And whispered, “Always.”
Then he leaned back and, looking into Daniel’s eyes, he said, “We can do this.”
He could see that Daniel understood what “this” now might mean.
It was the tumble down the ice slide. It was the void beyond the balcony. It was the headlong fall over the edge.
But they wouldn’t have to face it alone. There was some calm, even comfort, in that.
Armand helped Daniel to his feet and shifted his gaze to Claude Dussault. His nerve endings tingling as he watched Dussault return to the sofa and open the file.
Just then Xavier Loiselle appeared at the door. Without hesitating he strode across the room, lifted his rifle, and hit Gamache across the head with the butt end, dropping him to the floor.
“Dad!” shouted Daniel, but Loiselle turned the weapon on him.
“Come on, kid. Do it.” Then he turned back to Gamache. “That’s for making me look like an asshole in front of my team.”
“Okay,” said Girard, reaching out to stop Loiselle from taking it further, while Dussault watched from the sofa, amused. “What happened?”
Loiselle described Gamache’s escape from the archives, and heard the Prefect laugh.
“Admit it, Loiselle, he got the better of you.”
Gamache, on one knee, struggled to his feet, holding the side of his head. His hair matted with blood. “It wasn’t difficult.”
“You fucker.” Loiselle started forward again.
“All right,” said Dussault, like a grandfather calming a child who’d had too many sweets. “More important things now.”
He went back to reading. Armand watched Dussault closely. Putting his hand in his pocket, he felt the gun there.
But it wasn’t time yet. Almost. Almost. But not quite.
Instead, he brought out his handkerchief and pressed it to his head.
“Did you find the Arbour woman?” Girard asked.
“She was hiding in the museum,” reported Loiselle, bringing himself under control. “I took care of her.”
“And the others?”
“In the subbasement.”
“How many?”
“Three bodies. So far. The commander’s there overseeing the wet work.”
Three, thought Gamache. Arbour. Two others. Who’d escaped? Lenoir? De la Granger?
Pinot?
“They were unarmed,” Gamache said, glaring at Loiselle. “Hiding. No threat to you. Is it just a game to you? Hide-and-seek? Is that it? Like Daniel here used to play? Right here in this apartment. Remember, Daniel?”
Daniel, in a daze, nodded. Not sure why his father shot him such an intense look.
“When you have children of your own, young man,” Gamache said to Loiselle, his voice now uncommonly mild, “and they play hide-and-seek with you. Remember this day. Remember what you did.”
“Ah, you’re back,” said Claude Dussault. “Good.”
Their eyes shifted to the door.
Alain Pinot walked in. A little rumpled, but not as dead as he might have been.
Seeing his father’s expression, Daniel said, “Dad, what’s happening? Who is this?”
“Go on,” said Dussault. “Tell him.”
Gamache was staring at Pinot, glaring at him. “This’s the piece of merde who betrayed Stephen.”
“You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you swear, Armand,” said Dussault. Then he turned to Pinot. “You better hope he’s never in a position to get at you. I doubt you’d survive.”
“Alain Pinot owns Agence France-Presse, Daniel,” said Armand. “He’s on the board of GHS Engineering. He’s behind all this.”
“Well, I had some help,” said Pinot. “Including from Stephen himself.”
“He came to you with his suspicions,” said Gamache.
“He did.”
“He trusted you,” said Armand. “And you betrayed him. Ordered him and Plessner killed.”
“No. I handed those decisions over to my security company.” He nodded to Girard. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“He’s the one Stephen approached?” asked Daniel. “To buy his seat on the board?”
“Yes,” said Armand.
“I see the evidence was in that file after all.” Pinot nodded toward the dossier.
Dussault held it up. “All here. Memos, emails, notes in the margins of schematics. Reports by accident investigators, suppressed of course. Damning, to say the least.”
“And you brought it here, knowing what we’d do with it,” said Pinot. “I doubt your godfather would’ve approved. He was willing to die to protect it, and you just hand it over. If I betrayed him, so did you. Good thing you weren’t in the Resistance, Armand. You’d have given them all away.”
“What makes you think you won’t end up in some Parisian landfill?” Gamache asked him. “Just another piece of toxic waste.”
“Because I hold the purse strings. Those hundreds of millions Stephen paid me for the seat on the board.” On seeing Gamache’s raised brows he smiled. “Yes. He actually gave me the money on the understanding that when we met this morning, I’d sign over the board seat. Like you, he had no idea what was actually happening.”
“Are you so sure?” asked Gamache.
“Well, he’s dying, and you and your son are standing here at gunpoint. This can’t be going according to plan.”
“True. But neither is it going according to your plan. I did suspect you, but hoped I was wrong.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Pinot. “You never suspected me.”
“I did, you know. Why do you think I asked Madame Lenoir to lock you in the basement?”
“Now this is interesting,” said Girard, who clearly had little time for Alain Pinot. “What gave him away?”
“The attack on Stephen Friday night,” said Gamache, speaking directly to Pinot. “Someone had to know where he’d be. He was very careful. He knew he’d be targeted, which was why he wasn’t staying here, in his own apartment. But someone found out he’d be at Juveniles. You. You were the one he met for drinks earlier Friday evening. In his agenda he’d written AFP. Stands for Agence France-Presse, but they’re also your initials. That confused us for a while. We thought AFP stood for Alexander Francis Plessner. And those notes he made, with dates? They were ones he asked you to look up from your files.”
“True,” said Pinot.
“But of course, you told him you found nothing. And that was your mistake. Stephen knew there was something there. That’s when he, too, began to suspect you.”
“Impossible,” said Pinot. “I’d have known. When we met Friday afternoon, he was his usual self. I’d asked him to bring the evidence with him so that I could see it before committing.”
“And did he?”
“Well, no. He said he’d left it here, in his apartment.”
Gamache gave him a contemptuous look.
“Just an old man’s memory lapse? You really are a fool.” Gamache turned to Girard. “Is that when the wheels started coming off your plans? Was he supposed to have an unfortunate accident leaving his meeting with Pinot? But when he didn’t bring the evidence, you had to scramble.” He turned back to Pinot. “Did Stephen tell you about his dinner plans? No, I doubt he’d do that. So how did you know? His agenda?”
“I saw it there,” said Pinot.
“What did you do then?” Armand sounded calm, but his mind was whirring. Trying to keep them engaged, trying to stay one step ahead. “Wait, don’t tell me. You came to the apartment, thinking Stephen would be here, changing for dinner. You could force the evidence out of him, then kill him. But once again, things didn’t go to plan. Instead of Stephen, you ran into Plessner. But …” His mind skidded to a halt and changed direction. “… No, I have that wrong, don’t I?”
He turned to Daniel. “Girard here couldn’t have come to the apartment because he was in the George V, having tea with you”—he looked at Dussault—“and the head of GHS Engineering.”
G
irard’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. But Dussault looked almost amused.
“I told you it was a mistake to underestimate him.”
“Did Madame Roquebrune want to know why your operation was such a dog’s breakfast?” Gamache asked.
“No, not that exactly. She didn’t want any details, just that it was being handled.”
“But it wasn’t. In fact, it was about to get even worse,” said Gamache. “You didn’t find the evidence, one of your operatives shot Plessner, making it impossible to claim accident, and then your attack on Stephen was bungled. Must’ve been some pretty stressful hours, sitting there with me in the hospital. Is that why you hung around? To see what I knew?”
“And to make sure Horowitz didn’t regain consciousness, oui,” said Dussault. “And to comfort you, of course.”
“Merci.”
“I came here the next morning, to look for myself,” said Dussault. “That’s when you and Reine-Marie arrived.”
“Then it was you. We weren’t sure if it was you or Girard here.”
“If it was me, you’d have been dead,” said Girard. “It was one of the few mistakes the Prefect has made.”
“He’s right,” said Dussault. “I probably should have killed you then. But then we wouldn’t have this”—he tapped the file beside him on the sofa—“would we?”
“I’ve read the evidence,” Gamache said, his voice no longer matter-of-fact. “Thousands were killed in the so-called accidents, over years. You’re the head of the Préfecture. You could have stopped it, but you didn’t. How does that happen? How could you make that choice?”
He was searching his old friend’s face, his sharp eyes flicking over to the file, then back again. Trying to find the answer to a crucial question.
“Me?” Dussault looked up. “Not me. I was still only second-in-command at the Préfecture when all this started. I had nothing to do with it. Not then.”
“Then when?”
“Turns out, when Messieurs Plessner and Horowitz had enough evidence to be suggestive but not enough to be sure, they went to my predecessor in the Préfecture. Clément Prévost. Hoping he’d be able to start an investigation. You met him.”
“I did. He wasn’t just your predecessor,” said Gamache. “He was your mentor.”
“True. While he believed Horowitz and Plessner were sincere, he needed proof. There were very powerful people involved. Some were personal friends of his. He began to ask questions. Quietly. Uncomfortable questions. But then there was that accident two years ago. Poor man was hit by a car crossing from a brasserie in broad daylight. And, voilà, I was made Prefect.”
“Were you working for them then?” asked Gamache.
“No. I knew none of this at the time.”
“So what happened? What changed?”
“I went to Monsieur Prévost’s funeral. State funeral. Impressive. You were there, too, I believe.”
“I was,” said Gamache.
“But you didn’t go to the family reception?”
“Non. It was private. Only for the closest friends and colleagues. I was neither.”
“But I was,” said Dussault. “I went back to their apartment. It’s a small two-bedroom walk-up in the Eighteenth. Neat, tidy. Orderly, like the man. And I saw my future. All the sacrifices, Armand. My own. My wife’s. My children’s. What we gave up for people who didn’t notice and didn’t care. A two-bedroom walk-up.”
“Clément Prévost was a good man,” said Armand.
That simple statement left Dussault silent for a moment. “He was a dead man.”
“He was murdered,” said Gamache. “When did you start to work for them?”
“Girard here had left to work for SecurForte, as their second-in-command. We’d get together for drinks, and he’d talk about his day. It sounded interesting. Fascinating, in fact. The international aspect, the businesses, the clients. And, of course, the money.”
“So you recruited him?” Gamache asked Girard.
“I didn’t have to, he asked me.”
Gamache turned back to Dussault. “When did you realize—”
“That part of the job would be to cover up criminal activity?” Dussault thought for a moment. “Fairly early on. I was essentially moonlighting, but then many officers do. They work their shift as a flic, then work nights as a security guard somewhere. This was no different. I had my job as head of the Paris Préfecture, and worked on the side for the largest private security firm in Europe. As a consultant.”
“As the head of it,” said Gamache.
“That’s not what my contract says.”
“But what’s written and what’s reality are often two different things, as you know,” Gamache said to Alain Pinot, before returning his attention to Dussault. “So you did as they asked?”
“We have to go, patron,” said Girard, tapping his wrist.
Dussault shot him an annoyed look, but otherwise ignored him.
“At first the requests were small. Fixing traffic tickets. Getting a wealthy client’s spoiled kid off a charge. And then it slowly increased. And I discovered something.”
“What?”
“That I didn’t care. That money, comfort, security, balances out all the rest.”
“They killed Clément Prévost. Your mentor. The head of the Préfecture. They murdered him. What exactly balances that out?” demanded Gamache.
“It was done,” said Dussault. “I’m a realist. There was no undoing it.”
“You were working for the people who murdered a man you admired,” said Gamache, his rage spilling out. “By then you must’ve known they were involved in other crimes, other killings. How do you justify that? Has the world gone mad?”
Dussault stood up and nodded to the guards, who raised their weapons.
Armand stepped in front of Daniel. “One thing I don’t understand. Who’s Séverine Arbour in all this? She’s working for you, or was. Why kill her?”
Dussault made a small gesture, and Loiselle and the other guards lowered their weapons a few inches.
“You’re so smart,” said Girard. “Who do you think she was?”
Gamache thought on the fly. Putting the disparate pieces together. “Her job was to kick over any evidence of the neodymium and the accidents. Make sure no one clued in.”
Girard was smiling.
I’ve got something wrong, thought Gamache. Something doesn’t fit.
He paused. Thinking. Thinking. Watching. Watching. Seeing.
Then his face opened in astonishment.
“Carole Gossette.” He could see by Dussault’s smile that he had it right. He nodded toward the file. “Those emails and notes are from her. To her. She wasn’t in on it. She suspected something was wrong. That’s why she agreed when Stephen asked that Beauvoir be hired. That’s why she hired Arbour, an accomplished engineer, and put her in the department charged with oversight. She knew if there was anything to find, Séverine Arbour would ferret it out. Madame Arbour wasn’t trying to cover up,” said Gamache. “She thought she was working for the police, to uncover wrongdoing.”
Dussault nodded. “I approached her, warned her about Beauvoir, and asked for her help. She agreed without hesitation. I am the Prefect, after all.”
“You’ve been setting Carole Gossette up,” said Gamache. “Should anything go wrong, it’ll be laid at her feet.”
“Someone has to take the blame, though I suspect she wouldn’t want to face that,” said Girard. “And might even take her own life.”
“In the archives tonight,” said Gamache, “when I confronted Arbour, she began to see the truth.”
“She called us,” said Girard. “That’s when we decided not to wait for you to find the documents, but to move in.”
“It’s almost eight,” said Dussault, and tucking the file under his arm, he nodded to the guards, who raised their rifles.
“Dad?” said Daniel.
“Wait,” said Gamache. “There’s something you’re missing. Somet
hing you don’t know. Stephen and Plessner tracked down one more piece of evidence, hard evidence. The piece of equipment made out of neodymium. The thing causing all the problems.”
“He’s lying,” said Dussault.
“I have proof,” said Gamache, trying without success to keep the desperation out of his voice. “They had it in their possession. How else could the nickels have gotten so strongly magnetized?”
“What’s a nickel?” demanded Girard. “What’s he talking about?”
“Nothing,” said Dussault. “He’s babbling. Trying to buy time. Kill him. Do it now.”
“If you do,” said Gamache, holding his hand up in front of him, “you’ll never find it.”
“There’s nothing to find,” said Dussault.
“Then why did you throw the coins into the fountain at Place de la Concorde? It’s because you wanted to go back and get them later. Keep them for yourself, as blackmail.”
“What coins?” asked Girard.
“The ones in my pocket.”
Gamache went to put his hand in, but Girard stopped him and gestured to one of the guards.
It was all Gamache needed. As soon as the armed guard lowered his weapon and reached out, Gamache grabbed him. Pulling the gun from his pocket he got off two quick shots.
Blood spread over Claude Dussault’s chest as he staggered backward and collapsed.
“Run!” Armand shouted to Daniel.
He heard the door slam just as a burst of gunfire hit the SecurForte guard he was using as a shield. They both fell back. The dead weight of the guard against him dragged Gamache to the floor.
As he fell, the gun bounced from his grip.
Daniel had slammed the door closed. But was still in the apartment.
He knew he could never outrun the guards, or their bullets. And he couldn’t leave his father behind. His only hope was to hide.
Hide-and-seek. The game he and Annie had played as children.
The one his father had reminded him of just minutes ago.
The game Grandma Zora had taught them.
Over and over, she’d challenged the children to quickly find someplace to hide. Not under a bed. Not in a closet, or behind a curtain. Too obvious.
She’d made it fun, but there always seemed something intense about it. It was the same intensity his father had just now. When talking about their game.
All the Devils Are Here Page 39