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Who held the most power in the nation? And therefore had the most to lose?

The Prime Minister of Canada.

Marcus Lauzon had all but named James Woodford as the Black Wolf.

Raised in poverty, working menial jobs to support a mentally unstable single mother and two siblings, Woodford had left school early and grown into an angry, disenfranchised young man. To escape the grinding poverty, he’d enlisted, rising through the ranks, getting an education, becoming an officer. Leading troops in conflict and peacekeeping, which had proved much more difficult than war.

Once a civilian again, he’d found an outlet for his skills in community organizing, which led, naturally, to politics. All this was widely known.

Smart, inspirational, charismatic. A natural leader. Woodford spoke perfect French and English and was, by his own admission, left of center in a party that itself leaned left.

Elected on a platform of social justice, of human rights and reform, promising to increase environmental protection and refugee targets, to bring big industry to heel, he’d shot up the ladder, quickly surpassing more seasoned colleagues.

Including Marcus Lauzon.

When they stood side by side, Lauzon looked sallow, shifty, old. The poster boy for a decaying establishment.

Woodford had won the party leadership in a landslide that had effectively, and permanently, buried Lauzon’s chances of getting the top job. Though not, it seemed, his ambitions.

There was one other thing Prime Minister Woodford was. An accomplished strategist. Something he learned on the backstreets of Montréal and honed as a peacekeeper. He was certainly canny enough to give his scheming Deputy PM the job hitting those net-zero environmental targets, while also making him head of the committee assigned to oversee international investments.

Prime Minister Woodford had, in effect, placed Marcus Lauzon not just on a hot seat, but on a political electric chair.

“Woodford isn’t behind the plots,” said Gamache.

“How do you know?” Lauzon’s eyes were closed, his face turned toward the setting sun.

“Because he has all the power he needs. Not just the support of his party, but the overwhelming support of the electorate. His approval numbers remain the highest of any Prime Minister in a generation. Of all the politicians in Canada, he’s the least likely to enter into a devil’s bargain. His power is not threatened, and there’s no more to be had.”

“Are you so sure?” Lauzon opened his eyes and locked onto Armand’s. The village below was bathed in golden light, precious for being the last of the day. In this light, the former Deputy PM’s face looked almost angelic.

It was fleeting.

After a long moment, as the shadows reached toward them, Gamache asked, “What do you know?”

“I know what you’ve missed. I know that there’re no boundaries when it comes to greed. To those addicted to power, there are no borders. There’s always more to grab. There are new territories, new worlds, to conquer. Look at the Caesars. Alexander. Look at Genghis Khan. Napoleon. Look at Hitler and Putin. Wolves know no boundaries, respect no borders.”

Lauzon’s stare was so intense, Armand could feel cold creeping over him, and though he knew it was almost certainly the approaching night, he sensed it was far more than that.

Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow.

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying, you’re just refusing to hear it.”

Behind them Beauvoir and Tardiff exchanged glances. They too had heard the accusation against Prime Minister Woodford. Jean-Guy did not believe it. He knew this was more misdirection by a man desperate to throw blame elsewhere. And crafty enough to make them beg for the lie.

It was, at least, a relief to see that Gamache clearly did not believe Lauzon either. And he was, with luck, beginning to see what was all too obvious. That the man greedily grabbing the last of the light was the Black Wolf.

“You’re saying that Prime Minister Woodford is planning to, what? Make himself into a dictator? Rule Canada as a despot?”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been accused of wanting to do? Why me and not him?”

“Because he’s a decent man?” said Gamache.

Behind them there was a small snort of amusement. Lauzon turned and glared, unsure if it was Beauvoir or Tardiff. Then turned back to Gamache.

“You’re thinking too small, Armand. Far too parochially.” He moved his hands to indicate more. More.