Chief Superintendent Francoeur didn’t care. His words weren’t for the parents and grandparents.
During the term, Francoeur would visit the academy once a month, staying overnight in the lavish quarters reserved for him. After dinner he’d invite a select few to join him for drinks in the large living room overlooking the vast playing field. He’d regale the wide-eyed cadets with harrowing tales of great danger, of investigations wildly perilous, expertly leavened by the odd story of ridiculous criminals and silly mistakes.
And then, when Francoeur judged the time was right, he’d insinuate the real message into his stories. That the Sûreté du Québec wasn’t there to be on guard for the population, but to be on guard against them. The citizens were the enemy.
The only ones the recruits could really trust were their confrères in the Sûreté. And even then, they had to be careful. There were some intent on weakening the force from within.
Serge Leduc would watch the unlined faces and wide eyes, and over the course of the months, the years, he’d see them change. And he would marvel at the skill of the Chief Superintendent, who could so easily create such little monsters.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur was gone now but his legacy remained, in flesh and blood and in glass and steel. In the cold hard surfaces and sharp edges of the academy and the agents he’d designed.
The new academy itself appeared simple, classic even. It was placed on land appropriated from the community of Saint-Alphonse, the Sûreté’s needs judged far greater than the population’s.
It was designed as a quadrangle, with a playing field in the middle, enclosed by gleaming buildings on all four sides. The only way in was through a single gate.
It gave the appearance of both transparency and strength. But in actuality, it was a fortress. A fiefdom.
Serge Leduc stared out at the quadrangle. This was, he now suspected, his last day in that office. This was his final view of those fields.
The knock on the door had confirmed that.
But he would not leave meekly. If the new commander thought he could walk in there and take over his territory without a fight, then he wasn’t simply weak, he was stupid. And stupid people got what they deserved.
Adjusting the holster on his belt and putting on his suit jacket, Leduc walked to his door and opened it. And came face-to-face with Armand Gamache. Though Leduc had to tilt his head back a little.
“May I help you?”
He’d never met the man in person, though he’d seen him often enough at a distance and in news reports. Now Leduc was surprised by how solid he was, though unlike Francoeur, Gamache did not exude force.
But there was something there, something unusual about him. It was probably the scar at the temple, Leduc thought. It gave the impression of strength, but all it really meant was that the man was plodding and hadn’t ducked quickly enough.
“Armand Gamache,” said the new commander, putting out his hand and smiling. “Do you have a moment?”
At a subtle signal, the two large Sûreté agents stepped back across the corridor, but the man himself didn’t move, didn’t walk right by Leduc and lay claim to the office.
Instead he stood there, politely waiting to be invited in.
Leduc almost smiled. It would be all right after all.
Here was the new commander, no better than the old one. One relic replaced by another. Put Gamache into a dress uniform and he would look impressive. But blow and he’d fall down.
But then Serge Leduc met Gamache’s eyes, and in that instant he understood what Gamache was really doing.
The new commander could, especially with the help of the large agents, force his way into Leduc’s office. But what Gamache was in fact doing was much more cunning and far more insidious. And for the first time, Serge Leduc wondered if Francoeur had been wrong.
Gamache had killed the Chief Superintendent with Francoeur’s own gun. It was an act that was both final and symbolic.
And now Serge Leduc looked into those calm, confident, intelligent eyes and he realized Gamache was doing the same thing to him. Not killing him. Not physically anyway. Armand Gamache was waiting for Leduc to invite him in. To voluntarily step aside.
Because then the defeat would be absolute.
Anyone could take something by force, but not many could get someone to surrender without a fight.
So far, Armand Gamache had taken the academy without a fight. And this was the last hill.
Professor Leduc moved his left arm, so that his wrist felt the butt of the handgun through his jacket. As he did that, he lifted his right hand and shook Gamache’s. Holding the man’s hand and his eyes. Both of which were steady, and displayed neither anger nor challenge.
It was, Leduc realized, far more threatening than any overt show of force could ever be.
“Come in,” said Leduc. “I’ve been expecting you. I know why you’re here.”
“I wonder if that’s true,” said the new commander, closing the door behind him and leaving the Sûreté agents in the corridor.
Leduc was confused, but he remained confident. Gamache might have his plans, his charm, even a degree of courage. But Serge Leduc had a gun. And no amount of courage could stop a bullet.
Serge Leduc knew that he did not care all that much about the academy. What he hated was someone taking what was his. And this office, this school, belonged to him.
Leduc waved toward the visitor’s chair and Gamache took it, while Leduc sat at his desk. He was about to speak. His hand, unseen below the desk, had moved over to the holster and removed the handgun.
He would be arrested. He would be tried. He would be found guilty, because he would be guilty. But Leduc knew he would be considered a martyr by many former students. Better that than going quietly, as everyone else had. And besides, he had nowhere to go except out into the cold.
But before Leduc could say anything, Gamache placed a manila file on the large desk. His hand rested on it for a moment, as though giving it final consideration, then he wordlessly pushed it toward the professor.
Despite himself, Leduc was curious. Resting the gun on his lap, he pulled the dossier toward him and opened it. The first page was simple, clear. In bullet form it listed his transgressions.
Leduc was not surprised to see the ones from his days at the Sûreté. Old news. Francoeur had promised to destroy the files, but Leduc hadn’t believed that for a moment. But he was surprised to see the others. From the academy. From the land appropriations. The building contracts. The negotiations no one else knew about, supposedly.
Clear, concise, easy to read and easy to understand. And Serge Leduc understood.
Closing the folder, he once again lowered his hand to his lap.
“You’re predictable, monsieur,” he said. “I was expecting this.”
Gamache nodded, but still didn’t speak. His silence was unsettling, though Leduc tried not to show it.
“You’re here to fire me.”
And now Gamache did something completely unexpected. He smiled. Not broadly. Not smugly. But with some amusement.
“I can see how you’d expect that,” he said. “But in fact, I’m here to ask you to stay on.”
The handgun hit the floor with a thud.
“I believe you’ve dropped something,” said Gamache, getting to his feet. “You will not be my second-in-command, of course, but you will continue as full professor, teaching crime prevention and community relations. I’d like your course outline by the end of the week.”
Serge Leduc sat there, unable to move or to speak, long after Commander Gamache’s footsteps had stopped echoing down the hall.
And in the silence Leduc realized what Gamache exuded. It wasn’t force. It was power.