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Reine-Marie, who hadn’t quite gotten that far in the book, looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

Armand laughed. “You said Animal House.”

Now she looked appalled. “Argh. I have that lodged in my brain. Animal Farm, Animal Farm. Have you read it?”

“Years ago, in Cambridge. It was a question in the debating society. ‘Are all animals created equal?’ Why’re you reading it now?”

“Ruth suggested it. We were talking about…” Reine-Marie paused to remember their conversation. It had been so wide-ranging. “Oh, I know. Propaganda. Napoleon is always right.”

Armand nodded, recognizing another famous and chilling quote from the book.

“A tyrant posing as a strong leader, manipulating public opinion,” he said. “But why were you talking about that? When last I heard, you and the others were heading to Jericho to the Snowflake Bentley museum.”

Knowing he was preoccupied with Marcus Lauzon and Evelyn Tardiff, she hadn’t updated him. It would have been, she knew, a long email. Now she told him about their outing. Including Camp Ethan Allen.

“A commando training center?” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “And you say Charles’s line goes right through it?”

“Well, if it doesn’t turn anywhere,” she said. “It seems far-fetched. Why would a biologist be concerned about a commando camp?”

Armand shook his head.

“How was lunch?” she asked.

“Chicken was delicious, merci.”

“And the rest?”

He took a deep breath, moving his body as though to express uncertainty. Then he sat forward.

“Lauzon still maintains his innocence. Says he wasn’t involved in the poisoning plot. Even denies knowing about the payoffs. Claims the money was planted.”

“Nothing we didn’t hear in his trial. Did he say anything new? Give you any evidence?” But even as she asked, she knew this was far too public a place to discuss it.

Jean-Guy and Isabelle had both returned to Montréal and their families. Jean-Guy to have a shower and wash off the slime from too-close contact with Marcus Lauzon. Isabelle to finally have that long, hot bubble bath she’d dreamed of since the night before in that tent. On that root. She hated that root.

Armand and Reine-Marie ordered dinner at the bistro, arctic char for him with a mild orange sauce, while she ordered the pasta in herb butter, grated Romano, and lemon zest. A particular favorite.

They were eventually joined by Clara and Myrna, who both had the grilled shrimp. Ruth came over to report that there wasn’t enough roast chicken in their fridge for her dinner. They were about to order her the pasta too when Armand noticed she’d eaten half his arctic char.

Finally, Olivier and Gabri sat down with an exhausted plunk. “Dinner service is almost over. The kids can look after the rest.”

Armand looked up and saw Frère Simon helping the youngsters, even though he was off shift.

“Would you like anything more?” Gabri asked.

They all wanted the crème brûlée, but no one except Ruth had the heart to ask them to get up again. The guys ignored her, and eventually she satisfied herself by taking Myrna’s half-drunk glass of red wine.

Armand excused himself, and once back home in his study, he placed a call.

“Bert?”

“Armand, good to hear from you. How’s Reine-Marie?”

“Knitting sweaters for winter.”

It was, of course, not true. “Knitting” was the code the two old comrades had created to tell the other that what they had to say was confidential.

“Oh, someone’s at the door,” said General Whitehead. “I’ll call you back.”