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“Dear God,” said Shona. “If Luxembourg does invade, we’re screwed.”

Gamache only had eyes for the Prime Minister. “It’s the name the Americans have given to their plan to invade Canada, as you know perfectly well, sir.”

Giselle Trudel sighed. “Oh, God, this is heartbreaking.”

“General Whitehead was at the White House this morning to ask the President for permission to release to me classified information on the plan.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Ferguson. “Can’t we get him out of here?”

“The General was gunned down to stop him,” Gamache persevered.

“All right!” Woodford finally snapped. “Enough! You’re unwell. You need help.” His voice dropped again, cajoling now, trying to reason with a madman. “That was an assassination attempt on the President. The General was injured saving her life. We all saw it.”

“I met with General Whitehead last night. He admitted there was a plan.”

Gamache was composed, despite huge temptation to shout.

When you fight, stay as calm as the ocean,

And watch what’s going on behind your shoulder.

War’s not a place for deep emotion,

And maybe you’ll get a little older.

“That’s another lie,” said the Minister of Defense. “He’s probably dead and can’t deny it. You’re slandering a hero, though I don’t know why.”

“He’s sick,” said the Minister of Public Safety. “He needs help.”

“He needs medication,” said the Minister of Defense.

“This needs to stop,” said the Prime Minister.

The head of the security detail stepped forward, expecting the PM to order them to escort Gamache and the others out the door. But instead—

“You’re right,” said Woodford with a huge sigh. “War Plan Red is the American strategy for invading Canada. Making this nation the fifty-first state.”

There was dead silence as everyone in the room—politicians, the PM’s Chief of Staff, the security—turned to Prime Minister Woodford, astonished. He might as well have admitted he was indeed an alien.

“You’re humoring him, right?” said Ferguson. “You’re not serious.”

Though it was eminently clear that he was.

“Wait a minute,” said Giselle Trudel. “There is such a thing? I’m the Minister of Defense. Why don’t I know about it?”

Shona was on the verge of saying something, but a look from Lacoste stopped her.

“Because it was only ever an exercise and was torn up in the 1930s,” said Woodford. “What you found, God knows in what archive, Chief Inspector, is an anachronism, a footnote. An oddity. War Plan Red no longer exists.”

“You’re wrong there, sir,” said Gamache. “It was never torn up. It’s been updated by every American President since it was first conceived in 1919. It’s also known as the Atlantic Strategic War Plan.”

“No, no,” said Trudel, on her phone. “I just googled it. The Prime Minister’s right. It was scrapped in 1939, when war in Europe broke out.”

Gamache looked tired now. “Do you really think you’re going to find the American invasion plans on Google? Of course it says it was canceled. What else are they going to say? That they have an active and updated strategy to cross five thousand miles of undefended border and take over their friendly neighbor to the north?”

Gamache had moved a few steps to his left, dragging all eyes with him. Except Lacoste’s. She was following their own plan and had stepped to the right, so that she was standing beside Manon Payette, the PM’s Chief of Staff.

“We need to talk,” Lacoste whispered.