Page 72

“I support her right—”

“Oh, please. Save it for the Board of Governors. We both know you’re making some very”—he paused for the right word—“dangerous choices.”

“Dangerous?” She almost laughed. “Are you feeling threatened, Armand? A strong, smart woman is putting forward compelling arguments that fly in the face of your beliefs. And you don’t like it.”

“I’m the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, Colette, not some student who can be lectured, frightened, or bullied into falling in line. The threat against Professor Robinson is real and proven, and you’ve taken her out of a safe place and back into the public. Possibly endangering not just her, but everyone here. Including my family. That’s the dangerous choice you’ve made. It’s not against the law, but it sure flies in the face of good judgment.”

Some of the other guests had begun to recognize Abigail Robinson.

Phones were swinging from Haniya Daoud to the newcomer. Photos taken.

He turned back to Chancellor Roberge. “I’m not trying to stop her. I’m actually trying to keep her alive. Are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gestured toward the phones pointed at Abigail. A buzz had gone through the room.

“It’ll be all over social media in moments. If you have an ounce of reason left, you’ll tell her to meet whoever she came to see tomorrow. At your place. Privately.” He stared at her. “Go home, Colette.”

As he spoke, he noticed that Abigail Robinson was looking at someone in the crowd.

Haniya Daoud.

The Nobel nominee’s arms were folded tight across her body. And she was staring back.

Surely not her, thought Armand.

But . . .

Vincent Gilbert had asked why Madame Daoud was there. Maybe it wasn’t to visit Myrna. Maybe that was just the excuse. And this was the reason.

Was Professor Robinson here to meet Madame Daoud? And Haniya Daoud here to meet Abigail Robinson? But if so, to what end? What could the Hero of the Sudan and a woman proposing mass and targeted killing have to talk about?

Unless it wasn’t to talk.

Get out of my way, Haniya had said just last night.

Would I, this time? Step aside?

Armand felt a cold draft on the back of his neck and glanced at the front door, but it was closed.

“Is that Haniya Daoud?” Debbie Schneider asked. “Why would she be here?” There was a pause before she said, “My God, Abby. I think it is her. If we could get her endorsement . . .”

But Abigail’s eyes had moved on. She was no longer looking at Haniya. She was staring at the Asshole Saint. Vincent Gilbert.

Armand was behind her and couldn’t see her expression. He could, however, see Dr. Gilbert’s. He was staring beyond Abigail Robinson. At the Chancellor.

A silence had fallen like concrete over the crowd, slowly crushing the gaiety out of the New Year’s Eve celebrations. All eyes, even Gilbert’s, were now on Abigail Robinson.

Armand heard Dominique say to her husband, “Worst party ever.”

“It gets worse,” whispered Marc. “Dad’s here and Ruth’s found the booze.”

Armand saw Annie take Idola from Olivier, while Jean-Guy put his arm around them both. Reine-Marie joined her daughter and granddaughter.

One by one Daniel, Stephen, Clara, Olivier, Ruth, Myrna surrounded Idola. As though Professor Robinson’s very thoughts could harm the little girl. And, Armand knew, they could.

“Maybe we should leave,” said Chancellor Roberge, unsettled by the mood in the room.