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There was little to lose at this stage if Nichol and Tardiff were working against them, and a whole lot to gain if Nichol and Tardiff were on their side.

“It’s time for you to contact your mentor,” Gamache said to Shona. “That Paul fellow.”

“Paul Workman.”

Gamache stared at her. “Paul Workman’s your mentor?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Surprised doesn’t begin to cover it,” said Isabelle. “He’s the most senior, most respected journalist in Canada. One of the top foreign correspondents internationally. He’s covered wars and catastrophes, crisis after crisis—”

“God, you sound like you have a crush on the guy,” said Shona. She was not far wrong. Even Gamache looked a bit smitten.

“Until his network, CTV, closed his London bureau and let him go in a journalistic bloodbath,” said Gamache. “It was a travesty.”

It left millions of Canadians at the mercy of the reporting, the perceptions, and the interpretations of other nations. Including, especially, the American networks.

Paul Workman. This might actually work.

Gamache told her what he needed.

Just then a message from Jean-Guy appeared on the secure app.

“Lauzon says Jeanne Caron’s either the Black Wolf or knows who is.”

Gamache’s mind raced. How much had he told her?

“Didn’t he suggest the PM was the Black Wolf not long ago?” said Lacoste, reading the message. “Who’s next? You? He’s messing with us.”

Gamache took a deep breath. He hoped so. Because if either Woodford or Caron was behind all this, they were in deep trouble.

He put his phone away and looked around. “We have to get out of here.”

CHAPTER 26

Agent Fontaine looked around the office.

She was not alone. A few of the Action Québec Bleu volunteers were also standing there, staring.

“What happened here?” asked one. “Did someone break in?”

“Why would anyone do that?” asked another.

“Why would anyone do this?” said the first, sweeping his arm around.

“This” was rifle their desks, rip maps off the walls, take their computers.

Fontaine had gone directly to Margaux Chalifoux’s office. It was empty. Not a piece of paper, not a pen, not a paperclip was left.

“Oh, fuck.”

She took a photo and sent it to Inspector Lacoste, her direct superior. Then she contacted the agents assigned to watch Chalifoux.

Is she still at home?

Hasn’t left.

Fontaine lowered her phone and considered. Chalifoux should have been in already.