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The image of a Prime Minister using violence to stop a journalist from reporting an event was shocking. Damning.

As a seasoned journalist who’d covered wars and insurrections, riots and natural disasters, few things surprised him. But what he saw on those two feeds from Parliament left him shaken. Made worse because he’d voted for James Woodford. Had thought him a decent person, a man of integrity. But the mask hadn’t just slipped, it had fallen and shattered.

He posted the raw video on his site. In doing so he placed his formidable reputation on the line. His social media was trusted by journalists and opinion makers worldwide.

Then Workman sat back and watched the views and shares tick up. And up. As the confrontation in the PM’s office went viral.

The PM’s face was thunderous.

Messages were pouring in. All red-flagged. All asking what the hell he was thinking. What the hell he was doing.

Cabinet ministers, party executives, donors, even other world leaders were forwarding social media posts containing links to videos on Paul Workman’s site. And reposted. And reposted.

Giselle Trudel, the Minister of Defense, was about to click on one when the television screens covering one wall changed. The Canadian networks had moved from the exterior of the White House to the interior of the Prime Minister’s office. And up came the video.

“Fuck me,” moaned the PM.

There for everyone to see was Chief Inspector Gamache shouting “War Plan Red,” and the PM ordering his security to violently stop a journalist from videoing it.

The feed continued even after the phone was taken from Dorion. Now, from a different angle, they saw first Inspector Lacoste, then Gamache drop to the floor, hit with the butt of a rifle, on orders from the PM.

Then the senior Sûreté officer, on the ground, begged the Prime Minister to come clean about the plan.

For a moment those in the office were silent, shocked. Not that it had happened, they’d all seen it in person, but that it should be broadcast. And that there was clearly a second phone that had recorded the shameful events.

Woodford looked around. “Where’s Payette? Get her in here!”

“I’ll find her,” said Ferguson.

As he left the office, the Minister of Public Safety glanced down at the slip of paper Chief Inspector Gamache had placed into his ID.

Whether it was meant for him specifically, Robert Ferguson didn’t know, but it was put there deliberately by Gamache for someone to find. He must have gone to the PM’s office knowing what would happen. Knowing he was ending his career.

Knowing his ID would be confiscated. And so, in a beau risque, he’d written out this message and placed it where someone would find it.

Someone, Gamache was gambling, with integrity.

As he left the room, the Minister of Public Safety crumpled the paper and was about to drop it into the wastepaper basket. But, changing his mind, he put it into his pocket. And left.

The Minister of Defense watched her cabinet colleague.

Giselle Trudel had had her doubts about him for a while now, no longer believing Robert Ferguson could be trusted. She’d said as much to the PM, but he hadn’t believed her.

But since the poisoning plot, and the revelations about Marcus Lauzon, her concerns had ratcheted up.

More than once her own Chief of Staff had come to her worried that files had been compromised. And that could only be done by another minister. Or the PM.

And now this mess.

Still, Trudel was a Woodford loyalist. She knew that leaders had secrets, things that were confidential, classified.

“What’re we going to do with Gamache and the others?” she asked him.

“Let me worry about that. I’m calling a full cabinet meeting in half an hour. Be there.”

“Of course.”

Once out the door, she turned to go to her office, then changed her mind.