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Unfortunately, none had been held in the sub-basement.

All he could remember now was what he’d learned fifty years ago on the tour of Parliament with his parents.

The guide had explained that everyone had expected, in the 1850s, that Queen Victoria would choose Kingston, or maybe Toronto or Montréal, as the capital of the soon-to-be sovereign nation of Canada. The three cities vied for it, competed, wined and dined the Queen’s representatives. Lobbied, cajoled, and bribed.

And then, when the time came, she chose … Ottawa. Ottawa??

Angry city leaders claimed she’d thrown a dart at a map and hit what was, at the time, essentially a cow town.

In fact, as their tour guide had explained, it came to light later that the decision was strategic and, as it turned out, prescient.

Queen Victoria, or more likely her advisers, had chosen Ottawa because it was farther from the US border. Should the Americans invade, the PM and other leaders would have more time to organize resistance.

While an invasion in the late 1800s did not seem likely, neither was it altogether unlikely. Even 150 years ago, the danger was obvious, if not imminent.

What Queen Victoria could never have foreseen, or believed, was that the threat would come from inside the border. From inside Parliament.

But all that was useless at the moment. What Armand needed was a way out.

He had absolutely no idea of the building’s layout. Just that wings had been added over the years. Common sense told him there must be some underground connection, where equipment and documents could be moved without clattering around the main corridors.

His goal at first was to keep the guards following him until he was sure Lacoste and Shona were out. By now that must have happened. The alarm must have been sounded. He was no longer being followed, he was now being hunted.

He needed to get out too.

The sub-basement of the old building was as worn and musky as he’d expected. There were the mechanical rooms, the storerooms; file cabinets lined corridors, filled with God knew what sensitive material.

What he hadn’t found, and now needed, was a passageway that would take him to the next building over. That was his plan, such as it was. Once there he could escape and head to the bridge.

Now, as the guards closed in again, he resisted the temptation to duck into one of the storerooms and hide. To curl into a corner, as small as he could make himself, and close his eyes. That was a childish impulse, an illusion of safety. If they decided to search it, he’d be trapped with no way out.

His only hope was to get to the next building.

The RCMP guards were approaching. Slower this time, sure they’d passed him by. He could hear them opening and closing doors.

Had his hearing been better, had the cicadas all left, he’d have heard another, more subtle sound. Much closer.

The same one that, earlier that endless day, had alerted General Whitehead. But even had Armand heard the cocking of a gun behind him, it would have been, as it was for the General, too late.

“All right, out with it,” Beauvoir demanded of Lauzon. “What do you know?”

Everyone else had left. Beauvoir, Nichol, Lauzon, and Tardiff sat in a circle, leaning toward each other. A conclave.

“I know that your Black Wolf is the Prime Minister,” said Lauzon. “I’ve known all along.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” asked Beauvoir.

“I had no hard evidence, and I assumed, no, I hoped that someone would at least take the time to look deeper. Honestly, any imbecile could see that the Prime Minister must be behind it. Who else could have possibly organized all this? Who else has the ear of the American President? I was set up, and my only hope of staying alive was to keep my mouth shut.”

Now that Lauzon said it, it did seem all too obvious.

“The PM calls the shots, with Jeanne Caron his covert number two,” said Evelyn Tardiff.

“That’s it. She’s the only one in a position to set me up so perfectly. She does the dirty work, as always, while Woodford remains in the shadows.”

“For Christ’s sake, we know all that, but it’s the Prime Minister!” said Beauvoir. “We need more than the word of a convicted traitor.”

Seeing the look on Lauzon’s tired face, Jean-Guy stopped and took a deep breath, pulling himself together. When he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle. “Désolé, Monsieur Lauzon. I went too far. But we need hard evidence, and we need it now.”