Then, one day, he and Annie had successfully hidden from everyone. Here in Stephen’s apartment. Unaware it was a game, their parents and Stephen had searched for them. Growing from anxious to worried to terrified. The children were missing. Gone.
Once they’d emerged, laughing, their mother and father had, through thin lips, explained that they’d been scared to death.
And now Daniel remembered where that hiding place was. The false cupboard in the armoire in Stephen’s bedroom. It looked like drawers, but actually swung open, revealing a large empty space inside. Large enough for two children.
And now, Daniel, a very grown man, threw open the door and squeezed in. Shutting it behind him. Only just.
There wasn’t a centimeter to spare, and hardly any air to breathe. But he was in.
Through the crack, he could see into the living room.
Alain Pinot was cringing behind an armchair.
Claude Dussault’s body was on the floor.
And his father was struggling to get out from under the dead guard.
Girard put his own gun back in its holster and picked the weapon off the floor. “Get up.”
Daniel’s breathing came in sharp jabs as he watched his father get to his feet.
“He got away,” said Loiselle, returning to the living room.
“He couldn’t have,” snapped Girard. “He must still be here. Find him.” But just as Loiselle gestured to the other guard to follow him, Girard said, “No, wait. I have a better idea.”
He stepped back and aimed the gun at Gamache.
Armand stared Girard straight in the eyes and lifted his chin, in defiance.
But instead of firing, Girard called, “Daniel Gamache. Come out now, or we’ll kill your father.”
“Daniel, don’t.”
“Daniel, do,” ordered Girard. “Or he dies now.”
Daniel stared, frozen.
He knew if he did, Girard would kill them both. If he didn’t, his father would be gunned down. In front of him. And then they’d find him. And kill him anyway.
He closed his eyes and stepped off the ledge.
“Okay, okay,” he said, and crawled out from his hiding place.
“Oh, Daniel,” his father whispered.
“Now that was a mistake, young man,” said Girard.
He nodded to the guard, who raised his rifle at Daniel.
“No,” screamed Armand, and leaped forward, just as the guard pressed the trigger.
Armand knocked the weapon down so that the shots went into the floor.
At that moment, Girard fired. Point blank. Three shots. Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Dad,” Daniel shouted.
His heart pounding, his brain exploding, he fell to his knees as his father collapsed.
Girard put two more bullets into him. To be sure.
“Oh, no,” whispered Daniel, crawling across the carpet. “Dad?”
“Fuck me,” said Alain Pinot, coming out from behind the chair and staring at the bodies.
Girard was bending over Gamache, going through his pockets. When he stood up, he was holding something.
“Huh. So, these are nickels. He was right. They’re magnetized. Somewhere along the line they came into contact with the neodymium.”
“Then there is hard evidence somewhere,” said Pinot. “And you just killed the only person who knows where it is.”
“Exactly. No one else will find it.” He looked at his watch. “The board meeting’s about to start. We have to get you and the documents over there.”
“What about him?” Pinot nodded toward Daniel, who was holding his father and crying.
Girard picked the file up off the floor. “Loiselle, you know what to do.”
Daniel heard the door close and the now-familiar rattle of a rifle being lifted.
He hugged his father, rocking him gently, and whispered, “I’ve got you. It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
As the scent of sandalwood and rosewater settled around Daniel, he was transported back home.
He lay in bed. Curled in his father’s arms. Reading Babar together.
One more, one more. Please, Daddy. I don’t want to go to sleep. Not yet. Don’t leave me.
I will never leave you.
Daniel felt the kiss on his forehead, and heard the deep, soft voice: Sleep tight. I love you.
Kissing his father’s forehead, Daniel whispered, “I love you, too.”
As they walked down the stairs, Girard and Pinot heard a burst of gunfire.
“Here she is.”
The nurse handed the pink and crying child, wrapped in a blanket, to Jean-Guy. He held her close against his chest. Cradling her, tears streaming down his cheeks, he kissed his daughter’s forehead and whispered, “I love you.”
CHAPTER 42
The GHS board meeting was finally called to order.
There had been twenty minutes or so of chat, of drinking strong coffee and teasing each other about their night out in Paris. Alain Pinot was a particular target since he’d arrived disheveled, in the same clothes he’d been in the night before, and looking slightly ill.
Thierry Girard had placed the file in front of Eugénie Roquebrune.
“Is this … ?” she asked, looking at Girard over her reading glasses. Another declaration of power. No contact lenses.
“Oui. It’s all here.” He bent down and whispered, “There was some trouble, but we have it contained.”
“Where’s Monsieur Dussault?”
“Tragically, there was a series of terrorist attacks overnight, assassinations really, including the Prefect of Police while he was with a Québec colleague and some others. The police will soon be on full alert.”
“The Prefect is dead?” Madame Roquebrune asked, her tone abrupt and businesslike.
“Oui.”
The CEO simply gave a small nod. “Fluctuat nec mergitur. Paris will be in mourning.”
“And those responsible will be found.”
“Alive?”
“Who can say?” said Girard.
The CEO looked at Girard. They could both say. Then her eyes traveled down the long shiny table. “And him?”
Girard followed her gaze, to Alain Pinot. “As you know, journalists, and the head of media organizations, are often targets, too. Loiselle—”
Madame Roquebrune held up her hand. “Merci.”
Girard was dismissed, and the board chair, after taking a long sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice and rearranging the papers in front of her, called the meeting to order.
The luminaries took their seats around the table once used by Louis XIV to sign official documents.
“I don’t think this will take long,” said Madame Roquebrune. “Some of you clearly need to catch up on your sleep.”
There was a rumble of amusement as all eyes went to Pinot, who lifted his coffee cup in acknowledgment.
After going through the usual business, the board chair said, “I’m sure you’ve had time to study the annual report. If you’d like I can read it out loud—”
There was an immediate protest. Not necessary.
“Then we’ll need a motion to take it as accepted.”
It was motioned, seconded, voted on, and unanimously passed.
There was a tap on the door, and two waiters brought in more refreshments including fresh fruit, croissants, cheeses, and smoked salmon.
If the other board members noticed the slightly stained file in front of the board chair, they didn’t mention it.
She’d opened it briefly, but hadn’t studied it. Hadn’t needed to. Girard’s murmured “It’s all here” was enough.
The servers left, but the door to the suite remained open.
One of the board members turned and asked politely that it be closed. When there was no response, no soft click of the door closing, first one, then others looked over.
“I believe,” said a young man, stepping into the room, “that you’re in my seat.”
He was talking to Alain
Pinot. The other board members turned to the head of AFP, as Pinot’s eyes widened.
“Who are you?” the chair demanded.
“My name’s Daniel Gamache, and I’m the new member of your board.”
“The hell you are,” said Madame Roquebrune. “Call security. Get the police if necessary.”
“Already here,” said Claude Dussault, stepping into the room. He stared at Pinot, who looked like he was having a stroke. While Eugénie Roquebrune, at the head of the table, had turned as gray as her hair.
Then the Prefect surveyed the room.
Not with any triumph, not even with disgust.
With resignation.
This was what modern devils looked like. Not the writhing creatures captured by Rodin, but good, decent, silent people.
Walking over to the CEO, he placed the pages, retrieved from beneath an Aubusson carpet in the Musée des archives, in the dossier.
“Now it’s all here,” he said.
Her father kissed Annie lightly on the forehead, so as not to wake her up.
But still, she stirred.
“Dad? Have you seen her?”
“She’s beautiful, Annie.”
As soon as Girard and Pinot had left the apartment, Loiselle had shifted his rifle.
“What the fuck are you doing?” demanded the other SecurForte guard.
“Drop it,” said Loiselle.
“What?”
“Now.”
Claude Dussault got up. “Fire your weapon,” he ordered Loiselle. “They need to hear it.”
“Dad?” said Daniel, staring as his father groaned and stirred, his eyes fluttering open as he struggled for consciousness.
Loiselle swung his rifle over to the empty sofa and fired.
Armand opened his eyes wide. “Daniel? Oh, God, Daniel.” He grabbed his son to him, and held him tight. Then, releasing him, he ran his hands over Daniel’s head and chest. “Are you all right?”
“Are you?” He placed his open palm on his father’s bloody chest. His eyes wide with shock.
“Oh, thank God,” Armand whispered. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what? I don’t understand. You’re not hurt? Neither of you?”
He looked at Claude Dussault, who’d gone to the guard on the floor and was checking for a pulse. He found none.
“Hurt is relative,” said the Prefect as he kicked the guard’s rifle away. “We’re not dead. You okay?” he said to Gamache, who was now kneeling.
“Not dead,” he said, though his voice was strained.
“I thought—” Loiselle began, clearly as confused as Daniel. He looked from Dussault to Gamache. “How?”
Daniel doubled over and threw up.
Armand rubbed Daniel’s back, murmuring, “We’re safe. It’s over. We’re safe.”
“I thought you were dead. I thought I was about to die.” Daniel sobbed, coughing and spitting.
“Shhhh,” said his father. Not to stop his tears, but to comfort him.
“How?” Loiselle repeated, staring at the great red stains on Dussault’s chest, then over to the stains on Gamache’s chest, head, and back. “Dye?”
“No.” Dussault shoved up his sleeve and showed the puncture where his blood had been taken. “Girard would know fake blood. I loaded his gun with cartridges filled with real blood.”
“Girard’s gun?” Loiselle asked.
“No, his.” Dussault pointed to Armand, who had struggled to his feet and was bending over in pain. “I left it in your apartment, hoping you’d find it, Armand, and have it with you. When you didn’t—”
“When I first met you last night? No,” he said, straightening up. “It took me a while to work out what you were doing. Whose side you were on. Did you know about the attacks on Stephen and Monsieur Plessner?”
“Oui. But I couldn’t stop them.” The two men, who’d both had to make horrific choices in their lives, stared at each other. “I’m sorry, Armand.”
“You could see why I’d doubt,” said Armand.
“When did you know what I was really doing?” Dussault asked. “When I found the coins in the fountain, I began to suspect you threw them there to get them away from Daniel and to keep them safe, as evidence. I couldn’t think of any other reason for you to not only do it, but do it in front of me. So I’d see. But it wasn’t really until you started reading the file that I was certain.”
“As late as that?” asked Dussault.
“Oui. There was almost no evidence in there. I’d taken most of it out and hidden it in the Musée. When you didn’t say anything, I knew. All the way over here I’d tried to figure out how this could possibly work. The only way I could see was if Girard frisked me and took the gun. Then used it to shoot me and Daniel. When he didn’t, I had to improvise.”
“By shooting me,” said Dussault.
“By pretending to, yes.”
“How did you know he was on our side?” asked Daniel, looking at Loiselle.
“When he hit me in the stomach, he’d obviously pulled the punch. I was pretty sure then. And even this”—he touched the side of his head—“was glancing, designed to draw blood but nothing more. But by then I knew.”
“How?” asked Loiselle.
“At the archives, when I was running to the street, you were shooting and missing. Believe me, no special-forces-trained commando would miss. I take it Arbour, Lenoir, and de la Granger are safe?”
“Yes,” said Loiselle. “Before I left, I arrested the commander. The others quickly gave up, as I knew they would. Their hearts aren’t in the job. There’s no loyalty.”
“Well,” said Dussault, looking at the young man. “There is some.”
“Yessir.”
“If you knew these two were on our side,” Daniel asked his father, “why not just end it then? Why take the risk Girard and the other guards would kill us?”
“They almost did,” said Gamache. “I think Girard would’ve killed me if you hadn’t come out. That distracted them. Gave me a chance. You saved my life.”
“We couldn’t stop them yet,” said Dussault. “We had evidence against Girard and Pinot, but not against GHS. They were setting up Carole Gossette to take the blame. We need Girard and Pinot to take the file to the CEO. We need her to accept it. We have to prove it goes much higher, much further. And we need Pinot to sit down at that table. Speaking of which, we have to go. The board meeting’s about to start.”
“You have to get the evidence first,” said Armand, and told them where he’d hidden it.
“Aren’t you coming?” Dussault asked.
“No.” He turned to Daniel. “You’re going in my place.”
After he told his son what needed to be done, he said, “Thank God you’re a banker. This has to be done exactly right, and you’re the one to do it. None better.”
Daniel turned a furious red and nodded. “It’ll be done.”
“What’re you going to do? Sit on a bench and sip Pernod?” asked Claude.
“Why do people keep asking me that?” said Armand. “No. I’m going to meet my granddaughter.”
Armand had stopped at their apartment for a quick shower, a change of clothing, and two extra-strength aspirin for his splitting headache. In fact, his whole body hurt.
Except his heart.
He’d called Reine-Marie and told her what had happened. She in turn had told Jean-Guy, but Annie had been resting.
“Dad? You’ve seen her?” Annie now asked, her voice thick. “Idola.”
“Idola,” her father whispered. “Perfect. She’s perfect.”
He looked at Jean-Guy. “May I?”
Idola’s father got up and carefully handed his daughter to her grandfather, looking him in the eyes. “We’re safe?”
“Oui.”
Armand cradled her, then reluctantly handed the baby back to her father.
Jean-Guy sat down and, closing his eyes, he rocked his daughter, feeling her heart against his. And her tiny feet resti
ng against the jagged scar across his belly.
Daniel walked around the table to stand behind Alain Pinot. He bent down and whispered, “You’re in my seat.”
“What’s this about?” demanded the CEO.
“He sold his place on the board,” said Daniel.
“That’s not true,” said Pinot. “I have no idea who this man is.”
“Of course you do, sir. You tried to have me killed just a few minutes ago.”
“That’s absurd,” said Pinot, appealing to his fellow board members.
“You conspired to murder the Chief Archivist, the Chief Librarian, and one of GHS’s own engineers, Madame Séverine Arbour,” said Claude Dussault. “And you were party to negligence by GHS Engineering that has led to the deaths of tens of thousands.”
There was an immediate uproar in the room amid calls for the chair to do something.
“Quiet,” Dussault demanded.
He walked them through what had happened.
The derailment of the train in Colombia. The questions asked by the journalist. Her visit to the water treatment plant, and the old mine. Her subsequent murder in Patagonia. The recent attack on the financier Stephen Horowitz. The murder of Alexander Plessner.
“But why?” asked the former President of France.
Claude Dussault concisely, precisely, told them about the mine. The neodymium. The ore secretly shipped back. And used in planes that crashed.
As he listed the tragedies, the Prefect felt his control slipping. His voice rising. Bridges that collapsed. Trains that derailed and elevators that failed.
Until, at the final example, he lost all composure.
“And nuclear power plants.”
Pounding the table with both fists so that the board members startled, he shouted, his voice almost a scream. “For God’s sake,” he pleaded. “What. Were. You. Thinking?”
Tears had sprung to his eyes, and he had to stop himself. Bring himself back under control.
“You knew. Some of you knew.” He looked at Madame Roquebrune, who held his eyes without apology. Then to Alain Pinot. “You piece of shit, you knew. And you’d have let it happen.”
He saw the blood drain from the room. And he wondered how many of them were thinking of those who’d died and might still. Or of themselves.
All the Devils Are Here Page 40