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my wife before I give it any thought at all. We’re focusing on the business of government.”
    He seemed to realize suddenly that he had struck the wrong tone, and frowned. Simms spat another question. “Are those calls from cabinet colleagues? I’m told that so far only the cabinet has been informed.”
    Donahoe’s smile was back.
    “I think for the moment we should leave this to the prime minister,” he said. “This is the prime minister’s decision, and his announcement to make and I’ll leave speculation to the, uh, speculators.”
    And he stepped around Simms and the cameraman.
    Mowat was next at the door, striding hurriedly but smiling, the picture of a busy, hard-working silver-haired man with steel-rimmed spectacles, on his way to conduct important business, a faint smile on his face. He was followed closely by his press secretary, Sophie Fortin.
    “Mr. Mowat,” said Simms. “Will you be a candidate to succeed Mr. Stevens?”
    Mowat frowned at the camera. Sophie stepped behind him, so that she would stay out of the shot, and held her digital recorder over Mowat’s shoulder. She was pretty – with a pixie face and spiky brown hair – too pretty to be in the shot with the minister.
    “If we’re discussing Mr. Stevens’s future I think the first thing we should do is look at what he’s done for the country,” said Mowat, looking at Ellen with sadness, his eyes searching. “Under his leadership we have run a scandal-free government. We’ve cut taxes, rebuilt the military, got tough on criminals, managed the economy through a very challenging time, and made life better for Canadian families.”
    As Mowat spoke, reporters started to fill the foyer, rushing down to get in on the action. Jack sidled up as a scrum formed around Mowat, reporters wedging in with their digital recorders outstretched.
    Behind Mowat, Sophie pulled her phone out of her holster. The last half-hour had been so frantic, as she and Mowat had worked out his lines, that she hadn’t had a chance to look at it. With one hand, she flicked through her messages, holding the phone down at her hip.
    “I’m very proud to have worked for Mr. Stevens,” Mowat said. “He is an inspiration to us, personally and professionally. If he has, as you say, decided to step down, I think this is a good time to reflect on all he has done for the country, and not a time for personal ambition.”
    He smiled a sad smile at the camera and turned to go, ignoring the shouted questions.
    Sophie was distracted as Mowat stepped toward the chamber, and for a moment she was on camera. She was looking down at her phone, reading a message.
     
    Sujet: URGENT!!!
    De: Marie-Hélène Bourassa
    A: Sophie Fortin
    La police d’Ottawa a besoin de te parler, à propos de ton chum. Il a été gravement blessé. Tu dois appeler la Detective Mallorie Ashton le plus rapidement que possible au 613 555 0376. C’EST TRÈS IMPORTANT!!!
    Sophie suddenly felt terribly weak. She hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and she’d had too much coffee. The news that Ed had been badly hurt sent her reeling. She took a step back from the minister. Her knees went wobbly. Her vision got dark. Her hands released her phone and digital recorder, and they clattered on the marble floor. Mowat turned at the sound just as she collapsed. Jack was standing behind her, and as she slumped, he caught her under her arms. The camera, which had turned to Simms, swung back a moment too late to catch the fleeting scowl on Mowat’s face, but caught him showing concern, rushing back to take one of her arms from Jack and lift her up. Together they dragged her to a bench.
    The camera zoomed in on the odd scene just as Sophie’s eyes fluttered open, catching her eyes wildly searching around her.
    “Tabernac,” she said.

    Jim Godin’s heart sank when his boss, Liberal Leader Evan Pinsent, pushed his bespectacled face through the mustard curtains that separate the House of Commons from the lobby.
    Godin,