In the bistro, Armand hurried over to Professor Rosenblatt, who’d moved to the sofa by the fire.

“You found them?” the elderly scientist said, standing up.

“We hope so.”

Gamache opened the tube and tipped the scroll out. He sat down and unrolled it onto the blanket box. Rosenblatt joined him, bending over the paper.

“Is it them?” asked Beauvoir.

Rosenblatt didn’t answer. He made humming sounds, his finger tracing the lines of the schematic.

Come on, come on, thought Beauvoir. Behind them, the clock on the mantel said six minutes past six. Somewhere in the background he could hear the Radio Canada news. The French service also had the story of Gerald Bull and Project Babylon.

Olivier and Gabri must be in the kitchen, Beauvoir thought. Listening. Along with the rest of the world.

“Are these the plans?” he demanded.

*   *   *

Adam Cohen walked beside his friend down the long corridor. He felt sick and wondered if it was the flu, or the overpowering stink of disinfectant, or the memories conjured by that smell. Of eighteen long months in this hellhole, guarding these psychopaths.

Was it the thought of what he was about to do that was turning his stomach? Or was it more simple than all that? Less heroic. Was it just garden-variety fear, rooted and blossoming into terror?

Behind Cohen, with two heavily armed guards in front and two guards beside him, John Fleming was shuffling, his chains clinking. And mixed with that sound was humming. An old hymn.

By the waters of Babylon …

Agent Cohen walked on, his eyes riveted on the bright red exit sign. His hand in his pocket, clutching the device. Willing it to leap to life with a message.

*   *   *

Professor Rosenblatt studied one page, then the next, and the next. Looking at the schematics, pausing now and then to consider, then moving on.

“I see how they solved the trajectory problem, just here,” he said, pointing at a diagram.

“Are they genuine?” demanded Gamache, his own patience worn thin and finally worn through.

Rosenblatt straightened up and nodded. “I believe so.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said a woman’s voice, and they turned to see Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme at the door. “We saw you come over from the church. Is that what I think it is?”

Gamache rolled the plans back up.

“Yes.”

Mary Fraser looked genuinely relieved. Then she held out her hand.

For an instant Gamache thought it was a peace offering. Shaking hands to signal a truce. Perhaps even congratulations for doing what she could not.

Then he saw her face and realized the hand wasn’t offering, it was demanding.

Gamache handed the scroll to Beauvoir, then walked wordlessly past Mary Fraser to the telephone on the bar. He glanced at his watch.

Twenty minutes past six.

He was halfway through dialing Lacoste at the Incident Room when he heard a tiny, familiar click.