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Gamache was given another shove, harder this time, so that he stumbled but regained his balance.

“I want their weapons confiscated. And”—Woodford turned to his Minister of Public Safety—“take their Sûreté IDs.”

“But we have no authority—”

“This is a matter of national security. Do it.”

Without meeting Gamache’s glare, Ferguson slid his hand into the Chief’s breast pocket and took out the ID. Only after he looked at it did he meet Gamache’s eyes.

“Give it to me,” said Woodford, and the Minister did.

Lacoste’s was also collected.

“The Chief Inspector wasn’t armed when he arrived,” the head of the RCMP security detail reported. “Inspector Lacoste surrendered her weapon at the door.”

“Good. Keep it.” Prime Minister Woodford turned back to Gamache. “If you breathe a word of War Plan Red, Chief Inspector, I will have you arrested.”

“On what charge?”

“Does it matter?” Woodford spoke so quietly only the two of them heard. Or so he thought. “You’ll do as I say, or they”—he glanced at Lacoste and Shona—“go down too. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. Now understand this. Our loyalty is not to you. It’s not my job to mindlessly do your bidding.”

“You have no job anymore, Monsieur Gamache.”

At another nod from the PM, Gamache was again shoved, this time right through the door.

Once in the outer office Armand said slowly and clearly, “War Plan Red. Come clean about War Plan Red, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“I’m warning you.” Woodford’s eyes narrowed, and his cheeks burned. “Don’t. Don’t make me do it.”

But it was too late. Armand Gamache might not be armed with a gun, but he had a much more powerful weapon at his disposal.

He raised his voice so that it was loud but not raucous. Not out of control. This was the voice of a person in complete command of themselves.

“War Plan Red, sir. Tell us the truth.”

“Be quiet! Stop it.” The PM waved at the RCMP guards. “Stop him. Arrest him.”

The guards were momentarily off-balance. The Chief Inspector was not only highly respected; he was also, as far as they could tell, not breaking any law.

“The man’s mad. Do it.” Prime Minister Woodford jabbed his finger at his head of security, who approached Gamache.

Then the Prime Minister noticed what Shona Dorion was doing.

“She’s recording! Get her phone.”

“I’m a journalist,” Shona shouted. “Covering the story. I’m a journalist. I’m a jour—”

The phone was ripped from her hand, and the head of the RCMP detail raised the butt of her carbine. Shona cringed and brought up her arm to ward off the blow.

Lacoste moved quickly and stepped in front of Shona, just as the rifle descended, hitting Lacoste on the side of her head.

She dropped.

Gamache moved toward her but only got one step before being hit in the solar plexus by the butt of the same rifle. He fell to his knees, gasping.

Fighting to regain his breath, he crawled toward Isabelle. When he reached her, he looked up, right at the PM, and rasped, “Stop this! Tell the truth about War Plan Red. I’m begging you.”