All the Devils Are Here

by Penny, Louise

  Gamache took a step toward him, then stopped, frozen in place by a familiar sound. The soft, metallic click of a safety coming off.

  He turned to his son.

  Daniel’s eyes were wide with terror as the gun pressed against his temple.

  “You’re right,” said Girard, his voice conversational, almost chatty. “We did know. But you better than most know the advantage of having a cooperative witness. Sometimes people just have to see the full advantage of being helpful. And the disadvantage of not.”

  Gamache glared at him. “I’ll kill you.”

  “Ah, you just slipped from your favorite spot on the higher ground, Chief Inspector,” said Girard. “What does it feel like to be in the dung with the rest of us?”

  “You’d better frisk him,” said Dussault. “Make sure he’s unarmed.”

  Gamache glared at Loiselle as he frisked him.

  “Nothing.” Then he gave Gamache a quick jab in the solar plexus with the butt of his machine gun, dropping him to his knees.

  “Dad?”

  Armand raised a hand, to indicate he was all right, then struggled to his feet. As he did, he looked at Claude Dussault.

  The Prefect’s brows had risen, very slightly. In surprise. In annoyance. At Loiselle’s blow? No.

  Claude Dussault had expected Loiselle to find a gun.

  Armand knew then that Dussault had planted the weapon in his apartment. In the box of Stephen’s things. Where he was bound to find it. And do what?

  Use it? Or try to? But if so, why insist he be frisked? Why give it to him, only to have it taken away?

  Had Dussault expected Armand to pull it on him in the Place de la Concorde? In a rage when told about Daniel?

  If he had, he’d have been immediately gunned down by the heavily armed police who patrolled the place.

  Another execution.

  Was that what Dussault wanted?

  But no, that didn’t make complete sense. They didn’t want him dead. They needed him alive, to find Stephen’s evidence.

  So why had Claude Dussault left a gun in his apartment? And did he really expect that the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec wouldn’t notice what it was loaded with?

  “Dad, Stephen—” Daniel began, and once again Loiselle raised his rifle and Daniel cringed.

  “Let him tell his father what he found at the bank,” said Dussault. “Monsieur Gamache here needs to know if he’s going to help us.”

  Armand’s eyes held Daniel’s, and he said, softly, gently, “Tell me.”

  It was the same voice he’d used tucking Daniel into bed: “Tell me about your day.”

  And the little boy would. It would all come spilling out from a child who found wonder everywhere.

  He’d hear about the odd-shaped clouds, the piles of autumn leaves, the snow forts Daniel and his friends had built and defended. The carefree battles waged and won. The first daffodils in the park, and the splashing in the fountain on a sizzling summer’s day.

  “Tell me,” Armand said now.

  And Daniel did.

  “Stephen put in a buy order late Friday, just as the New York market closed. He was going all in on two of GHS’s holdings.”

  “The numbered companies?”

  “Oui.”

  “What do the companies do?”

  “One’s a tool and die company. But his main target is a smelter.”

  Armand’s mind raced.

  A smelter meant ore. Ore came from mines. Which led to GHS, which led to Patagonia.

  Which led to the rare earth elements.

  Which led to neodymium.

  Armand’s eyes flickered to Daniel’s pocket.

  Oh, God, he thought. That’s where they are.

  The nickels. The ones he’d been looking for earlier, in the box. Magnetized, not glued, together.

  Armand saw again Honoré in the garden, and the mighty toss. Saw Jean-Guy’s panic, thinking his son had them in his mouth. And he saw Daniel, in the background, stoop and pick up the nickels. Putting them in his jacket pocket for safekeeping. Away from the hands, and mouths, of other children.

  And that’s where they still were. In the same jacket Daniel was now wearing.

  If Dussault put it together and realized what they were …

  If they found them on Daniel and thought he was deliberately hiding them …

  Armand quickly considered his options. Bringing out a handkerchief, he looked at Daniel, then over to Dussault.

  “Is it all right if I … ?”

  Dussault nodded.

  He approached Daniel, and as he wiped the blood from his son’s face, Daniel grabbed his arms and whispered, whimpered, his voice high and strained, “I’m not brave, Dad. I’m so afraid.”

  Armand pulled him close and held him tight. “I’m here. It’s all right. I’ve got you.” He stepped back and looked his son in the eye. “And you are brave. You’re still standing. Most would be curled on the floor by now. Remember Superman.”

  Daniel gave one gruff, unexpected laugh.

  It was something he’d explained to his father, at great length, when he was six. That at first Superman was completely invincible. But then his creators—“One was Canadian,” Daniel had excitedly said— realized that was a mistake.

  “They had to have something that could hurt him,” the earnest little boy had explained.

  “And do you know why that is?” his father had asked.

  Daniel had taken his time to think about it.

  Two days later he’d slipped his hand into his dad’s as they walked through the park to the playground, and said, “Because you can’t be brave if you’re not afraid.”

  “Oui,” his father agreed, and watched Daniel run off to play with the other kids.

  “Please, Dad,” Daniel now said. “Tell me you were a commando.”

  “Better.” His father leaned closer and dropped his voice further. “I taught commandos.”

  Stepping back, he looked at the handkerchief. Reine-Marie had given it to him as a stocking stuffer at Christmas. It was now stained with their son’s blood.

  Just as he went to put it back in his pocket, Girard reached out and bent Gamache’s hand back, almost breaking his fingers. Gamache winced and twisted, opening his hand and dropping the handkerchief.

  Girard examined it. Nothing hidden in the folds. Then he tossed it back at Gamache.

  He could have just asked to see it, Gamache knew, as he flexed his hand and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. Or even snatched it away from him.

  But instead, Thierry Girard had chosen to hurt. Not much, but even a little seemed to give Girard pleasure.

  Here was a sadist with a gun, and Armand Gamache wondered just how much control Claude Dussault really did have over his second-in-command.

  “You have until tomorrow morning at seven thirty to find whatever it is Stephen Horowitz has hidden,” said Dussault. “The GHS board meeting is at eight. We need it before then.”

  “You’ve looked for it for weeks and haven’t found anything,” Gamache said. “But you want me to find it in hours?”

  “I think you can do it,” said Dussault. “Given the motivation.”

  Gamache looked at him with loathing. “If you really want me to succeed, I need more information. What’s GHS up to? I have to know what I’m looking for.”

  “You’re smart,” said Dussault. “I think you’ll know it when you see it.” He looked at his watch. “It’s now ten fifty-three. You have almost nine hours.”

  “I’ll need help. Someone needs to come with me.”

  “Did you have someone in mind?” asked Dussault.

  “Daniel.”

  Dussault smiled. “Saw that coming, and no. He stays safe with us.”

  “Then Beauvoir. Let me bring Beauvoir in. Together we have a chance.”

  Dussault made a subtle gesture toward Girard, and the two men stepped away, to consult in a corner.

  Watching them, Gamache could see that Dussault
was definitely in charge, and had complete control over the brute Girard. What should have been a relief was actually even more alarming.

  “You have your Beauvoir,” said Dussault, returning to them.

  Gamache put out his hand for his phone, and as Girard gave it to him, he said, “Put it on speaker.”

  Armand noticed that several calls and texts had come in from Reine-Marie. He was sorely tempted to read them, but knew he had to place the call first.

  It rang only once before he heard Jean-Guy’s excited voice.

  “Annie’s gone into labor. We’re heading to the hospital.”

  The emotions were so strong, so conflicting, that for a moment Armand felt light-headed. As though he’d been spun in a centrifuge.

  “Allô?” said Jean-Guy. “You still there?”

  “Oui. Is Annie all right?”

  “Hi, Dad,” came her voice. “I’m here in the car with Jean-Guy and Maman. You coming?”

  “As soon as I can. I’m with Daniel and we’re just discussing our next step. Reine-Marie?”

  “I’m here,” came her voice. “Everything okay with you? Daniel’s with you?”

  Daniel called out, “Salut, Maman. Everything’s fine.”

  Armand heard the cheerful tone coming from his bloodstained son. How could he possibly think he wasn’t brave?

  “Allida and Judith are still there along with Séverine,” said Reine-Marie. “We haven’t been able to make any connection between the dates in Stephen’s notes and GHS. It’s frustrating.”

  “Not to worry, we’ll figure it out. And there are more important things right now. Annie?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “We’ll be there as soon as we can. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Papa,” she said, though he could hear her disappointment and slight confusion that her father wasn’t also rushing to the hospital, to be there with her.

  “Wait a minute,” said Jean-Guy. “You called me. Did you want something?”

  “Just to check in. Please, please, let me know about the baby and Annie.”

  “You’ll be here long before anything happens.” There was a pause. “Are you all right? What did Dussault want?”

  “It was a fishing expedition. Trying to figure out what we know.”

  “So he is involved in all this?”

  “I’m not so sure. Look, this will wait. You have far more important things happening. If we’re not there before she arrives, tell your daughter that her uncle and grandfather love her.”

  “You’ll tell her yourselves. Armand—”

  But Gamache had hung up before Jean-Guy could say more.

  “Congratulations,” said Girard as he took the phone back. “Happy day.”

  He read the emails and texts, then handed the phone to Dussault, who also read them.

  Reine-Marie had been trying to reach Armand to tell him about Annie.

  “Shame Beauvoir can’t join you. I suspect your chances of success, never great, have just collapsed.” Dussault handed the phone back to Gamache.

  “I’ll need the JSPS card.” Armand walked over to Daniel. “I gave mine to him.”

  Sliding his hand into Daniel’s pocket, he found the card and felt for the coins.

  “Let me see,” said Girard when Armand withdrew his hand.

  It held only the card.

  “Should we send one of them with him?” asked Girard, indicating the guards.

  “Non, no need. What’s he going to do? Run away? Go to the police?” Dussault smiled. “All we need are the documents. I don’t care how he does it, but he’ll be faster, more efficient without one of them tagging along.”

  Armand turned to Daniel. “I have to leave, but I’ll be back in time. I promise.”

  He pulled Daniel to him, in a bear hug. And whispered, “I’m so proud of you. I love you.”

  Daniel nodded.

  CHAPTER 38

  Armand unlocked the door to their apartment in the Marais and quickly went over to the bookcase.

  The gun was still there.

  Slipping it into his coat pocket, he locked up and left.

  But where to? He had no idea where Stephen and Plessner had hidden the evidence, if there even was any.

  Had Stephen and Plessner uncovered a scam, claiming to use neodymium in next-generation telecommunications where actually it didn’t work? Taking investor’s money on false pretenses?

  Or maybe it was real, and GHS needed to protect a breakthrough that would net them billions.

  Was it corporate espionage? Fraud? Money laundering?

  What had that young journalist found in the mountains of Patagonia? And how could the derailment of a train in Colombia four years ago have anything to do with it?

  There was something. Something terrible enough to murder. And now he had just hours to find it.

  Armand stood on the sidewalk outside their door and looked this way, then that.

  He honestly had no idea where to go next.

  He turned toward the Seine and started walking, his mind racing. Though he tried to slow it down, to marshal his thoughts.

  What did they know?

  For one thing, Claude Dussault had let slip that he knew that they’d talked about Patagonia in the subbasement of the George V.

  Which meant he knew everything they’d discussed. Which meant there was an informant in their midst.

  And that could be only one person. Séverine Arbour.

  What had Dussault said? That the deaths Gamache knew about weren’t even the tip of the iceberg. GHS was responsible for many, many more. On a scale almost unimaginable.

  Gamache stopped, realizing he was standing across from the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu. Where Annie was busy giving birth, and Stephen was busy dying.

  He took a step off the curb, toward the entrance. Then he stepped back.

  No. He couldn’t give in to the nearly overwhelming temptation to go in.

  In an act so painful he was trembling, Armand Gamache turned his back on them and walked on, sparing a glance at Notre-Dame.

  Then he turned his back on that, too, though he allowed his thoughts to linger on the heroics of the men and women who’d run in to save the artifacts. Who’d fought the fire at risk to themselves.

  Hell might be empty, but there was evidence of the divine in their midst, too. The trick, as Stephen had taught him in the garden of the Musée Rodin so many years ago, was to see both.

  Dreadful deeds were obvious. The divine was often harder to see.

  And which, he heard Stephen’s voice and still felt the tap on his chest, would have more weight with you, garçon?

  He was essentially alone now, on the Pont des Coeurs. The Bridge of Hearts.

  He stopped to peer over the edge. To cool and calm his thoughts. Reaching out, he felt the old stone, the cold stone, wall and looked down at the dark water.

  Claude Dussault had suggested he make a wish. And perhaps he should have also thrown a coin into the Fontaine des Mers. It was ironic, of course. To call a site where the Terror had taken so many lives the Place de la Concorde. The Place of Agreement.

  How many wishes, how many fervent prayers, had gone unanswered? Unless the slide of the guillotine was the answer. He wondered now what Dussault had wished for.

  Gamache turned toward Place de la Concorde. His mind finally settling. Coming to a halt.

  Why had Dussault asked to meet him there, of all places? In front of that fountain? In front of the famous column. That marked the guillotine.

  Armand went over what Dussault said. What Dussault did.

  Gamache’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

  He hailed a taxi. He had to get back to the Place de la Concorde, but on the way he stopped at the Hôtel Lutetia.

  Alain Pinot was no longer in bar Joséphine. Nor was he in any of the other bars or restaurants of the grand hotel.

  The front desk called Pinot’s room, but there was no answer.

  Gamache approached the con
cierge. “Has Monsieur Pinot asked for a restaurant reservation for tonight?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  Armand knew that might not be true. Discretion was a vital part of a concierge’s job.

  “I’d very much appreciate your help in finding a restaurant for this evening,” he said, sliding a hundred-euro note across the marble top.

  “Most of our guests belong to private clubs.”

  “I’ve always wanted to join one. Any suggestions?”

  He walked out of there with a short list. Any the concierge’s fingerprint smudging one name.

  Cercle de l’Union Interalliée. What General de Gaulle had called the French embassy in Paris.

  “May I help you, monsieur?” the well-dressed woman asked in a hushed voice as he entered the private members club.

  Gamache had heard about this place but had never been in it.

  The Cercle, in the Eighth Arrondissement, was a hub for diplomats, political leaders, industrialists. The elite of Paris.

  In other words, the boards of directors of most of the major corporations in Europe.

  Armand quickly, instinctively, took in his surroundings.

  The high ceilings. The opulent décor unchanged from a century earlier. And yet there was nothing faded about its grandeur.

  It whispered power and glory.

  Decisions that changed the world, for better or worse, had been made within these walls for a hundred years.

  The woman at the door expertly sized up the man in front of her. Well-groomed. Good coat, classic cut. No tie, but crisp white shirt and well-tailored jacket beneath the overcoat.

  An elegant man. Clearly used to a certain authority. But then, everyone who came through that door had authority. Or they wouldn’t get past her.

  “Oui, merci. I’m looking for one of your guests. Monsieur Pinot. Alain Pinot.”

  “Are you a member of a reciprocal club? Perhaps the Mount Royal in Montréal?”

  How subtly she’s made it clear that she’d placed him as a Québécois.

  “Non. I’m just a visitor. Is Monsieur Pinot here?”

  “I really cannot say.”

  “I understand. If he were here, could you please give him this?”

  Gamache handed her the card and saw her face open in a smile. “Bienvenue. This”—she held up the JSPS card—“is your membership. Do you mind?”