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“Can you tell me?”

And he did. When he finished, she put out her hand. He passed her back the glass. She took a swig and gave it back.

“Do you believe it?” she asked.

“Iraq comes to mind,” he said.

“Who’d have thought so many reasonable, intelligent people could be convinced to invade a country that had not attacked them?”

“Saddam was a tyrant,” said Armand. “A madman who used poison gas on his own citizens. It was not that difficult to convince people that he’d helped the 9/11 conspirators and had weapons of mass destruction.”

“But he didn’t. There was absolutely no proof.”

“There doesn’t need to be proof. Fear replaces facts.” He fell silent, staring ahead. Following his own train of thought.

It was then that Reine-Marie noticed the book on the pew, with his finger at a certain page. “Animal Farm?”

“Non.” He held it up.

“Nineteen Eighty-Four.” She understood. “Orwell.”

Armand opened it and read the section he’d been looking for.

“The Ministry of Peace concerns itself with war, the Ministry of Truth with lies, the Ministry of Love with torture and the Ministry of Plenty with starvation. These contradictions are not accidental, nor do they result from ordinary hypocrisy: they are deliberate exercises in doublethink.”

“Can it be stopped?” she asked, quietly.

“Yes.”

“You’re not a member of the Ministry of Truth, are you?”

He laughed. It felt good. “Non. I believe it. But keep that pitchfork handy.”

“I’ll do better than that. We can post Ruth at the border, then dare the commandos to come across.”

“Poor commandos.”

They sat quietly, and into that silence the dogs started snoring. And Armand started humming. It was a tune Reine-Marie recognized from a musical they’d seen together recently.

She sang, softly.

Friends ain’t supposed to die ’til they’re old.

And friends ain’t supposed to die in pain.

Driving through the night back to the Burlington airport, Bert Whitehead thought about the meeting and the play.

So when you fight, stay as calm as the ocean,

And watch what goes on behind your shoulder.

Remember war’s not a place for deep emotion,

And maybe you’ll get a little older.

Mostly the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff thought about the look in Armand’s eyes when he himself had stepped over the border. When he’d crossed the line. Went too far.

That look of determination. Of cold, calm resolve. Almost daring him to go further. And Armand’s two aides-de-camp standing firm behind him.