And as soon as he said it, Beauvoir could see the logic of it. In fact, it now seemed so obvious as to be almost unmissable.

Frederick Lawson might have snuck across the border with the help of Ruth and Monsieur Béliveau, but he’d been able to stay, to make a life for himself, to become Al Lepage, get married. How did a deserter about to be tried for a war crime manage that except with the blessing of the government, or one of its agencies?

Was that the price of admission to Canada? Every now and then Al Lepage would be called upon to do some of the government’s dirty work?

Lacoste had let Lepage return to his home, but assigned agents to watch him around the clock.

“Pardon,” said Gamache, taking his phone out of his pocket, where it must have vibrated, because Beauvoir hadn’t heard anything.

Gamache looked at who was calling, then answered.

“Chief Superintendent,” he said.

“I take it you’re not alone, Armand,” said Thérèse Brunel. “I have some news.”

“Oui?” By the tone of her voice he could tell he probably hadn’t won the lottery.

“I had a call just now from the executive producer of the CBC national news.”

Gamache took a deep breath, steeling himself.

Beauvoir glanced over. The Chief was alert, tense.

“Go on.”

“It’s what you think,” she said. “They’ve found out about the gun.”

“How much do they know?”

“They know about Project Babylon, about Gerald Bull, they know the gun’s somewhere in Québec, which is why they called me.”

“But they don’t know where it is?”

“Not yet. They’re holding the story until the six o’clock national radio news tonight. By then they might know everything. And even if they don’t, it’ll still hit the headlines like a bomb. Every journalist will be all over the story. They’ll find out everything eventually. You might have a day from the time of broadcast, or you might have hours.”

“Can you stop it?” he asked.

“You know what’s involved in censoring the press, Armand. I have an urgent request in for an injunction but judges are loath to give them. We have to assume the story will run.”

Gamache looked at his watch. It was already one thirty.

“They don’t know about Guillaume Couture?” he asked.

“No, but you found out within a matter of hours. They’ll have that soon enough. Once it airs, someone in the village will talk. It’s shocking that word hasn’t leaked before now.”

Three Pines was good at keeping its secrets, thought Gamache. But this one was about to escape.

“Merci.” He hung up. “Stop the car, please.”

Beauvoir pulled over and Gamache got out, bending over, one hand on the car, one on his knee, as though he was about to retch.

Jean-Guy hurried around the car. “Are you all right?”