have, and the one you seem to have failed to ask, is what is her job? Her real job?”
Chief Inspector Gamache had no answer for that.
“We both know she’s probably working for Francoeur. He gave the order and she did it. Found the video, edited it, and released it. To spite you. You’re not universally loved, you know.”
Gamache nodded. “I’m getting that impression.”
Again, Thérèse failed to smile. “The very qualities you see in her, Francoeur also sees. With one exception.” Superintendent Brunel leaned closer to the Chief Inspector and lowered her voice. He could smell her sophisticated eau de toilette, and the slight scent of mint on her breath. “He knows she’s a sociopath. Without conscience. She’ll do anything, if it amuses her. Or hurts someone else. Especially you. Sylvain Francoeur sees that. Cultivates that. Uses that. And what do you see?”
They both looked over at the pale young woman holding a cable up, with much the same expression as Ruth had when she held the flame the night before.
“You see another lost soul to be saved. You made your decision, you brought her here, without consulting us. Unilaterally. Your hubris has very likely cost us…”
Thérèse Brunel didn’t finish that sentence. She didn’t have to. They both knew what the price might be.
She slammed down the wrought-iron cover of the woodstove with such force the clank made Yvette Nichol jump and hit her head on the underside of the desk.
A series of filth exploded from under the teacher’s desk, such as the little schoolhouse had probably never heard before.
But Thérèse didn’t hear it. Neither did Gamache. The Superintendent had left the little building, slamming the door in Gamache’s face as he followed her.
“Thérèse,” he called, and caught up halfway down the shoveled path. “Wait.”
She stopped, but her back was to him. Not able to face him.
“So help me, Armand, if I could fire you I would.” She turned then and her face was angrier than he’d ever seen. “You’re arrogant, egotistical. You think you have special insight into the human condition, but you’re as flawed as the rest of us. And now look what you’ve done.”
“I’m sorry, Thérèse, I should have consulted you and Jérôme.”
“And why didn’t you?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Because I was afraid you’d overrule me.”
She stared at him, still angry, but caught off guard by his candor.
“I know Agent Nichol’s unstable,” he continued. “I know she might be working with Francoeur and that she might have leaked the video.”
“Christ, Armand, do you ever listen to yourself?” she demanded. “I know, I know, I know.”
“What I’m trying to say is that there was no choice. She might be working for him, but if she isn’t, she’s our only hope. No one will miss her. No one ever goes into that basement. Yes, she’s emotionally stunted, she’s rude and insubordinate, but she’s also exceptional at what she does. Finding information. She and Jérôme will make a formidable team.”
“If she doesn’t kill us.”
“Oui.”
“And you thought, if you explained it, Jérôme and I would be too stupid to come to the same conclusion?”
He stared at her. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
His sharp eyes looked around him, then up the road out of the village. Thérèse followed his gaze.
“If she’s working with Francoeur,” she said, “he’s on his way. She’ll have told him we’re together, and she’ll have told him what we’re doing. And she’ll have told him where to find us. If she hasn’t yet, she soon will.”