It came up empty.
“Who else’s would he use?” asked Pinot. “Yours?”
Armand tried it. Nothing.
They huddled around and watched him put in names. Reine-Marie’s. Daniel’s. Annie’s. His desperation growing. Showing. In the increasingly unlikely attempts.
Zora. Florence. Honoré. He typed. Pinot.
Nothing.
Then Rodin. Calais. Burghers. Ariel. Ferdinand. Canaris. Lutetia. Eustache de Saint-Pierre. Luxembourg. Rosiers.
He was running out of ideas.
“What, what,” he mumbled. “Stephen, what name did you use? What would you use?”
Armand stared at the screen. At the black slash of cursor throbbing.
What name, what word?
Remembering his conversation with Stephen in the garden of the Musée Rodin, and his godfather’s apparent mistake. Stephen knew perfectly well that he hadn’t proposed to Reine-Marie in the jardin du Luxembourg.
It was in the jardin—
“Joseph Migneret,” Armand muttered as he typed.
And up flashed a request.
CHAPTER 40
Joseph Migneret,” read Judith de la Granger. “Who’s he?”
“One of the Righteous,” said Gamache, as he clicked through.
“The document was taken out at eleven twenty-five a.m., then almost immediately returned,” said Madame Lenoir, pointing at the times. “He had it out for only twenty minutes.”
“But what’s the document?” Judith asked.
They could only see the file number.
The head archivist typed in the reference number and shook her head in amazement and some amusement.
“He managed to request the most obscure of our documents. No one except your friend has asked for it in decades, probably centuries. Maybe ever.”
“What is it?” asked Pinot. Bending over, he read, “A survey of the number of hand-forged nails made in Calais in 1523? That’s the evidence? Nails in Calais? It doesn’t make sense.”
Calais, thought Armand and smiled. The burghers, you old devil.
“We need to see the file,” he said. “Where is it?”
She pointed down. “Purgatory. Where documents are put that can’t be thrown out, but neither are they likely to ever see the light of day.”
“This one has,” said Gamache. “And recently. Can you take us to it?”
Madame Lenoir made a note of the reference number. Then they followed her through another thick door, which Gamache quietly locked behind them, and down, down, down flights of stairs into a subbasement.
Turning on the overhead lights, they saw what looked more like a crypt than an archive. The brick ceilings were vaulted and the floor was dirt. But the temperature and humidity were constant and no daylight could penetrate. It was, in fact, the perfect place to keep very old, frail documents.
Allida Lenoir went looking for the file.
“You really think Stephen hid the evidence here?” Pinot asked, looking around.
“No.”
“No?”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said, but on seeing the name of that file, I think he had another idea. I think he’d get the evidence as far from him, as far from Paris, as possible. Wouldn’t you?”
“I guess so,” said Pinot. “So where is it?”
“Calais. That’s why he asked for that file. He’s not interested in nails in Calais. Who is? He’s telling us, telling me, where he hid the evidence.”
“It’s somewhere in Calais?” asked Pinot. “But that’s a city. How’re we supposed to know where to find the stuff, if it’s even there?”
Gamache looked down the long subbasement. He could no longer see the Chief Archivist.
“Do those work?” he asked, nodding at the computer terminals.
Madame de la Granger sat down and hit some keys. It sprang to life.
“Can you look up Calais?” said Gamache. “You know Stephen well, Alain. See if there’s a place you think he might’ve gone. We used to talk about the burghers. Maybe one of their homes. A museum there. Something.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to find Madame Lenoir.”
Alain Pinot seemed far from convinced, but he sat beside Madame de la Granger and the two began to hunt while Armand went hunting for the Chief Archivist.
He found her down a side aisle, deep in a cabinet.
“It’s here,” she said, handing a dossier to Gamache.
Putting on his reading glasses, he rapidly went through the pages, once. Then, more slowly, a second time. Finally, he raised his head and caught her anxious eyes.
“Nothing,” he said, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I was hoping this might tell us where in Calais he hid the evidence. That he might’ve even left a note behind.”
He looked at his watch. It was 6:35. Less than an hour. Making up his mind, he closed the folder.
“Can you keep the others here?” He tucked the file under his arm.
“While you?”
“Take this to where they’re holding my son.” Before she could ask, he said, “Time’s run out, and I have to take them something.”
Allida Lenoir stared at him, then glanced at the thick file. “You know, stealing a document, especially one as valuable as the number of nails in Calais in 1523, is a criminal offense.”
“I will await the full force of French law,” he said with a smile. “I locked the door behind us. Is there a back way out?”
“Yes. Not used often. It’s down this way. Apparently this was originally built by the second duke as a way to sneak out to see the stable boys.”
Gamache followed her to what appeared to be a dead end. But on closer examination what looked like paneling was actually a stout door.
“This will let you out onto the second floor of the museum. What was once the duke’s bedroom. When you get down to the main level, head to the right. There’s a corridor that’ll take you to a side door. It’ll be locked, but there’s a panic bar.”
“Merci. Lock this behind me. Whatever happens, don’t let them out.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just safer.”
She looked at him, then nodded. “Do you still want me to keep up the Calais ruse?”
“Ruse?”
She looked at the dossier he clutched. “There must’ve been a helluva need for nails in 1523. That file’s unexpectedly thick.” She paused. “But I am not.”
“Non,” he said with a smile. “You’re not.”
He slipped through the door and turned on the flashlight on his phone.
As he took the stairs two at a time, he heard the key turn in the lock.
There was no going back now.
“Where’s Gamache?” asked Alain Pinot.
“He’s gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“How?” asked Judith de la Granger.
“There’s a door at the other end. He found it and went through.”
“Then we should leave, too,” said Pinot, getting up.
“We can’t.”
“What do you mean we can’t?”
“He locked us in.”
“Why would he do that?” demanded Judith de la Granger.
“Oh, shit,” said Pinot. “That file he found. It’s got the documents, doesn’t it? He’s going to give it to them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Madame de la Granger. “He’d never do that.”
“No? Then why’s he free and we’re trapped down here?”
“Not trapped,” said Madame Lenoir. “Safe.”
“Is that what he told you?” said Pinot, staring at the locked door. “Does this feel safe?”
Gamache knew he was nearing the surface because his phone started vibrating.
And it also, he knew, began transmitting his location.
He looked at the battery level. It had been more than a day since he’d charged it, and it was down to four perc
ent.
Putting it on low-battery mode, he took the final twenty steps and, pausing at the top, he shut off the flashlight.
Every moment counted. Every percent of power on his phone counted. But he took the time, and the power, to look at his messages.
Annie was in the last stages of labor. It looked like they’d have to do a caesarean. It was not uncommon in these sorts of births. They didn’t want to put more stress on the baby’s heart.
Armand wrote a quick message to Reine-Marie and Jean-Guy. Sending encouragement to Annie and to let them know he was all right.
Love, he wrote, Dad.
Then, tucking his phone into his pocket, he peered through the crack and listened.
He couldn’t afford to be stopped now. He touched the gun in his pocket.
Nor would he use that on one of the museum guards.
Crouching, he pushed the door open and moved quickly into the bedroom.
He heard a sound and ducked behind the high bedstead.
A guard walked by and paused at the open door. Not a museum guard. This one was in full combat gear and wore the SecurForte insignia.
And carried an automatic rifle.
Gamache backed farther away. And knelt. Placing the dossier on the floor, he opened it and took some photos. Using up precious battery power. Then he sent them to Jean-Guy, Isabelle Lacoste, and himself.
He knew now. Knew what they were hiding. And others needed to know also. In case.
Removing most of the documents, he spread them under the carpet, then checked his phone.
It was now down to three percent power. And the time said five to seven.
He had to get out of there.
He crawled forward to the doorway. The guard had stationed herself at the top of the marble stairs, and now he could see others.
Including one he recognized.
Xavier Loiselle. Cradling his assault rifle. And scanning the area.
For him.
Gamache peered into the room next door. It contained large exhibition boards with mariners’ maps. Extraordinary hand-drawn charts of the known world six hundred years earlier. The positions of land, and water, and dragons.
He heard boots on stairs. A small army on the march. Coming his way.
He had to act now, or never.
Bringing up a search engine on his phone, he put in Sûreté, factory raid. When the vile video on YouTube appeared, he made sure the volume was on high.
Pressing play, he slid his phone along the polished floor, into the next room, and silently blessed winters in his tiny Québec village, shivering on the frozen lake as neighbors tried to teach him the subtle art of curling.
His phone, with one percent battery left, slid to the far end of the room and came to rest under a display case as the sound of shouts and gunfire filled the empty map room.
It reverberated off the marble walls and floors. Echoing, magnifying the sound of a terrible battle being fought amid the sea creatures and dragons, the Sirens and the demons.
The SecurForte guards converged on the room. Assault weapons raised, they entered in combat formation.
He didn’t wait to see what happened next. Taking off in the opposite direction, Gamache raced down the stairs, chased by the familiar gunfire. The familiar explosions licked at his heels. The familiar orders given. His orders. The hot breath on his neck was his own. His voice on the recording. Commanding his people forward. Deeper into the factory.
And then the familiar screams of agony. As his own agents were cut down. Like wraiths, they pursued Gamache. As they had, every day, for years.
He flung himself against the metal panic bar of the side door and flew out into the sunshine.
* * *
“Cease fire,” the leader commanded. “There’s no one here. It’s a recording. Bring it to me.”
Loiselle, on his belly, retrieved the phone. As he handed it over, he saw a man sprinting down the side of the château.
“There he is,” shouted Loiselle and, using the butt of his rifle, he broke the glass and started shooting.
Gamache didn’t swerve. Didn’t look back. He just kept running, even as the bullets struck the columns and walls and ground around him.
“Fuck, Loiselle, get him,” shouted his commander.
Gamache was at the huge wrought iron gates. Loiselle sighted him, but it was too late. Gamache had pushed through and, stumbling, he disappeared down rue des Archives.
“Well, you fucked that up,” said the commander, glaring at his foot soldier. “But at least we know where he’s headed. Better get there, and do it right this time.”
“Yessir.”
Loiselle looked down at the video, still playing on the phone in the commander’s hand.
He watched the familiar images, of Chief Inspector Gamache dragging his second-in-command across the factory floor to safety. After quickly staunching Beauvoir’s abdominal wound, Gamache bent and kissed him on the forehead, whispering to the man he feared was dying, “I love you.”
Then the phone died.
Who would rescue him, Xavier Loiselle wondered, if he was badly wounded?
None of them, he knew as he looked around.
Who, he wondered, would whisper to him in his final moments, I love you?
CHAPTER 41
You okay, man?” the taxi driver asked, glancing in his rearview mirror.
His passenger was twisted in his seat, staring out the back window and trying to catch his breath.
“Fine, fine,” said Gamache, in a sort of gasp, as he turned to the driver. “As fast as you can.”
It was 7:19. They’d threatened to kill Daniel at 7:30. Gamache had little doubt they meant it.
Of course, they’d kill them both once they got what they needed.
He clutched the dossier to him and deliberately slowed his breathing.
Hyperventilating and passing out rarely made things better.
Deep breath in. Hold. Long slow breath out.
They were in the narrow streets, clogged with Paris’s Monday morning rush hour. They had to get across the Seine, over île de la Cité, from the Third Arrondissement to the Seventh. From the Marais, all the way over to the far side of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
They were, he could see by the driver’s satnav, twelve minutes away. At this rate, it would be too late.
“I’ll give you all the money I have if you get me there before seven thirty.”
“Rush hour,” said the driver, then glanced down at the hand thrust between the seats clutching a fistful of euro notes.
The driver leaned on the horn and sped up.
Armand sat back and reached for his phone to call Reine-Marie, then remembered where it was.
“May I use your phone?”
“What? No. I need it for directions. You want to get there or not?”
Gamache tossed a hundred-euro note at the driver and said, “You have a second one. Give it to me.”
He was moments away from pulling the gun out of his coat pocket when the driver handed him his personal phone. “Okay, man, calm down.”
Gamache placed the call, but there was no answer. Reine-Marie was either too busy or wasn’t picking up a call from a number she didn’t recognize.
He tried Jean-Guy. No answer.
Then he tried Reine-Marie again. This time she answered. “Oui?”
“It’s me.”
“Armand, where are you?”
“How’s Annie?”
“She and Jean-Guy are in surgery. They’ve decided on the caesarean.”
“Is she all right?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“The baby?”
“I don’t know.” There was a pause as Reine-Marie fought for control. Then repeated, “Where are you?”
He looked to his right and could see the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu. His heart threw itself against his rib cage. Squeezing against it. Pushing toward the hospital. He thought for a moment it might break through.
“I’m in a taxi
, on my way to Daniel. We’ll be with you as soon as we can.”
“Are you all right? Is Daniel? Armand, what’s happening? Whose phone are you on?”
“Mine lost power. I’m using the taxi driver’s. I love you. I’ve got to go.”
“I love you,” she said, and then the line went dead in her hand.
Armand gave the phone to the driver, who handed back the money.
“I have a daughter, too.” And turning down an alley, he cut three minutes off the drive.
Armand stared straight ahead, trying to see the way forward and through. The exact sequence of events that had to happen. Had he guessed right?
If not, no amount of planning could possibly work.
They arrived at Stephen’s building with just over a minute to spare.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Gamache got to the door of Stephen’s apartment and pounded on it.
The door was opened by one of the SecurForte guards. Armand looked past him and saw Daniel on his feet in the middle of the living room. Girard was beside him, pressing a gun to Daniel’s temple.
Daniel’s eyes were squeezed shut, and he was trembling.
“No,” shouted Armand.
Daniel opened crazed eyes. “Dad?”
“Seconds,” said Girard, lowering the gun.
“You came back,” said Daniel as his legs buckled.
Armand stepped forward and caught his son, lowering him to the floor so that both were kneeling.
“That was probably a mistake, Armand.”
Claude Dussault’s voice, languid and soft, came across the room. He was sitting on the sofa. Legs crossed. His hand resting on the gun beside him. Perfectly at ease. Apparently not caring if Daniel was executed.
He got up slowly and, walking over to Gamache, picked the file up from where Armand had dropped it. “Let’s see what you’ve found.”
“Are you all right?” Armand asked Daniel.
He didn’t ask if they’d hurt him. Of course they had. Few knew better than Gamache that the worst wounds were not always visible. Or physical.
Daniel’s hands were trembling, and his breathing shallow. His eyes bloodshot and steady, on his father.
“You came back,” he whispered.
Armand gripped Daniel to him. Tight.
All the Devils Are Here Page 38