Isabelle Lacoste, far from being put out, almost smiled. These two reminded her of her parents, and were about the same age. Mid-fifties, she guessed. Sensibly, if unimaginatively, dressed. The woman wore a cloth coat of decent cut, though slightly baggy, while the man had on a raincoat, with the lightest dusting of doughnut sugar down the front.

The woman’s hair was obviously dyed at home, and due for another treatment. And the man’s hair was combed over, in an attempt to hide what could not be hidden.

“My name’s Mary Fraser.” Her hand, extended in greeting, revealed chipped nail polish. “This is my colleague, Sean Delorme.”

He smiled and shook hands. His cuticles were nibbled and torn.

“We’re from CSIS,” she said cheerfully.

Had Mary Fraser said they were from the moon it would have been more believable. Isabelle Lacoste tried not to show her surprise.

“Are we supposed to tell her that?” Sean Delorme asked, averting his face from Lacoste and putting his hand to his mouth. Again, trying to hide the obvious.

“What else are we going to say?” whispered Madame Fraser. “That we’re tourists?”

“Okay, but we should have consulted.”

“We had the whole drive down—”

Now it was the man’s turn to put up his hand to stop the bickering.

“We can talk about this later,” he said. “But if we get into trouble, it’s your fault.”

They spoke to each other in English but had spoken to Lacoste in heavily accented, textbook good, French.

Perhaps, thought Lacoste, they didn’t think she spoke English. She decided not to disabuse them of that thought.

“Un plaisir,” she said, shaking their hands. “CSIS, you say? The Canadian Security Intelligence Service?”

She had to be sure. If two people looked less like spies, and even less like intelligence agents, it was these two.

The man, Sean Delorme, looked around, then leaned closer to Lacoste. “Can we talk privately?”

His eyes darted around, as though they were in Berlin in 1939 and he had the codes.

“Of course,” said Lacoste, and unlocking the door into the Incident Room, she led them inside just as Beauvoir arrived.

Lacoste made the introductions.

Like her, Beauvoir looked at them and asked, obviously needing to clarify, “CSIS? The spy agency?”

“We prefer intelligence,” said Mary Fraser, but she didn’t seem displeased to be called a spy.

“What brings you here?” asked Lacoste, taking them over to the conference table.

“Well,” said Delorme, dropping his voice to barely above a whisper. “We heard about the gun.”

Lacoste half expected him to tap the side of his nose.

“You’ll have to forgive Monsieur Delorme,” said Mary Fraser, giving her colleague a filthy look. “We’re not often allowed out of the office.”

Now he gave her an equally filthy look.

“Where is your office?” asked Lacoste.

“Ottawa,” said Ms. Fraser. “We’re at headquarters.”

“May I see your identification?” asked Beauvoir.