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“The President is safe,” said Gamache. “That’s all I know.”

“Thank God for that.”

“What the hell happened?” asked another.

“Désolé.” He put up his hands to indicate he had nothing more.

They sat in a cluster of comfortable, though worn, armchairs in a far corner, away from the others.

Armand leaned forward. “How do you interpret what you saw?”

“The look on the Chief of Staff’s face?” said Shona. “I don’t know, but I watch people for a living and that was just strange. Her reaction was different from everyone else in the room.”

“Still, some people are slower to react than others,” suggested Gamache. “Madame Payette might’ve been in shock.”

“Maybe.” But she sounded far from convinced.

“Patron, have you checked your messages?”

“Not yet. Is there one in particular?”

“Yes.”

He got out his phone and found the message from Agent Nichol. It took him a few minutes to read through what was on the link. Then he looked up into Lacoste’s eyes. She too had read it.

“I know,” she said, agreeing with something he didn’t say. Didn’t have to say. The look on his face said it all.

“What?” Shona had perched on the arm of his chair and was straining to see.

He went back and read the document again.

“Holy shit,” Shona whispered. “That can’t be right. ’Cause if it is…”

“We need to speak to the Prime Minister,” said Gamache.

He approached the guard but was barred from leaving.

“Can you at least take a message to Prime Minister Woodford?”

His request was met with stony silence.

“What’re we going to do?” asked Shona. “We can’t just sit here. Can we send it to the PM?”

Gamache had considered that but decided against it. They needed to control who saw this document. They needed to protect it as long as they could. Besides, it probably would have been lost among all the other messages that must be pouring in.

Gamache’s own phone was slammed, jammed with messages. But one caught his eye.

Sherry Caufield had written on the secure server.

She was counterintelligence in the UK, and a famous misanthrope, rarely communicating unless she had something important to say, and even then her messages were terse. Often outright rude. She was tolerated because she was so good.

Under the heading What do you make of this? was a link. He clicked on it. Up came President O’Rourke at her desk in the Oval Office. She looked up and smiled as Bert Whitehead arrived.

Gamache sat back in his armchair, as though given a slight shove.

“What is it?” asked Isabelle, leaning over to see.

CHAPTER 25