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Unless …
Unless General Whitehead had done exactly what he had done. And that was go first thing in the morning to the leader of his country.
Now Armand lowered his phone and watched the news reports …
CHAPTER 24
Bert Whitehead had returned the salutes of the Uniformed Division guards on duty at the side entrance to the White House and been escorted along a corridor he’d walked down hundreds of times.
He’d asked to see the President as early as possible and was told she’d be happy to meet with him over breakfast.
President O’Rourke was already at work. She got to her feet, smiling when she saw him. “General.”
“Madame President.”
“I ordered you bacon and eggs and coffee, of course.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.”
Tiny and kinetic, with grey hair in a motherly bun, she came around the side of her desk and indicated the small dining room off the Oval Office.
“Ah, I see the food has arrived.”
Two navy valets in black slacks, white shirts, black vests, and bow ties were putting plates on the table while a third poured coffee, then retreated to the small pantry.
Whitehead waited for the President to be seated and was just about to do so himself when he stopped.
The head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff knew the sound of a gun being drawn and the look on someone’s face when they realized they were about to die.
He saw it now on the President. He reached out and gripped the back of the chair to use as a weapon, hoping he could—
That was as far as Bert Whitehead got.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir leaned against the doorpost into the guards’ room and watched the live reports. So far no one knew what had happened inside. Maddeningly, they only had the picture of the exterior of the White House.
Reine-Marie and Yvette Nichol sat side by side on the sofa and watched, wide-eyed. Barely breathing.
Olivier turned on the TV in the bistro, something he only did for Stanley Cup finals when the Canadiens were playing. He’d lost the remote, and now, brushing the dust off it, he turned the screen on. Myrna, Clara, and Ruth watched, along with other patrons, their crêpes getting cold.
All around the country, the world, televisions and computers were turned on, tuned in. Cameras were trained on the exterior of one of the most recognizable buildings in the world as more and more emergency vehicles arrived. Sirens blaring. Lights flashing. Special forces, armed to the hilt, were pouring out of trucks as perimeters were established.
Journalists in every language tried to work out what was happening. Though one thing was known.
Shots had been fired in the White House.
Prime Minister Woodford sat down with a thump and brought his hand to his mouth, as though trying to stifle a word, a shout. His phone lay in his other hand, the screen lighting up as messages poured in, ignored for the moment.
More Parliamentary Protective officers had arrived, this time armed with M4 carbines. They’d secured the perimeter of Parliament Hill in Ottawa, and the officer in charge was trying to get more information. The Minister of Defense for Canada, Giselle Trudel, arrived and was stopped at the office door and frisked.
Gamache was on his phone. No one noticed.
“Anything, patron?” Lacoste joined him.
He was quiet, listening. “Get back to me when you have something.” Then he hung up. “Nothing. Everyone’s scrambling. There was absolutely no chatter about any sort of attack.”
“Get me the feed from inside the White House,” the PM demanded.
“We’re trying, sir,” said the head of intelligence.
