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But the large man walked right by her to Margaux Chalifoux.

“Are you crazy?” the head of AQB shouted at Moretti as the soldier gripped her arm and lifted her up like a doll. “She’s the informant. Not me.”

But Moretti was unmoved. Just then his other soldier returned, whispered in Moretti’s ear, and handed him a phone.

Reading the screen, his eyes widened in surprise. He waved Tardiff over.

“You need to see this.”

What they both saw was a live news report, and under it in red letters, Shots fired.

Marcus Lauzon had just arrived in the interview room in the penitentiary when the warden came in.

“Have you heard?”

“Heard what?” Jean-Guy instinctively reached for his phone, but he didn’t have it. He’d had to leave it in the guards’ room.

Yvette Nichol typed what she’d found in Charles’s notebook. The first one. The one everyone had set aside as no longer important.

As soon as the sequence of numbers and letters was in, she hit enter. “Holy shit.”

She sent off a secure text to Gamache, Lacoste, and Beauvoir, with the link. As she hit send, her phone lit up.

“Have you heard?” Madame Gamache stood in the doorway into the study, brittle leaves stuck to her heavy sweater and one hanging from her hair. “I’m turning on the television.”

In an instant Armand took in every detail of what was happening and instinctively stepped in front of the Prime Minister, who was on his feet and looking stunned.

Members of the RCMP’s Parliamentary Protective Service with weapons drawn had poured into the room. Guns out at close quarters was a dangerous situation, Gamache knew. One could go off unexpectedly.

Or even on purpose.

As he moved, Gamache put his hand to his hip, where his holster would be, if he carried one.

Then he turned to Lacoste. But she’d had to surrender her weapon at security since Ottawa wasn’t in Sûreté jurisdiction. Shona was standing frozen in place, her eyes wide, staring toward the PM and his Chief of Staff.

“Where?” Gamache demanded of the officer in charge.

“Not here. Washington. DC. The White House. Get him away from the windows,” he ordered the agents surrounding the PM. “We’re locking down Parliament, just in case.”

On hearing that the danger was not close, was not imminent, there was a noticeable relaxation on the part of the Prime Minister.

“Turn on the televisions,” he said.

Manon Payette grabbed a remote, and the bank of monitors came to life. Assorted channels appeared, from CBC to Radio-Canada to CNN to the BBC and Al Jazeera. All showed the same image. The familiar exterior of the White House used by journalists in their stand-ups.

With everyone in the PM’s office riveted on the news, Gamache took the opportunity to slip out and get his phone, left in the outer office.

He quickly returned before he was missed and sent a text: Bert, what’s happening?

The PM was also sending messages. No doubt to the President and other world leaders. Desperate for information.

Armand stared down at his screen. Nothing.

He tried again. Then he tried calling.

It rang and rang. Nothing.

If shots were fired in the White House, the head of the Joint Chiefs must be rushing over from the Pentagon. Inundated with reports on the ground.