All the Devils Are Here

CHAPTER 24

When the men returned to the living room with dessert and coffee, Reine-Marie nodded toward the box. “Find anything interesting?”

“Look at this,” said Armand. “And tell us what you think.”

He handed them the GHS annual report, open to the page listing the board of directors. “My God. The former President of France?” said Monique. “An ex–American Secretary of State?”

“Look, a Nobel laureate,” said Reine-Marie. “I read her book. Formidable.”

They scanned the list of diplomats, world leaders, philosophers, and artists.

“Anything strike you?” asked Armand.

“Besides the caliber of members?” said Monique. “GHS must be incredibly powerful to attract such people.”

“Yes,” said Armand. He was watching Reine-Marie as she stared at the list. Then, after taking a large forkful of creamy cake, she turned to the President’s Report. There was a photo of the CEO, Eugénie Roquebrune. And below it a précis of their corporate philosophy.

“Seems interesting to me,” she said slowly, “who’s not on the board.”

“What do you mean?” Monique reexamined the names.

“This’s an engineering firm, right?” said Reine-Marie. “So why aren’t there any engineers? There’re no scientists of any kind. Nobel laureates, but not in economics or physics. They’re in literature. And why aren’t there any accountants? Anyone who could read a financial statement and see if there’s anything wrong? They’re all politicians and diplomats. Minor royalty and celebrities. There’s this one fellow, head of a media empire, but that doesn’t mean he can read a spreadsheet even if he wanted to.”

And that, thought Armand, was the crux. How much did these people actually want to know?

“Not exactly the checks and balances you’d hope for in a board of directors,” said Monique.

The photo of Madame Roquebrune smiled out at them. She seemed pleasant enough, but did not give the impression of immense power or even authority.

But then, that might’ve been the idea. Gamache suspected nothing, no word, no image, not even the font, was chosen without intense scrutiny.

Reine-Marie also studied the photograph. She saw a woman in her early fifties. Elegant, warm. Kindly even. Not at all intimidating or formidable. In fact, as she looked closer, Reine-Marie saw there was a very small eyelash on Madame Roquebrune’s cheek.

It was almost unnoticeable, except as a tiny human flaw.

It was actually quite endearing. She wanted to brush it away.

And that, Reine-Marie knew, was the trap. Even as she felt herself drawn into it.

Could this, she found herself wondering, really be one of the most powerful people in France? In Europe?

But then, her own husband was often mistaken for a college professor. Not a man who hunted killers.

The GHS president was not kindly and benign, and its board was not oversight. It was a façade, a stamp of legitimacy. The men and women on the board gave the corporation access, and cover, should anything go wrong.

“Claude, do you know this Eugénie Roquebrune?” Armand asked.

“No,” he said. “Though that’s some impressive board. I wonder if Monsieur Horowitz really did have anything on GHS. Hard to believe people like that could be taken in.”

“People believe what they want to believe,” said Reine-Marie. “It’s just human nature.”

“Reminds me of the story of the oilman who went to Heaven,” said Claude. “He shows up at the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter says, ‘I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, you’ve got into Heaven.’

“‘Fantastic,’ says the oilman. ‘But what’s the bad news?’

“‘I’m afraid the part of Heaven reserved for oilmen is full.’

“‘Well, I know how to solve that,’ says the oilman. ‘Take me to them.’

“When Saint Peter does, the oilman calls for their attention and announces, ‘Exciting news. They’ve struck oil in Hell.’

“And with that, the place empties out.

“Saint Peter turns to the oilman and says, ‘That was amazing. You can go in now.’

“‘Are you kidding?’ says the oilman. ‘I’m going to Hell. I hear they’ve struck oil there.’”

The other three laughed.

“It’s true what you say, Reine-Marie,” said Claude. “People believe what they want to believe. Beginning with their own lies.”

“Hell is the truth seen too late,” said Reine-Marie as she poured out more coffee. “Thomas Hobbes.”

For a moment, Armand could feel Stephen’s steely grip on his wrist, and see his laser-blue eyes, staring at him as they sat in the garden of the Musée Rodin. In front of The Gates of Hell.

I’ve always told the truth, Armand.

Jean-Guy glanced around to see if he could spot anyone watching.

But he was alone in the park.

He walked along the path, unconsciously clasping his hands behind his back. As he strolled, Jean-Guy Beauvoir went over what he’d found. And what it could mean.

And, equally disturbing, what Annie had told him. And what that could mean.

Jean-Guy stopped. Supposedly to stare into the duck pond. But actually, he’d picked up the fact he wasn’t alone. Someone was quietly watching from the shadows.

A thief? Was he about to be robbed?

It is a mystery, he hummed as he slowly circled the pond. It is a big mystery.

Then, turning quickly, his hand shot out, but the man had lightning reflexes and jumped out of his grasp, then turned and took off.

Jean-Guy ran after him, and while the man was younger and had the advantage of age, Jean-Guy had the advantage of rage.

The man ran out into the traffic along rue de Bretagne. Horns sounded and curses followed them down rue du Temple, the distance between the men growing. The man turned down an alley, knocking over bins to slow his pursuer.

While all his survival instincts, all his training, told Jean-Guy it was a mistake to follow a suspect into a dark alley, his instincts as a husband and father were stronger.

The man disappeared around a corner.

Skidding around the corner, Beauvoir saw a brick wall at least ten feet high blocking their way. It was a dead end.

The man didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. He ran full tilt at it, leaping and grabbing the top. Pulling himself up, he went over the other side.

At the very top, he twisted and looked back.

Directly at Beauvoir.

Then he dropped from sight.

Beauvoir got to the wall and jumped. Clutching for the top. His fingers scraping the bricks. Clawing at them for purchase. But he skidded down. Once, twice, three times he tried. Then stopped. Bending over, holding his knees. Gasping for breath.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, pounding the wall with each word.

Then he turned and jogged back to the apartment, picking up speed, breaking into a run as his mind raced ahead of him.

Had he actually been lured away? Was he meant to chase one man while another broke in?

He was running across streets as cars slammed on brakes.

At his building he took the stairs two at a time, yanking himself up with the handrail.

The door to their apartment was closed. And still locked. But …

Hands trembling, he unlocked it and ran to Honoré’s room, then checked on Annie.

Both were asleep. Both snoring lightly.

Returning to the front door, he double locked it. Then, leaning against it, he slid down, landing on the floor, his knees to his chin and his head in his hands.

What could have happened to his family?

He got up and walked unsteadily into the living room. The chase had not been totally futile. He’d found out one thing.

The man had turned at the top of the wall on purpose. So that Jean-Guy could get a good look at him.

It was the guard Loiselle.

Jean-Guy’s bloody hand reached for the phone. The Chief was right. Some things were solved by walking. And some by running.

Armand put down the phone and turned to Claude.

“Did you assign an agent to guard Annie?”

“I asked Irena to do it. Why?”

“Because,” snapped Armand, “there’s no one there, except, as it turns out, a security guard working for GHS. They’re watching the apartment.”

“Armand?” said Reine-Marie, standing up.

“They’re all right. No thanks to you,” he said to Dussault. “Jean-Guy chased him away.”

Claude Dussault picked up his phone and made a call. A moment later he hung up. “An agent has been assigned, but his shift won’t start until midnight. I’m sorry. I didn’t make it clear to Fontaine that this was a priority. A flic is on his way now.”

Armand continued to stare at the Prefect, who colored under the unrelenting glare.

“Désolé,” Dussault repeated.

Gamache was far from convinced this man was désolé. He was also concerned that any gendarme Dussault sent would be there not to guard, but to watch. And maybe do more, if it came to that.

The Dussaults were on their feet, understanding that the evening was over. But as Claude bent to pick up the box, Armand stopped him.

“I’d like to keep this for a day.”

The two men locked eyes. Over the box. Over the barricade. And the Prefect, knowing he was in a difficult position after his failure earlier, conceded. But he wasn’t surrendering completely.

“I’ll just take this then.” He picked up the laptop.

Had they actually been at the barricades, Armand had the impression Dussault would have pulled the trigger.

And he’d have shot back.