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Now Armand smiled. “Animal Farm.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We’d fight back because in your new country, some would be more equal than others. Any nation that would invade a friendly country is not a friend and certainly cannot be trusted. How long before we were taken from our homes, because you’d need them too, and put on … let me think … reserves? You call them reservations, but it comes to the same thing. Or maybe camps—” He put up his hand to forestall the protest. “You know perfectly well, Bert, how easily the inconceivable becomes a reality. Becomes acceptable. Becomes the norm. Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about? As you said, never underestimate the power of groupthink. Non. We would fight. And once we lost, as you pointed out we inevitably would, then a guerilla war would start. A resistance would spring up. We might concede, but we’d never, ever surrender. It would become a mutual nightmare. For generations. Did your war games predict that?”

“Yes,” General Whitehead admitted. “But still, if given a choice between generations of conflict or slow death by starvation, I suspect Americans would hop on board the invasion train. Besides, you’d be the bad guys, remember? We’re the patient victims with a legitimate grievance, pushed to do something we really didn’t want to do, but had no choice. After all, you attacked us first. Or so people would believe. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. All that’s needed now for this to work is a common enemy.”

“Attack first?” said Lacoste. “Never.”

There was silence. Until Armand spoke.

“It’s already started, you said.” They saw Whitehead nod. “The wildfires. Those dark web sites are already sending out the narrative.”

“‘The worst attack on American soil since 9/11,’” said the General. “That’s how they’re framing the wildfires. They’re preparing. Grooming the population. Those photos are pretty convincing.”

“They’re AI-generated,” said Lacoste.

“You’re still living in a world where truth matters, where facts are important. They aren’t anymore. They’re fluid, and we’re losing facts as fast as we’re losing water.”

Armand felt the pit of his stomach drop out. For the first time, he could see how this could actually happen. How the common enemy would be created. How Americans, even reasonable ones, would be persuaded to come across the border.

“The frightening thing is, our water crisis isn’t manufactured.” Whitehead’s voice was soft, reasonable. “We really are facing a disaster. The Mississippi is drying up. It’s forecast that in a generation Palm Springs and Phoenix will be uninhabitable. Major cities are already in crisis, rationing water. The UN has declared a global emergency, and warning that all-out regional war over water is inevitable. Inevitable. Anyone who thinks we’re different from people in Africa, in Asia, in the Middle East is wrong. We’re all driven by the same need to survive.”

“Your President isn’t a warmonger,” said Gamache. “Would she really authorize an invasion?”

“If public sentiment swung that way? If Americans were suffering and scared and angry and reelection was in doubt. If powerful lobby groups like the National Association of Realtors—”

Beauvoir’s sudden laugh stopped Whitehead.

“What? You expected the NRA? The Realtors’ Association spends billions every year lobbying. Can you imagine what happens to their members when cities become uninhabitable? Add to that pastors in churches demonizing Canada and preaching that it’s America’s God-given right to protect itself—”

“If there was another megafire…,” said Lacoste.

“Another aggression,” said Beauvoir.

And with that twist of the prism, Gamache saw what Charles Langlois had tried to warn them about all those weeks ago.

But had Charles told him the US was preparing to invade Canada for their water, would he have believed the young biologist as they’d sat over bomboloni at Open Da Night?

No. He’d have dismissed him as a former cokehead with wet brain. As it was, it had taken Armand almost too long to believe there was a plot to poison Montréal’s water.

And now this.

“Another fire,” he said, working his way forward. Staring into Bert’s eyes as he spoke. “We know there will be one, eventually. But … but…” Still he held the stare. “But that’s not good enough. This thing has been planned. Carefully. Over years. They wouldn’t leave anything to chance. They wouldn’t wait, hoping another megafire would drop ash…” He paused, thinking. Thinking. Inching toward the border between the state of happy ignorance and the truth. “They could set a fire, of course. That would be easy enough, with incendiary bombs.” Whitehead’s eyes were pleading with him. Begging him. To continue? Or to stop? “But how would they know when and where…”

Now his face turned ashen. Even his lips lost color.

“Chief, what is it?” asked Lacoste.

Gamache turned to her and Jean-Guy. “The isobars. The ones Charles left behind. They tell us the flow of air.”

“Or ash,” said Jean-Guy. “Jesus.”

Gamache turned back to Whitehead. “FEDS. That’s why it’s so important. FEDS can predict where ash from the next megafire will fall.”

“It can predict the future,” said Lacoste. “And all someone has to do is light the match. Set the forest on fire when the isobars and FEDS line up.”

“The lake.” Lacoste turned to Gamache. “That’s why Charles was so interested in that particular one. It’s the first example of what’s possible. If it can happen by mistake, it can happen on purpose. That’s what the so-called ‘second notebook’ was saying. Trying to say. Trying to warn us.”