Jérôme lifted his hands off the keyboard and they hovered in midair.

Gamache stared at the monitor. He could almost see lines of code appear, grow, then contract.

“Have they found you?” Jérôme asked Nichol.

“No. I’m over in another file. It’s also about construction, but it’s old. Can’t be important.”

“Wait,” said Gamache, dragging his chair over to her monitor. “Show me.”

*   *   *

“Sir, it’s Charpentier again.”

“Oui,” said Francoeur. He’d showered and dressed and was about to head in. It was now just after six.

“It was nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain. I had a good look around. Ran all sorts of scans and couldn’t find any unauthorized access to our network. It happens fairly often, as I said. A ghost in the machine. I’m sorry to disturb you with this.”

“You did the right thing.” While relieved, Francoeur still didn’t relax. “Put more agents on to monitor.”

“Another shift starts at eight—”

“I mean now.” The voice was sharp, and Charpentier responded immediately.

“Yessir.”

Francoeur hung up, then punched in Tessier’s number.

*   *   *

“These are shift reports,” said Gamache. “From a company called Aqueduct. They’re thirty years old. Why’re you looking at them?”

“I was following a trail. A name popped up in another file and I followed it here.”

“What name?” Gamache asked.

“Pierre Arnot.”

“Show me.” Gamache leaned in and Nichol scrolled down. Gamache put on his glasses and scanned the pages. There were lots of names. It appeared to be work schedules and soil reports and things called loads. “I don’t see it.”

“Neither did I,” admitted Nichol. “But it’s associated with this file.”

“Maybe it’s another Pierre Arnot,” said Jérôme from his desk. “It’s not an uncommon name.”

Gamache hummed to show he’d heard, but his attention was taken by the file. There was no actual mention of any Arnot.

“How could his name be attached to this file, but not appear in it?” Gamache asked.

“It could be hidden,” said Nichol. “Or an outside reference. Like your name might be attached to a file on balding, or licorice pipes.”

Gamache glanced at Jérôme, who’d given a snort.

Still, he understood. Arnot’s name didn’t need to appear in the file to be somehow associated with it. Somewhere down the line, there was a connection.

“Keep going,” said the Chief, and got up.

*   *   *

“Charpentier’s very good at what he does,” Tessier reassured Francoeur over the phone. He too was dressed and ready for work. As he’d put on his socks he’d realized that when he took them off that night, everything would have changed. His world. The world. Certainly Québec. “If he says it’s nothing, then that’s what it was.”

“No.” The Chief Superintendent wanted to be convinced, to be reassured. But he wasn’t. “There’s something wrong. Call Lambert. Get her in.”

“Yessir.” Tessier hung up and dialed Chief Inspector Lambert, the head of Cyber Crimes.

*   *   *

Gamache stirred the embers with a fresh log, making more room, then he shoved it in and put the cast-iron cap back on.

“Agent Nichol,” he said after a few moments. “Can you look up that company?”

“What company?”

“Aqueduct.” He walked across to her. “Where you followed Pierre Arnot.”

“But he never showed up. It must’ve been another Arnot or a coincidental contact. Something not very significant.”

“Maybe, but please find out what you can about Aqueduct.” He was leaning over her, one hand on the desk, the other on the back of her chair.

She huffed, and the screen she was looking at flew away. A few clicks later and images of old Roman bridges and water systems leapt onto the monitor. Aqueducts.

“Satisfied?” she demanded.

“Scroll down,” he said, and he studied the list of references to “Aqueduct.”

There was a company that studied sustainability. There was a band by that name.

They went through a few pages, but the information became less and less relevant.