“Oh, they are who they say they are,” said Gamache. “My friend made sure of that. They’re file clerks, but with, perhaps, some added value.”
“Meaning?”
“CSIS has a mandate to collect and analyze intelligence both domestic and international. That’s why Fraser and Delorme were able to collect so much information on Gerald Bull’s activities here and in South Africa and Iraq and Belgium. But to do that effectively, to know what information is real and what is, in Mary Fraser’s word, misdirection, you need a field agent who knows what to look for.”
“A file clerk?” asked Lacoste, and Gamache smiled. “Who can also be sent out on assignment.”
“It appears that’s a possibility. My contact said it was something instituted early on, but then bureaucracy and civil service unions got in the way. Multitasking was out and jobs became more compartmentalized. Delineated. There was support staff and there were field agents. Two distinct areas.”
“But some of the originals might’ve quietly stayed on,” said Lacoste. “Doing both jobs. Genuine file clerks part of the time, researching, analyzing, but going into the field too, to collect intelligence.”
“You have no idea of the world you’ve entered,” said Gamache. “Remember Mary Fraser saying that, Jean-Guy?”
Beauvoir nodded. He’d never forget the chill in the room and had been surprised the words hadn’t come out in a cloud of vapor.
“I don’t think she meant the world of sorting and filing,” said Gamache. “Now, my contact was quick to point out that there’s no evidence to support this. It’s all a bit of CSIS mythology, that these deeply covert agents exist. In fact, all the evidence points to Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme being exactly who they say they are. File clerks approaching retirement.”
“Finally being sent into the field,” said Lacoste. “And being given one last chance to distinguish themselves. That’s how they struck me when they first arrived. Two slightly bumbling, likable, but not very effective low-level bureaucrats, sent because they’re the only ones who still know something about a long-dead arms dealer and his long-abandoned project. They were playacting at being real agents.”
“And do they still strike you that way?” asked Beauvoir.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Will your contact at CSIS dig some more?” asked Lacoste.
“She said she would, but I could tell it was getting more delicate,” said Gamache. “And if Fraser and Delorme really are field agents, then it might be best left as is.”
They heard the sound of a printer in the background.
“Isn’t the deputy head of CSIS a woman?” Beauvoir asked. “She’s not your…?”
“There are a lot of women who work for CSIS,” said Gamache.
“Right,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “As file clerks. But there is one high up enough to get this information. You said you’d been speaking with her recently.”
“This afternoon,” said Gamache.
“No, I mean before that. Did she offer you a job? Her job maybe, once she moves up?”
“We had a pleasant catch-up, that’s all. We’ve known each other for years. Worked a few cases together.”
“Of course,” said Lacoste.
Beauvoir had been listening closely, watching his old boss. He’d make a very good intelligence officer, Jean-Guy realized. He suspected Gamache had been approached, maybe even for the top job, and was considering it.
Welcome to CSIS.
Gamache was just about to tell them what he’d found in Highwater, when Adam Cohen interrupted.
“I have information on Al Lepage,” he said, sitting down. “Do you want me to give it to you now?”
Lacoste looked over at Gamache, who gestured to the young man to continue. Cohen seemed so anxious, any delay might make him combust.
“Laurent’s father is not Al Lepage.”
“Quoi?” asked Beauvoir, rocking forward in his chair and leaning across the table toward Agent Cohen. “Then who is Laurent’s father?”
“No, sorry, I put that badly. I didn’t mean biologically…”
He could see he’d already confused them.
“Let me start again. Al Lepage is not his real name. We sent his fingerprints to police across Canada and into the U.S., and since he was a draft dodger, we also sent them to the Department of Defense in Washington.”
“Right,” said Lacoste. “It turned up nothing.”