Gamache remembered that moment with complete clarity.

When Michael Rosenblatt had stepped in front of him, with the gun pointed at his chest, Gamache had had the overwhelming impression that Rosenblatt was in no danger.

In that split second, as the plans burned, Delorme should have shot. But didn’t. To kill Gamache and Beauvoir, for plans that were almost certainly gone, would trigger an international manhunt. And so Professor Rosenblatt had done the only thing possible. He’d stepped in front of the gun, not to save Gamache or Beauvoir, but to salvage whatever he could of the situation.

“You think Rosenblatt’s one of them? A CSIS agent, or something?”

“Or something,” said Gamache.

He did not believe Michael Rosenblatt was himself a killer, though he thought the man might be capable of it. But he did think Rosenblatt knew Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme much better than he pretended.

After all, who called them to Three Pines? Who told them about finding Project Babylon?

Gamache had suggested as much to the retired scientist when they’d parted on the terrasse. And warned him he’d be watching.

“You still think I’m mixed up in this?” Rosenblatt had asked.

“I think you know far more than you’re telling.”

Rosenblatt had studied him closely. “We’re on the same side, Armand. You must believe me.”

“Do you swear it?” Gamache had asked. “On your grandson’s life?”

Professor Rosenblatt had smiled and Gamache heard a small grunt of acknowledgment. “I do.”

But then all amusement disappeared. “You need to know,” said Rosenblatt, “the clock hasn’t stopped. It has simply been reset.”

Armand Gamache had watched him walk away, believing he was looking at the taproot. From which Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme and John Fleming had sprung.

Jean-Guy and Armand strolled in silence around the village green, through the cold, crisp fresh autumn evening.

“Professor Rosenblatt might not have been in any danger when he stepped in front of the gun, but you were, patron.” Beauvoir stopped and turned to face his father-in-law. “Thank you.”

“Not everyone would have burned those plans, mon vieux. It was one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever seen. And I’m a man who’s seen the Manneken Pis.”

A laugh escaped Beauvoir, and then a smaller, deeper sound before he muffled it.

“You’re a brave man in a brave country, Jean-Guy. A man so remarkable needs to pass that courage on to his children.”

They walked in silence, by choice for Gamache, by necessity for Jean-Guy, who couldn’t yet speak.

“Merci,” he finally said. Then fell silent again.

As they passed the B and B, Armand saw a shadow in a window. An elderly man, preparing for bed. Where he would dream, perhaps, of children and grandchildren and friends. A warm hearth, a good book, quiet conversation. A life that might have been.

*   *   *