Page 71

He’d obviously understood, and a minute later Armand’s phone rang again. This time the head of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff had used the secure line.

“How can I help, Armand?” When he didn’t answer, the General’s tone changed. “What is it? Something’s wrong. It’s not over?”

“I don’t think so. I think the poisoning plot you helped us with was the first volley, maybe even meant to distract.”

“A Napoleonic strategy,” said Whitehead, a student of tactics.

“And Napoleon is always right.” Even as he said it, Armand was taken aback. Where had that come from? And just as quickly he remembered. His conversation with Reine-Marie about Animal Farm.

“Not always,” said the General. “In an effort to strangle the British, Napoleon brought in the Continental—” On hearing Armand clear his throat, he stopped and even chuckled. “Sorry. You didn’t call to talk about a long-dead French emperor.”

“Non, riveting as the Continental System is. Bert, a phrase, really a single word, keeps appearing, but I don’t know what it means. What does ‘FEDS’ say to you?”

“‘Feds’? As in federal government? Or the Feds? The FBI? Or—”

“No, we thought of all that. It’s not ‘the Feds,’ just ‘FEDS.’ And seems to be in caps. Maybe an acronym.”

There was a pause. “Nope, Armand. Sorry. It means nothing to me. Please give my love to Reine-Marie. Ask her to bring her knitting pattern down next time you visit. Soon, I hope, old friend.”

“I’ll pass it along. We both know what an enthusiastic knitter you are. One of Napoleon’s hobbies too, to relieve stress, I believe.”

“Really?”

“Non.”

And with that, both men hung up. And both, unseen by the other, leaned back in their chairs and stared ahead.

Armand thought for a moment, then put in a call to Jean-Guy.

In Washington, Bert Whitehead was placing his own call.

CHAPTER 16

At the same time next morning that Jean-Guy was boarding a flight to DC, Isabelle was tossing gear into a float plane.

Armand had spent much of the night before lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Debating. He finally got up and, going downstairs, he sat in an armchair and put on music.

Music. Music. How he’d missed music.

In the quietude, he listened to Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins. Calm. Calming. Restful. As he listened, he let his mind drift.

Isabelle would soon be heading back up north. To see again the lake where Charles had last visited. Where Frederick had been killed. Study again the arrow carved into the tree.

That remote body of water had produced at least one body. And he knew it had more to cough up. Something else was hiding there.

He’d woken Reine-Marie before dawn with a mug of coffee. Sitting on the side of their bed, he’d leaned down and kissed her forehead. Startled, she’d sat up so quickly she’d almost broken his nose.

“What is it?”

He’d laughed. “Désolé. I didn’t mean to scare you. I have to go out.”

She focused and saw what he was wearing. A heavy coat over a turtleneck sweater. Looking down, she saw he had on thick woolen socks and by the bedroom door was a satchel.

Reine-Marie narrowed her eyes. “I’m assuming you aren’t heading to the bistro.”

“Non. I need to go to the lake where Frederick Castonguay was found.”

She pulled herself up in the bed. “You’re going to fly there?”