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“So if I was going to start one? I’d do the same thing, only instead of dropping water, I’d drop incendiary bombs.”

“Shit.” Beauvoir’s mind was moving quickly. “They’ll need planes. Which means the collaboration of the Air Force.”

“CFB Bagotville,” said Lauzon. Canadian Forces Base Bagotville.

“Oui.” Beauvoir thumped his fist against the map, squishing the large base north of Québec City.

“That’ll play right into Woodford’s narrative,” Lauzon said. “The one he wants spread by American media. That the fires have been deliberately set by Canada as an attack.”

“And they’d be right,” said Tardiff.

Nichol almost protested, pointing out that it made no sense. No one would believe that Canada was going to attack the US using ash, for God’s sake. It was ridiculous. But she realized it didn’t have to make sense.

The less rational, the better. The point was not to engage brains but emotions. And emotions could be manipulated ridiculously easily.

Besides, the real point wasn’t to defeat the Americans—that was impossible. The point was to provoke a counterattack. Give the Americans a pretext for invading Canada. And winning.

“So what do we do? Who do we tell?” Nichol demanded. “We at least have a pretty good idea where the fire will be started.”

They now looked at the remote lake. Where Charles had visited, and Frederick had died. If it was where the bombers would end their mission, then the start was the Air Force base in Bagotville. But Beauvoir could hardly send a message to the commander there. She might very well be among those involved in what amounted to a coup.

“Wait,” said Evelyn Tardiff. “Moretti sent trucks to Mirabel. I didn’t know why, but—”

“Of course they’d move the planes,” said Beauvoir, exasperated with himself for not seeing it. “Where there’d be fewer witnesses.”

They shifted their gaze to Mirabel. The civilian airport north of Montréal, long considered a white elephant and all but abandoned, could easily handle those bombers.

Beauvoir made for the door. “We’re going.”

“We who?” said Nichol, looking around. “Just us? Are you kidding? This sounds half-assed, like kids putting on a play. Mom can do the costumes and we can use Uncle Ned’s barn…”

Despite herself, Chief Inspector Tardiff gave one snort of laughter. Yvette was not wrong. But neither was Beauvoir.

“What can we do against bombers?” Nichol was now saying. “We need to get more support.”

“From where?” asked Tardiff. “Who can we trust?”

Nichol had no answer.

“I’ll stay here,” said Lauzon. “I won’t be any use in a fight.”

“You were earlier today,” said Beauvoir.

“Damn,” sighed the former Deputy Prime Minister. “I knew that would come back to bite me on the ass.”

Jean-Guy’s face had been so grim for so long, smiling almost hurt. “You saved our lives. I’m not sure I ever thanked you.”

“No need.”

“But there is.” Beauvoir patted his jacket pockets and found what he was looking for. “I got this from the warden at the prison. I believe it’s yours.” He held out a phone. “I’m sorry, sir, for all you’ve been through and my part in it. You were wrongly convicted. I know that now.”

Lauzon took the phone. “Thank you, but we both know I’m not exactly the innocent type. I’ve done a lot I’m ashamed of, including to the Gamaches.”

“No one is as bad as the worst thing they’ve done.” Beauvoir surprised even himself with that statement. He wondered where it came from, then realized it was, of course, Gamache.

Jean-Guy did not remember that the Chief was himself quoting a death row nun.

“Can I send just one message?” The man, once the second most powerful person in the nation, now looked small, and vulnerable, and very emotional. “To my daughter. I won’t tell her where we’re going, I just want her to know…”