MAÎTRE MARIO BRIEN (1942–2008)

SAM EXPECTED TO MEET A bunch of greying FLQers at the lawyer’s funeral, but he certainly didn’t think he’d end up, once the ceremonies had ended, nursing a beer with Gilbert Massicotte, the former member of the antiterrorist squad. What was he doing there?

“You know, you meet in court. Shoot the shit a bit.”

“Are you telling me that Brien was a CATS source?”

Massicotte’s smile brought out the wrinkles on his face, which had been carved all the deeper during his recent battle with cancer.

“Shoot the shit, that’s all I said . . .”

“Sure. But when you think about it, Brien, may the Devil keep his soul, clearly knew the shifty role your cousin Rénald played, the supposed chicken delivery man. In reality, he hid an infiltration mission. Wasn’t for nothing that you told me to call him . . .”

“Rénald was an actual chicken delivery man who got caught up in the story by chance.”

“Sure. Of course he was.”

“I’m telling you.”

“Have you ever,” Samuel asked, “heard of unemployed people setting forest fires up north?”

“Yes, no, maybe. Why?”

“Because I’ve been trying for the longest time to understand how the money that was seized at Saint-Colomban, you know, from the holdup at the university, how that money ended up in the pockets of kidnappers in the summer of 1970. As if the cops had placed it back in circulation . . .”

“And why would we have done that?”

“Because you need criminals. Without them you’re nothing. You’d never have the opportunity to show your worth. And when you know about them already, it makes it easier to know exactly who you’re supposed to arrest. So, from your point of view, known criminals should be encouraged, no?”

“Well, goddamn, aren’t you a clever little monkey . . .”