All the Devils Are Here

by Penny, Louise

  Beauvoir knew that their cybersecurity unit could find out who had accessed which files, and on which terminal.

  If anyone wanted to know who was snooping around the Luxembourg dossier, on a Saturday, all they’d see was Séverine Arbour. Not him.

  He couldn’t get into her emails, he’d need her password for that, but he could get into the main files and bring up internal reports.

  Which is what he did.

  He was just about to send it to himself when he stopped. That would be a fatal error. Instead, he hit print.

  Out in the main office, over by the wall, a large industrial printer sprang to life.

  Now he needed to find the emails between the engineer on-site and the executive overseeing the project. Scanning the file, he found the name of the engineer.

  And the name of the executive.

  Carole Gossette.

  He sat back, staring at the name. Madame Gossette. Head of operations. His boss. His mentor.

  Now why would such a senior executive be overseeing such an apparently minor project? Because, he thought, it wasn’t such a minor project after all.

  There was a soft ding.

  “Merde,” he whispered, his heart leaping in his chest. He recognized that sound.

  The elevator door at the end of the hallway opened. Without glancing up, Beauvoir tried to stop the printer, but it wouldn’t be put on pause. Hitting the button several times, Beauvoir eventually gave up and put the screen to sleep.

  Across the large open room, the Luxembourg file was still printing out. And the guard was getting closer.

  There was no way to get to the printer before the guard arrived. Instead, Jean-Guy quickly left Arbour’s office and ducked into his own, leaving the door open.

  In the background, he could hear the large machine making what now sounded like a racket.

  And then it stopped, and there was silence just as the guard entered the offices.

  “Monsieur Beauvoir,” he said. “I’d heard you were in.”

  The man was in his late twenties. Tall and sturdy. Fit.

  He stopped just outside Beauvoir’s office. Then he turned toward the printer before returning his gaze to Beauvoir.

  “Working?”

  In his early days at the company, Jean-Guy had come in on weekends, when it was quiet and he could bumble around without anyone seeing. Never had a guard shown any interest.

  So why was this guard here. Now. Very interested.

  The look, while disconcerting, wasn’t threatening. He seemed to be puzzled, trying to work something out.

  “Oui. Can I help you?” Beauvoir asked, looking up from his laptop, as though interrupted.

  “No, sir. I’m just checking.”

  “Checking what?”

  “To make sure everything’s as it should be.”

  “Well, it’s not. I should be outside, playing with my son. Instead I’m here.” He smiled and got up.

  “Why are you here, sir?”

  Beauvoir had never had a guard ask him that. It wasn’t any of his business. And yet the guard seemed to think it was. And maybe, thought Beauvoir with some unease, it was.

  “I have a baby coming any day now. Little girl.” He picked up his mug, and the guard stepped aside to let him pass. “When she’s born, I’ll be on leave. I just need to get some of the crap out of the way before the blessed event.”

  He’d remembered that the coffee maker was on the wall farthest from the copier. He walked over there now.

  “Coffee?”

  “No, sir.”

  The guard did as Beauvoir had hoped. He followed him to the espresso machine.

  “You have children?” Beauvoir peered at the guard’s nametag. “Monsieur Loiselle?”

  “No.”

  Not a big talker. Now Loiselle began to turn around.

  “I was a cop once, you know,” said Beauvoir, desperate to stop the man from turning completely. And possibly seeing the papers the printer had coughed up. “In Québec, as you can probably hear.” Jean-Guy had intentionally broadened his accent, giving his words a twang. He’d been in Paris long enough to know that they viewed the Québécois as slightly thick country cousins.

  While this was insulting and ignorant, he now found it useful.

  “Got tired of being shot at,” Jean-Guy continued. “And with a family coming …” He left it at that.

  The guard’s stare was now intense. Scrutinizing him. Practically, Jean-Guy felt, dissecting him.

  Beauvoir could see past Loiselle, into Arbour’s office. Something was happening. The computer had come back to life, and images were flashing across the screen.

  Even from a distance, he could see what it was. Emails. Schematics. Being erased.

  Fuck. Fuckity fuck, thought Beauvoir. Shit.

  But his face remained placid, and his eyes returned to the guard.

  “You don’t happen to know how this works?” he said, pointing to the espresso machine. “Trust them to have something you need an engineering degree to work. All I’ve managed to figure out in five months is how to grind the beans.”

  “Sorry. Can’t help,” Loiselle said.

  With one final look around, he turned away.

  Jean-Guy pretended to play with the machine while watching the guard walk back to the elevator.

  Come on, come on. Hurry up.

  When the elevator doors opened and finally closed, Beauvoir sprinted across the room, bringing out his phone as he ran. He knew he couldn’t stop the files from being erased, so he did the next best thing.

  He recorded the messages as they flashed up and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 16

  Merci,” said Gamache when Claude Dussault’s assistant put the espresso in front of him.

  “Je vous en prie,” said the young man, and withdrew from the office.

  Armand had been in the famed 36 many times, and in this very office quite often. With its grimy old windows, long since painted shut. No doubt with lead-based paints. The coal-burning fireplace thankfully no longer worked. And there was probably asbestos in the ceiling.

  It smelled musky, as though there might be dead things mummified in the walls.

  The building was damp and chilly in winter, and stifling in summer. And yet it contained so much history, it thrilled Gamache every time he entered.

  He could understand the need to modernize, and that meant moving to a new location, but he’d been glad to hear the Prefect had maintained an office here.

  Claude’s desk had framed pictures of his wife and children. And dog. The walls were covered with photos of colleagues, though not one, he noticed, of Dussault’s predecessor, Clément Prévost.

  Dussault accepted his espresso with thanks, then dismissed his assistant with a nod. Leaning forward, he asked, “How’re you doing, Armand?”

  “I’m holding it together.”

  “Are you?”

  Dussault could see the strain around his friend’s eyes and the slight pallor that came from little sleep and a lot of worry.

  Does he know Horowitz is going to die?

  Does he know why?

  What exactly does Gamache know?

  Armand took a long sip of his espresso. It was rich and strong and exactly what he needed.

  He regarded the man in front of him and wondered, What exactly does Claude Dussault know?

  “I just spoke to Stephen’s assistant,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Agnes McGillicuddy. I’ll give you her coordinates. She’s probably someone you’d like to connect with. But it was …” Armand paused to gather his thoughts. “Difficult. Emotional. She’s in her eighties and has been with Stephen almost since the beginning.”

  “Did you tell her everything?”

  “I told her I thought it was deliberate, yes. And about Monsieur Plessner.”

  “We haven’t released the news about Monsieur Plessner, but Stephen Horowitz is making headlines.”

  “You put it out as an accident. A hit-and-run. Best th
ing to do,” said Armand.

  “Still, the press will be onto her. She’ll need to be careful about what she says.”

  “She’ll say nothing.”

  Dussault looked skeptical.

  “I can guarantee it,” said Gamache. “Stephen chose her for that reason, and kept her for that reason.”

  “Even under torture, Mrs. McGillicuddy wouldn’t reveal anything,” Stephen used to say. And Armand knew he wasn’t joking.

  Stephen Horowitz knew who would crack, and who would not. It was how he measured people. Most, of course, came up short. But not Agnes McGillicuddy.

  Fortunately, the press in Canada, though capable of tormenting, hadn’t yet stooped to actual torture.

  Gamache, while often in their crosshairs, had a great deal of respect for journalists.

  He now filled the Prefect in on everything Mrs. McGillicuddy had said.

  “So she claims not to know why Monsieur Horowitz was in Paris,” said Dussault.

  “If she says it, it’s true.”

  “She did admit Monsieur Horowitz knew Alexander Plessner,” said Dussault. “That’s something.”

  Gamache uncrossed his legs and placed the demitasse on the table. “Monsieur Plessner was an engineer.”

  “C’est vrai?” said Dussault.

  He sounded as though this was news, and yet he didn’t look surprised. Not by the information, at least. Perhaps slightly by the fact Gamache knew.

  “Oui. My second-in-command, Isabelle Lacoste, passed along the information a few minutes ago. Trained as a mechanical engineer. Worked in the field for several years before making a fortune in venture capital.”

  Dussault was taking notes. “Merci.”

  It seemed incredible, and unlikely, to Gamache that Dussault’s own people hadn’t found this out themselves.

  “I’d like to go through the box of Stephen’s things again,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look the first time.”

  “I don’t have it. Handed it over to Commander Fontaine. I’ll ask her to give you what you want. But that reminds me. Monsieur Horowitz’s laptop is in there. We need the password and any codes he might’ve used. Do you know them?”

  “No, but I can ask Mrs. McGillicuddy.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll ask.”

  “I doubt she’d give them to you.”

  Dussault’s eyes widened. “She’ll have to. She wants to help the investigation, doesn’t she?”

  “Of course, but she doesn’t know you. She knows me. Let me ask.”

  Dussault hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. And I have some news for you. We found the van.”

  Armand leaned forward.

  “It was wiped clean. Our forensics team’s going over it for DNA. But …” Dussault put up his hands to express faint hope.

  “Clean clean?” Gamache asked.

  Dussault nodded. Both men knew it was extraordinarily difficult to take away all physical evidence. It meant using special cleansers designed to destroy DNA. Not everyone knew about them. Fewer had access.

  And the person had to be meticulous to get every molecule. A pro.

  Either that, or the forensics had to be incredibly sloppy. Could that be it? And not just incredibly but intentionally sloppy?

  “The coroner called me about an hour ago. She’s preparing Monsieur Plessner’s body for the autopsy—”

  “By the way, I won’t be able to make it. I need to get back for the interview with Commander Fontaine.”

  “Right. That’s at three?”

  “Oui.”

  They looked at the clock on the old mantel. It was quarter past two.

  “You were telling me about the coroner,” said Gamache.

  “Two bullets were used. That much was obvious.”

  “Back and head, yes,” said Gamache.

  “Not just back, it severed his spine.”

  Gamache held his colleague’s gray eyes. Both knew what that could mean. “Commando? The GIGN?”

  Dussault nodded. “Possible.”

  They knew that was how commando units were trained to kill. Use as few bullets as possible and make sure each one counted. Spine to guarantee incapacitation. Head to guarantee death. Then move on. And do it again.

  Even as he stared at Claude Dussault, Gamache remembered his colleague’s CV. Dussault liked to say he’d washed out of the elite corps, the GIGN, but Armand knew that wasn’t true.

  He’d completed his training and was about to be assigned when he’d suddenly transferred to the Préfecture in Paris.

  Or appeared to.

  But the reality was, Claude Dussault had stayed with the GIGN, only leaving several years later to move up the ranks of the Préfecture.

  Did Dussault realize that Armand knew the truth?

  Was he looking at the man who’d killed Alexander Francis Plessner and been involved in the attempt on Stephen’s life? He had the skills, but did he have the motive?

  “It could be a former member of the GIGN,” conceded Dussault. “Or the Sayeret Matkal, or the SAS. The SEALs. Even”—he smiled at Gamache—“Joint Task Force Two. There’re any number of highly trained former special forces floating around this city, hiring themselves out as security and intelligence contractors.”

  “Mercenaries.”

  “Why not use their skills?”

  “Depends on which skills, doesn’t it?” said Gamache. “Have you had a chance to look at the security cameras around Stephen’s apartment?”

  “We’re going through the footage. Unfortunately, most of the cameras are facing the Lutetia and Le Bon Marché.”

  “So the cameras don’t show people entering or leaving Stephen’s apartment building?”

  “No.”

  “A shame.”

  “Oui.”

  Dussault knew Gamache well enough to know the man was almost always calm and courteous. Gracious, in an almost old-world manner. It was what made him an effective leader. Armand Gamache never flew off the handle. Never lost control. Unless he wanted to.

  But Dussault also knew that the angrier Gamache became, the more contained, the more polite he became. Putting iron straps around any violent emotion.

  As he regarded his colleague and friend, Claude Dussault realized with surprise that Armand’s politesse was being directed at him.

  He was, at the moment, the target of Gamache’s brutal courtesy.

  Claude Dussault leaned back in his chair.

  “You were telling me about the van,” said Gamache. “Where was it found?”

  “It was abandoned just outside the bois de Boulogne.”

  Armand brought up, in his mind, the map of Paris. And the location of the huge park, the Woods of Boulogne.

  “The bois is close to the headquarters of GHS,” he said.

  “Yes, and Mr. Horowitz had the GHS annual report in his possession,” said Dussault. “Probably just a coincidence.”

  “More than that. He was planning on going to the GHS board meeting on Monday morning.”

  Dussault stared at him. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s in his agenda.”

  “What agenda?” The stare had become a glare.

  It was the moment of truth. The moment for truth.

  “The one Mrs. McGillicuddy has,” Armand lied. “She told me his plans.”

  “Was he a member of the board?” the Prefect asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why would he go? And would they even let him in? Why’re you shaking your head?”

  “If GHS Engineering is somehow involved, why would the attacker abandon the van pretty much on the corporation’s doorstep?”

  “He might not have known who his employer was. The bois de Boulogne, as you know, has become a dumping ground for all sorts of things.”

  “True. Which is why you have cameras all over it. Do they show anything?”

  But Armand already knew the answer. If they did, Dussault would have said something.

  “We have cameras, but as soon as w
e put them up, they’re smashed.”

  “So, once again, no footage?”

  “No.” Dussault was quiet for a moment before asking his next question. “Your former number two, Beauvoir, works for GHS, isn’t that right?”

  “It is.” Gamache’s tone was relaxed. Reasonable. But his guard was up.

  “In fact, Horowitz helped get him the job,” said Dussault. “That was the drama this morning in the Lutetia.”

  “Right.”

  Gamache made up his mind.

  His suspicions of the head of the entire Préfecture were so paper-thin as to be almost irrational.

  He had to share some information.

  “Does Luxembourg mean anything to you?”

  “Luxembourg? The country or the garden?”

  “Country.” Armand was watching him closely.

  Dussault considered, then shook his head. “Why?”

  “Beauvoir had an odd experience at work with his own number two.”

  Gamache described what had happened.

  “So you do suspect GHS,” said Dussault. “And that’s why you asked about the box. You want their annual report. Monsieur Horowitz is a financier, not an engineer. If he was studying their annual report, he must’ve been looking for financial wrongdoing, and obviously found something if he was planning to go to their board meeting. Corruption, fraud. Maybe money laundering. Luxembourg has traditionally been a harbor for that. Is that what you think?”

  “I honestly don’t know what’s going on, but yes, I do think Stephen found something out about GHS, and was planning to confront them at the board meeting.”

  “Which is what the killer was looking for in his apartment. The evidence. If it’s that important, we have to find it first. Do you have any idea what it might be?”

  “I wish,” said Gamache. “We don’t even know if it was GHS he was after or some other company.”

  “I’ve found out a little about GHS Engineering since this morning. But it’s surprisingly very difficult, even for us. It’s a multinational. Mostly engineering, but with interests in oil and gas, some manufacturing. It’s a private company, with emphasis on ‘private,’ and has friends powerful enough to keep their interests secret. If it was GHS Horowitz was tilting at, they’d make a formidable adversary.”

  Stephen was famous for bringing a cannon to a fistfight. Was it really possible, Armand wondered, that he’d underestimate his opponent?