Delighted by the request, they were completely oblivious to the possible insult.

They brought out their wallets but had trouble getting their laminated ID cards out. Mary Fraser was even having trouble finding hers.

As the two squabbled, Jean-Guy and Isabelle exchanged a grimace. Ottawa, and CSIS, could not have thought much of the find in the woods if this is what they sent.

Finally they handed the ID cards over to Beauvoir and Lacoste, who confirmed the two smiling middle-aged people across the conference table were Canadian intelligence agents.

“How did you hear about the gun?” Lacoste asked, sliding the cards back.

“Our boss told us,” said Delorme.

“How did he hear?” she tried again.

“I don’t really know.” Delorme looked at Ms. Fraser, who shook her head.

“Frankly, we just do as we’re told, and we were told to come here to look at the gun.”

Almost certainly this was the result of General Langelier “thinking about it,” thought Lacoste. He must’ve called someone in National Defence, who called CSIS, who sent it down the line until they ran out of line and came to these two.

“Why you?” asked Beauvoir. “Not that we aren’t thrilled to have you.”

“You know,” said Ms. Fraser. “We were wondering the same thing. We work in the same section, Sean and I. Have for years. Mostly filing.”

“But some fieldwork,” Delorme jumped in.

“Putting records on computer. Cross-referencing,” she said. “Seeing if any connections were missed. We’re quite good at that.”

“We are,” he admitted. “We see things others don’t.”

“Best not to tell them we see things,” she said, and Delorme laughed.

“Well,” said Lacoste, warming to them. “I imagine you’d like to see the gun.”

She sounded to her own ears like a 1950s housewife discreetly offering to show guests the facilities.

*   *   *

“Do you wish you were out there?” Reine-Marie asked, as her husband took a bite of the maple-smoked ham, apple and Brie sandwich, on a pain de campagne.

He looked out the bistro window, toward the stone bridge.

“You mean in the damp, cold woods at a crime scene?”

“Yes.”

“A little.”

“Monsieur Gamache,” said Reine-Marie, “you’re crazier than even my mother thought.”

“Your mother loved me.”

“Only because you made her own children look sane. Except Alphonse, of course. He really is nuts.”

Henri was curled under their bistro table. The shepherd’s head, resting on Armand’s shoes, was smattered with flakes of crusty bread.

“Isabelle’s doing a good job?” Reine-Marie asked.

“Not just a good job, a remarkable job. She’s completely taken control of the department. Made it her own.”

Reine-Marie watched him for signs of regret hiding beneath the obvious relief. But there was only admiration there for his young protégé.

“Jean-Guy seems to be accepting her as his boss,” she said, buttering a piece of fresh baguette from the basket that came with her parsnip and apple soup.