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A technician had arrived and was on a call. “Got it,” he said.

Gamache and Lacoste turned and saw the main monitor switch to a camera showing a long marble hallway.

All eyes were on the screen. Even those supposedly guarding the doors and windows turned to watch a heavily armed tactical team moving deeper into the White House.

“The Oval Office,” commanded the PM. “We need to find the President.”

The technician finally landed on cameras in the Oval Office, where Uniformed Division officers, weapons raised, had burst in. It was empty.

The cameras followed them into the next room.

Three bodies lay on the carpet.

Two were valets.

The other was in full military uniform. A valet was kneeling over him.

A thousand kilometers away Lacoste turned to Gamache and saw his face drain of blood.

“The President? Where’s the President?” Woodford shouted at the monitor.

At that moment the valet, blood on his shirt and a gun in his hand, stood and turned to the officers.

“He’s armed,” several of the guards in the PM’s office shouted. Some even pointed toward the screens.

On the monitors they watched as someone stepped between the armed valet and the armed guards.

There was a moment frozen in time.

Lacoste heard Gamache inhale. He’d seen, a split second before Lacoste, who it was.

President O’Rourke had placed herself in front of the valet, her arms wide. Protecting him.

“Non,” whispered Gamache. “Arrêtez.”

But it was too late. Bam, bam, bam! Shots went off.

What Gamache was afraid of had happened. He and Lacoste both knew from bitter experience that this was how tragedies occurred. Not on purpose, but because once the brain had committed to an action, it was almost impossible to stop.

Once the message had been sent to pull the trigger, it could not be recalled.

“Oh, God,” someone whispered.

Someone else, perhaps the PM, shouted, “No!”

Shona had closed her eyes but opened them again when she heard Gamache exhale.

The senior tactical officer in the White House, grasping the situation, had raised his arm, knocking the rifle of the guard next to him so that the shots hit the ceiling.

The President fell back, obviously thinking the bullets must have struck her, and probably repelled by the deafening noise within inches of her.

The valet she’d been protecting dropped the gun he’d taken off the assassin and grabbed the President. Holding her safe.

Within the small dining room, what looked like complete chaos broke out, but it was, in fact, finely orchestrated by the senior officer.

“Madame President, you need to come with us.”

He didn’t wait for her agreement before yanking her forward, away from the suspect.