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He’d also written to Shona Dorion to let her know she did not have to pursue the meaning of the string of numbers and symbols Langlois had written on his map. They now knew it was a passcode. He did not say to what.

He hadn’t heard back from her but wasn’t worried. Given what the young woman thought of him, he suspected the next thing he’d hear would be some shouted insult at the next news conference. Or when she published the evidence he’d given her, evidence that would almost certainly ruin him.

But he couldn’t worry about that now.

The first message he’d sent that morning after seeing the Water Shed file wasn’t to her. Marked urgent, he’d hit send on a secure text to James Woodford’s office asking for a meeting ASAP.

While the young journalist hadn’t replied, the Prime Minister of Canada had.

A meeting was set up on Parliament Hill for eight thirty a.m.

It was time to talk.

He’d also sent an update to Bert Whitehead and ended it by saying he’d see him that evening. But there was no reply.

He’ll show now, thought Armand as he stared out the window at the snow and sleet. He has to.

They’d taken Nichol’s car, the battered one belonging to her father, since neither it nor the plates would be clocked. Now, on the slippery road, both Gamache and Lacoste were wondering if that had been the very best decision.

“The tires are bald,” said Lacoste, working to keep the old car in its lane.

While they slipped and slid their way to the nation’s capital, Jean-Guy sat beside Yvette Nichol in the study, both working on their laptops, chasing down what Charles Langlois had left behind.

The Water Shed file contained another series of numbers.

“They’re IP addresses,” said Nichol.

“Yes, I know.”

“They go to the dark web.” Nichol could not contain her excitement. “To .onion sites.”

“Yes, I know.”

Most Sûreté investigators were familiar with those sites. Instead of .com or .ca, the dark web masters had created another layer. Actually layers. Like an onion. And now the two investigators found themselves diving into the deepest caverns of the web.

Where the nuts lived.

Now Jean-Guy sat back, his eyes wide. Hidden within those layers he’d found a name. Repeated. James Woodford.

“Chief Inspector.” Woodford rose and came out from behind his desk, his hand extended.

“Mr. Prime Minister. May I introduce Inspector Isabelle Lacoste. She shares second-in-command duties.”

“Inspector. I’ve heard about you, of course. It’s an honor.”

“And for me, Monsieur le Premier Ministre.”

Armand studied the carpet and barely suppressed a grin. For much of the trip up Lacoste had babbled. Her way of dealing with the strain of driving through sleet that kept trying to tug them off the road. While Gamache had thought about their upcoming meeting, Lacoste had railed against politicians.

Normally an optimist, her one area of cynicism was politics. She’d seen too much, and the recent events had only served to solidify her opinion.

But now, in the presence of James Woodford, she was practically swooning.

It was not that he was especially handsome, nor was it some magnetism. Not a force of personality or some shining aura. It was, Gamache could see, just the opposite. The very lack of pretense made him unique, and accessible. Relatable and likable in a strangely gentle but compelling way.

He seemed completely genuine in being pleased, even humbled, to meet this officer much decorated for her valor.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to move to Ottawa and join my team?” he said to Lacoste.