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“The first thing he’ll do is use his bathroom. There’s a door into it from the corridor so the cleaners don’t have to go through his office. It’s kept locked, of course. And yes, I have the code.”
Gamache paused at the door to write a message.
Marie Lauzon glanced at it. “The Chief Petty Officer? That valet fellow from the White House? What’s that about?”
Armand hit send, without replying.
“Come on,” hissed Marie Lauzon. “What’re you doing now? Christ, tell me you’re not doing Wordle?”
Gamache wasn’t. He was composing one more message. One last message. Just a few words. Once sent he tucked the phone back in his pocket and took a deep breath.
Ready.
Minutes later Armand was standing in the Prime Minister’s private bathroom, watching the door handle turn. Please let it be Woodford.
Then it stopped.
Come on. Come on.
“Are you kidding me?” the Prime Minister’s voice came through the door. “They still haven’t found Gamache? Where the hell is he?”
“I’m getting an update, sir.” It was the head of the PM’s security detail. “He’s definitely still in the building.”
“Well, find him, for Chrissake.”
“And we’re looking for Marie Lauzon.” On hearing that voice, Gamache’s brow dropped. But after reading the document, he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised.
It was Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense. Their supposed ally. Whose side was she really on?
“Focus on Gamache. We can deal with Marie later. She’s not a threat.”
The door handle turned another millimeter.
Come on. Come on.
“Captain Pinsent admits to helping the other two escape,” said the head of the RCMP security detail.
Gamache closed his eyes in relief. Confirmation. They’re out.
“What the hell is happening?” the PM said. “It’s impossible to know who to trust anymore.”
Truer words, thought Gamache as he watched the door finally open.
James Woodford stepped in, closed the door behind him, turned, looked in the mirror, and came very close to needing a new pair of slacks.
Jeanne Caron read the reply.
The planes would be loaded with the incendiary bombs and ready to take off to the northern lake on her word. The fires would be so intense, whipped up by the forecast winds, they’d put all previous conflagrations to shame.
They’d burn for weeks, marching south, eating millions of hectares along the way, consuming every community in its path and sending the remains of ancient forests into the atmosphere. The plume would once again bypass Canadian cities to descend on the United States, killing Americans by the thousands.
Word would get out that their friendly neighbor to the north was doing nothing to fight the blazes. There would even be some evidence, carefully managed, to show the fires had been intentionally set. As an attack.
The scope of Canada’s duplicity would slowly become clear.
It would not be a Big Lie.
This time it would be the awful truth.
