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Canadians, in turn, would be told that the bombs that started the fires were supplied by the US.

And that too would be the truth.

The incendiary bombs had been smuggled in using trucks supplied by Joe Moretti. Caron had made sure they were not stopped at the border.

The American government, propelled by grieving and outraged citizens and the media, would be compelled to act. To send troops into Canada. Perhaps on the pretext of fighting the fires, perhaps not. By then they would need no excuse—the images on the news would see to that.

And the troops would never leave.

It was all mapped out in the now grotesque War Plan Red. A document conceived in 1919, going dormant in 1939, then resurrected as a contingency, little more than an almost laughable exercise.

Until a visionary had seen the opportunities presented by the looming water crisis.

All crises presented opportunities to those bold enough to grab them. Few were. Which made the prize all the greater for those who did.

All it would take now was the spark. And Caron had provided that.

She texted her counterparts in the United States to be ready with their own payload of incendiary news releases. Already locked and loaded.

A second, terse message came in from Gamache, this one for Isabelle.

“I don’t understand,” said Shona, reading it. “Why does he want us to go to an airport?”

“I don’t know.” Isabelle put the phone away and peered around the stone pillar of the old bridge to see if anyone was approaching. “I’m thinking the reason will be obvious once we get there.”

“Just us? Shouldn’t we call for backup or whatever you call it?”

Lacoste turned to her. “From who?”

Shona was about to answer. The Sûreté. The RCMP. The Armed Forces, for God’s sake. Instead, she was silent.

Who? Who could they trust?

No one.

“We need to get out of here,” said Lacoste.

“Shouldn’t we wait for him?”

“Non.”

As they ran to the car, Isabelle Lacoste could not believe she was leaving the Chief behind. But she had to go, and Armand had to stay, to cope as best he could.

“There’s no fire there now,” said Beauvoir. They’d moved up to the church basement and were staring at the map on the wall. “Which means they’ll need to start one. The conditions are too perfect to ignore.”

Nichol turned to Marcus Lauzon. “How would they do it?”

“You’re asking me? I have no idea.”

“Come on, you sat in on cabinet meetings,” said Beauvoir.

“We talked about putting them out, not starting them. But—”

“What is it?”

“We fight forest fires with water bombers, among other things.”

“Oui. So?”