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He turned so quickly he almost fell over the corner of his desk. Standing a few feet into the Old Train Station was Reine-Marie.

And behind her someone, something, else. Something dreadful had just walked in.

John Fleming. But not Boisfranc. And not Godin. Though Armand already knew who it would be.

It was Robert Mongeau. The minister.

Fleming’s eyes, unshielded now by contacts, were unmistakable. The manic energy, the hatred, filled the space, threatening to blow out the windows, the walls, the roof.

But all Armand really saw was the knife at Reine-Marie’s throat.

For a terrible moment Armand thought he might pass out. His heart had suddenly gone into overdrive, his head swam. His eyes blurred.

He steadied himself against the desk, then moved forward, but Fleming tightened his grip on her, and Armand stopped. Never taking his eyes off Reine-Marie’s.

He whispered her name.

She didn’t reply, couldn’t for the blade at her throat. He could barely breathe, barely think. For the blade at her throat.

Calm, calm, calm, calm. He repeated it to himself. The word hardly registered above the shriek filling his head.

He needed to stay calm. There was a way out of this. There must be. If Jean-Guy got his text …

Reine-Marie’s eyes were wide with panic. And apology.

“Ahhh,” said Fleming, watching Gamache. “Now that’s the look I’ve spent years and years dreaming about, Armand. Have to say, it’s even better than I imagined. Your terror, tinged with nausea. The dawning horror. You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

“Let her go,” Armand rasped.

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” But Fleming gripped Reine-Marie tighter. She gave a small gasp.

Armand reached out. “No.”

“No.” Fleming loosened his grip again. “Not yet. Hands where I can see them, Armand.”

“I’m sorry,” Reine-Marie whispered.

Armand held her eyes. “No, no. Not your fault. It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”

“Your idea of all right must be different from mine,” said Fleming. “You do know it’s your fault she’s here. She came back because you wrote to say you missed her. As I knew you would. As I knew she would. So easily manipulated. Don’t blame yourself, Armand. Actually, blame yourself a little.”

Armand felt himself being dragged into the cave. Deep into Fleming’s mind. If that happened, they were well and truly lost. He had to close his mind to what Fleming was saying.

Jean-Guy was armed. He must have gotten the message by now. But Mongeau had gotten past him. How? Though he suspected. Jean-Guy had gone in, on Gamache’s request, to check on the minister. And Mongeau had surprised him.

“Jean-Guy?” he asked.

“You’ll see soon enough. Of course, had you recognized me earlier, none of this would’ve happened. That was part of the fun. To give you enough hints, a sporting chance to get out of it. To save yourself and everyone you love and care about.”

Fleming tilted his head and stared at Gamache.

“You’re wondering how you didn’t recognize me earlier.”

He was wrong, of course. Armand was well beyond caring about that. His mind was solely occupied with how to get out of this.

There was a way. There had to be. Think. Think. That’s right, keep talking, you lunatic. Give me time to think.

“I’ll tell you, Armand. It wasn’t just the weight gain, the lifts in the shoes, the beard, and slight hair dye that fooled you. It wasn’t even the contact lenses.”