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“I brought you here so we could talk, of course. The music is the cherry on top.”

“Maraschino,” said Jean-Guy and got a laugh from the General, which no one else understood.

“Here” was the village of Stanstead, Québec. And also the small town of Derby Line, Vermont. The Haskell Free Library and Opera House straddled the two communities, and therefore the US-Canada border.

It had been built more than a century earlier, a collaboration between the two communities, the two countries, when borders were disregarded, essentially meaningless. People moved back and forth at will. That all changed with 9/11.

“Your seats, please,” said the usher, getting vexed even though they were essentially alone in the theater.

Isabelle and Jean-Guy sat on the Canadian side, while General Whitehead and Chief Inspector Gamache took seats behind them, side by side, on either side of the black line of the international border.

The lights went down, two actors took the stage, one sat at a piano, and they started to sing. The performance of Billy Bishop Goes to War began.

The colonial boys are lining up, we’re lining up for war …

“Did you get the links we sent?” whispered Armand.

“Yes. We’re aware. I was going to tell you about .family, but you’ve found it on your own. What they’re saying on those sites has begun to spread all over the dark web.”

Armand looked at him. “They’re saying that Canada is about to attack the US. Some say we already have, in the form of the wildfires. These are marginal people on marginal sites. Please tell me you don’t take it seriously.”

“You look dubious.”

“Dubious doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“Remember January 6.”

“Yes, of course.” It was the argument everyone used when discussing the power of social media to distort and manipulate. The example was getting old, though no less true.

“So-called patriots stormed the Capitol in an attempt to overthrow the government,” Whitehead continued anyway. “To overturn a legitimate election. Here. In the United States.” He swept his hand around, though he was actually indicating Canada. Armand did not correct him. “And they almost succeeded. Good, reasonable people, and some idiots, were made to believe a lie, then act in the most unconscionable way. Never, ever underestimate the power of social media, of groupthink, Armand. Or the power of toxic nationalism. Combine the two and you have—” He lifted his hands in exasperation. “Had you told me months earlier such a thing was possible, I’d have been … dubious.”

Armand was bewildered and disappointed. He had hoped Bert Whitehead had more to say than rehashing the bizarre conspiracy theory about a Canadian invasion that was patently never going to happen. They needed substance, not an unnecessary lesson in human dynamics and misguided patriotism.

We were off to fight the Hun, and it looked like lots of fun.

Somehow it didn’t seem like war at all, at all, at all.

General Whitehead stared at the stage; then, raising his formidable brows, he looked at Gamache. “A musical about the First World War?”

“About Billy Bishop. A Canadian pilot. Oui.”

“He existed?”

“Yes.”

“I’m talking about an attack, Armand. But not the one on the websites you found.”

Armand was relieved. He hadn’t really thought there was anything to that insanity about Canada invading the US, but as Bert had said, equally unlikely things had happened in the recent past.

“What are we talking about?”

“What happens when the water runs out?”

“You’ve already asked Jean-Guy that. And I asked our Prime Minister.”

“You spoke to James Woodford about this?”

“I did. You look worried.”