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“Is that what he told you?” said Pinot, staring at the locked door. “Does this feel safe?”

Gamache knew he was nearing the surface because his phone started vibrating.

And it also, he knew, began transmitting his location.

He looked at the battery level. It had been more than a day since he’d charged it, and it was down to four percent.

Putting it on low-battery mode, he took the final twenty steps and, pausing at the top, he shut off the flashlight.

Every moment counted. Every percent of power on his phone counted. But he took the time, and the power, to look at his messages.

Annie was in the last stages of labor. It looked like they’d have to do a caesarean. It was not uncommon in these sorts of births. They didn’t want to put more stress on the baby’s heart.

Armand wrote a quick message to Reine-Marie and Jean-Guy. Sending encouragement to Annie and to let them know he was all right.

Love, he wrote, Dad.

Then, tucking his phone into his pocket, he peered through the crack and listened.

He couldn’t afford to be stopped now. He touched the gun in his pocket.

Nor would he use that on one of the museum guards.

Crouching, he pushed the door open and moved quickly into the bedroom.

He heard a sound and ducked behind the high bedstead.

A guard walked by and paused at the open door. Not a museum guard. This one was in full combat gear and wore the SecurForte insignia.

And carried an automatic rifle.

Gamache backed farther away. And knelt. Placing the dossier on the floor, he opened it and took some photos. Using up precious battery power. Then he sent them to Jean-Guy, Isabelle Lacoste, and himself.

He knew now. Knew what they were hiding. And others needed to know also. In case.

Removing most of the documents, he spread them under the carpet, then checked his phone.

It was now down to three percent power. And the time said five to seven.

He had to get out of there.

He crawled forward to the doorway. The guard had stationed herself at the top of the marble stairs, and now he could see others.

Including one he recognized.

Xavier Loiselle. Cradling his assault rifle. And scanning the area.

For him.

Gamache peered into the room next door. It contained large exhibition boards with mariners’ maps. Extraordinary hand-drawn charts of the known world six hundred years earlier. The positions of land, and water, and dragons.

He heard boots on stairs. A small army on the march. Coming his way.

He had to act now, or never.

Bringing up a search engine on his phone, he put in Sûreté, factory raid. When the vile video on YouTube appeared, he made sure the volume was on high.

Pressing play, he slid his phone along the polished floor, into the next room, and silently blessed winters in his tiny Québec village, shivering on the frozen lake as neighbors tried to teach him the subtle art of curling.