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“Can your contact be trusted?” Tardiff asked.

“She’s the assistant to a senior meteorologist,” said Nichol.

“Not a climate scientist herself?” asked Lauzon. “How does she know?”

“She sees all the reports even before he does.”

“The isobars,” said Beauvoir. “They’re lining up again. Even worse. Who else will see this?”

“Eventually everyone at Environment Canada, and pilots, of course. Control towers. MétéoMédia and the Weather Network, as well as—”

“Got it,” snapped Beauvoir. “We have to stop the information from getting out.”

Nichol shot off a quick text to her contact and waited for a reply.

“But really, would anyone care?” asked Lauzon. “It shows a trough of high pressure, but would anyone see the danger?”

“After the megafires, I suspect every meteorologist in North America will be paying attention and know what this could mean,” said Beauvoir.

“But there’s no real danger, is there?” said Tardiff.

“Exactly,” said Lauzon. “If there were forest fires burning in that area, we’d be in trouble, but there aren’t.” He looked at their worried faces. “Are there?”

“How’re we going to do this?” Marie Lauzon asked Gamache.

“I have no idea. You’re the one who wants to get the Prime Minister.”

“But you’re the cop.”

“A cop, not a kidnapper.”

They were standing in the stairwell closest to the PM’s office. Fortunately, as ignorant as Armand was of the layout of Parliament, Marie Lauzon was knowledgeable. She’d played there as a child and explored every nook and cranny.

Marie looked at the time. “The cabinet meeting will be over in a few minutes. The Prime Minister keeps them to one hour sharp. He’ll be heading back to his office soon.”

“Is there an alarm he can press?”

“Yes. Under his desk.”

Gamache nodded. No surprise.

“And the office has cameras, of course.”

“Oui.”

So even if they could slip in and wait for him, they’d be clocked.

“How much coffee does he drink?”

Madame Lauzon was about to protest this ridiculous question, but stopped herself, realizing there must be a reason for it. And then she had it.

“A lot.”

“And he must have—”

“A private bathroom. That doesn’t, of course, have cameras.” For the first time since he’d met her twenty-two years earlier as a scowling, frightened, angry, and entitled teenager who’d just killed a boy on a bike, he saw Marie Lauzon smile.

“And after an hour in the meeting, drinking even more coffee—” said Armand.