All the Devils Are Here

CHAPTER 35

“Nothing,” said Reine-Marie, staring at the screen as though accusing it of willfully withholding information.

While waiting for Mrs. McGillicuddy’s reply about Stephen and Pinot, she’d gone back over Agence France-Presse stories on the dates Stephen had jotted down.

She was getting frustrated. This was, after all, her forte. Tracking down information. Finding things hidden in full view but overlooked.

She was, she knew, overlooking something. It was the reflection in the screen she was annoyed at. Not the screen itself.

Then she had an idea. “Suppose the dates are when the thing actually happened?”

“Yes,” said Jean-Guy. “Isn’t that what we’re looking up?”

“No, we’re looking up the dates the Agence France-Presse stories ran.”

“Wouldn’t they be the same thing?”

“Not necessarily,” said Reine-Marie. “Sometimes it takes a while for an event to be discovered, or to be reported on. Especially an event in an isolated region like, say, Patagonia. We need to check stories on either side of the dates.”

A few minutes later she called Jean-Guy over to her terminal.

“Look at this. An Agence France-Presse reporter disappeared in Patagonia four years ago. It happened on the first date Stephen’s written down, but the story didn’t run until three days later. That’s why we didn’t find it the first time.”

Overhearing this, Judith and Allida went to look.

“Anik Guardiola. Twenty-four. Stringer for AFP,” Judith read. “Disappeared in the mountains of Patagonia while on a hiking trip.”

“Alone?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Apparently.”

“Who hikes in those mountains alone? Did they find her?” he asked.

“Just a moment,” said Reine-Marie as she put the young woman’s name in the search engine.

“Agence France-Presse sent representatives to the area,” she said, leaning into her screen and reading. “And pressured the local government.”

“The police, the carabineros, didn’t seem to take it seriously,” said Allida.

“Her body was eventually found in a gorge,” said Judith, from her terminal behind them, where she’d also brought up the story. “If you go a week later you’ll find the report. The police ruled her death an accident. Said that she’d fallen, but AFP wasn’t satisfied. Their head of news says neither her phone nor her computer were found. But then…” There was a pause as Judith scrolled. “It goes quiet. The story dies.”

They looked at each other.

“Dies? The cops and the paper just dropped it?” said Allida. “Does that make sense?”

“Non,” said Jean-Guy, staring at the screen. “Someone was bought off.”

“You think she was murdered?” Reine-Marie asked.

“I think she found out something someone really wanted to hide,” he said, his fingers hitting the keys, chasing information. “But what?”

More tapping. Tapping. Tapp—

“Got it,” said Judith.

The Chief Librarian had let the others follow the Guardiola lead while she took a different tack.

It had struck them as strange that the dates were all in chronological order, except the final entry. The last thing he’d written was, in fact, the earliest date. They’d thought perhaps he’d transposed numbers, but now it seemed not.

It was the last thing he’d discovered. But the first thing that had happened.

“A month before Anik Guardiola disappeared, she wrote a story about the derailment of several train cars in Colombia,” said Judith, as the others crowded around. “It was a minor story, so wasn’t picked up by Agence France-Presse until a week later and sent out as a brief.”

“Colombia? Not Patagonia?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Non. See here? Colombia.”

“Was anyone killed?” asked Allida.

“Non,” said Judith, scanning. “No one died. It was a freight train.”

“Carrying ore from the neodymium mine?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Non. Grain.”

“So why was Anik Guardiola interested?” asked Judith.

“Why was Stephen?” asked Reine-Marie.

Jean-Guy picked up his phone. It was time to call Armand.

“Oui?”

“Patron? We’ve found something.”

Jean-Guy did not identify himself. While he suspected this precaution was meaningless, it made him feel slightly better about breaking their silence.

Gamache and Madame Arbour were in a taxi moving across Paris. The light turned red, and in the pause he watched patrons in a brasserie, spilling out onto the sidewalk, drinking and eating.

Carefree.

Though he knew very few people were ever really carefree. But there were moments of bliss. He thought of his last moment of bliss. Walking along after dinner Friday night. Before …

Like all those locked in a nightmare, he wished he could wind back the clock. Set down the cracked cup.

Then the light changed and the taxi moved on through the night. As he listened to Jean-Guy.

“It looks like Stephen did mean Agence France-Presse when he wrote AFP.”

He told Gamache about the derailment in Colombia. The disappearance of the reporter who’d written the story and that her body was eventually found in a gorge in Patagonia.

“Near the mine?”

“We’re trying to find out. The local police dismissed it as a hiking accident.”

“She was alone?”

“It seems so. AFP sent people to investigate. They discovered that neither her phone nor her laptop were found on her, or in her hotel room.”

“She was murdered.”

“Looks like it, though the local authorities never agreed and didn’t investigate. And eventually the story died.”

“Really?”

“The local cops must’ve been paid off.”

“She was on to something,” said Gamache. “But what? Might be the derailment, or might not. Have you figured out the other dates?”

“We’re working on it.” Jean-Guy paused, wondering if he should say more. Knowing their phones were probably being monitored. But it also felt like they’d passed the point of no return. “Do you know an Alain Pinot?”

“The media fellow. Yes. He’s on the GHS Engineering board. I saw him just now at the Lutetia. Why?”

“His company owns Agence France-Presse.”

There was a pause as Gamache absorbed that news and considered what it could mean.

“But do you know him personally?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Non. Should I?”

Jean-Guy told him about McGill, and the possible connection to Stephen. “Reine-Marie’s written to Mrs. McGillicuddy to see if Stephen did know him. This would’ve been thirty years ago or more. Stephen never mentioned him?”

“Not that I remember. If he was looking out for Monsieur Pinot back then, I’d have thought he’d introduce us. We’d be about the same age, non?”

“He’s a couple of years younger, but yes, that’s what I thought, too.”

Jean-Guy was obviously a little disappointed. There might not be a connection between Alain Pinot and Stephen Horowitz after all. If there was, Stephen would almost certainly have introduced the wild young man to his more stable godson.

“I might’ve been away at university,” said Armand. “Let me know what you find out.”

“Any news your end?”

“Seems neodymium, while a rare earth element, isn’t exactly rare. It’s a powerful magnet, but that’s about it. We’re looking into the telecommunications connection. Still, it’s puzzling why GHS kept the find a secret.”

“Maybe that’s just the culture,” said Jean-Guy. “They don’t exactly like broadcasting their business.”

“That’s probably it.”

Both men knew Jean-Guy’s statement was for the benefit of whoever might be listening. The truth was, this wasn’t extreme secrecy. It was a cover-up.

“Is Reine-Marie there? Can I have a word?”

“Armand?” he heard her say. “Jean-Guy told you what we found?”

“Yes, much more than we’ve found. Have you heard from Daniel?”

“Not yet. Do you want me to call him?”

“No, I’ll do that. Let me know what Mrs. McGillicuddy says about Stephen and Monsieur Pinot.”

“Absolutely. Armand?”

“Oui?”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes. We’re moving forward. Getting closer and closer.” He chose not to tell her where they were getting closer to.

If GHS was good at keeping secrets, they were amateurs compared to the head of homicide.

Though the key was knowing what information to let slip, and what to hold on to.

He called Daniel. Heard it ring. And ring. And then Daniel’s recorded voice, deep, cheerful, warm, inviting him to leave a message.

“Daniel? It’s Dad. Call me when you can.”

Up ahead he could see their apartment. And in it what he’d dashed across Paris to find.

Since silence was already broken, Jean-Guy decided to make one more call.

As soon as he heard Annie’s voice, he relaxed. Until that moment, he had no idea how tense he’d become.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Just fine. Honoré and the girls have had their dinner and baths, and we’re just tucking them in. Did you know Great-Aunt Ruth has taught him a song?”

“Oh, God, what now?”

Their son’s very first word hadn’t been “Mama” or “Papa,” or “milk,” or “please.”

Thanks to Great-Aunt Ruth and her duck Rosa, Honoré’s first word had been “fuck.” Which he’d screamed, loud and clear. In the middle of a party. Repeatedly.

Annie and Jean-Guy had tried to explain that he was actually saying “duck,” but his enunciation was so perfect no one believed that.

Honoré adored Great-Aunt Ruth and her duck Rosa and absorbed anything they chose to imprint.

“Here, listen,” said Annie and held the phone out.

In a clear, high voice, their son was singing, “What do you do with a drunken sailor?”

“A sea shanty? Jesus,” sighed Jean-Guy. “Still, he can hold a tune.”

“Yes, that’s the thing to focus on.”

“You’re all right?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

A few minutes earlier she’d felt a twinge. It was, she told herself, indigestion. Though in her heart, and slightly further down, she knew it wasn’t that.

She could feel panic rising, but she wouldn’t say anything to him. Not yet. Not until she was sure.

“I’ll tell you more when I see you,” Jean-Guy was saying.

“Come home when you can,” she said. Soon. Soon.

As he said goodbye he heard, in the background, “Way, hey, and up she rises…”

“No need to take off your coat,” said Armand, as they entered the apartment. “We aren’t staying long.”

“Long enough for me to use the facilities?” Madame Arbour asked, her voice brusque. Clearly not used to being lugged all over the city like a sack of occasionally intelligent potatoes.

“Oui. Certainement,” he said. “It’s just off the bedroom.”

When she left, he went over to the box from the hospital. It was still where they’d left it the night before, sitting beside the armchair in the living room. Taking the top off, he looked in.

And jerked back in surprise.

Something had been added. Even covered in a cloth he knew what it was.

He unwrapped the gun, careful not to get his prints on it. Was this the weapon that had killed Alexander Plessner? Was he being set up now?

He smelled the muzzle. It had not been fired recently, but that meant nothing.

Using a handkerchief, he released the magazine.

It was fully loaded. But …

He ejected one of the bullets. It was not standard issue.

Hollow point? Illegal, brutal. Effective, if the effect you wanted was to blow a hole clean through another human being.

No. This was something else entirely.

He stared at the bullet for a moment, his mind whirring.

Replacing it, he looked around. Someone had broken into their apartment between the time he and Reine-Marie had stopped there that afternoon on their way to the Louvre, and now. Was anything else changed? Added? Taken? Without a thorough search, he couldn’t tell. And he didn’t have time for that.

Who’d done this? Claude Dussault? Irena Fontaine? Thierry Girard?

Xavier Loiselle?

And why? He looked at the firearm in his hand. What was the purpose?

The water stopped running, and he knew he had moments to decide what to do.

He slipped the gun into his coat pocket and bent over the box once again. Then, he hesitated. And changed his mind.

Walking quickly over to the bookcase, he pulled a few books out of a high shelf and hid the gun there.

When Séverine Arbour reappeared, she found Gamache going through the box.

“What’s that?” she asked, joining him.

“These are the things Stephen had on his desk, and what the hospital gave us after he was hit by the truck. The investigators have kept his laptop and phone, but everything else is here.”

“What’re you looking for?”

She’d been a bit surprised by the apartment. It was smaller than she’d expected. Most powerful people, men in particular, liked homes that reflected what they saw as their place on the ladder. Which was, in reality, a few rungs lower than their egos believed.

This place was petite, beamed, with bookcases and a fireplace. The floors were parquet, in the classic herringbone pattern.

An old oak dining table shared space with a comfortable sofa and armchairs. The kitchen, through an archway, was compact and dated.

But it was calm, peaceful even. It smelled of coffee and wood. And felt like home.

“Neodymium,” he said.

As she watched, he dug into his pocket and dropped a handful of coins into the box.

It was such a bizarre thing to do, for a moment she wondered about his sanity.

But he looked completely, intensely sane.

Stirring the contents with his hand, he picked up the coins along with some screws and the Allen wrench.

“Nothing.”

And she understood. If something in there was made of neodymium, it would pull metal to it. And magnetize what it touched.

He sat back in the chair and stared at her. “So what magnetized the nickels?”

“Nickels?”

“Stephen had two Canadian nickels that were stuck together. We thought they were glued, the seal was that strong, but when I saw that video about neodymium, I realized they might’ve been magnetized.”

“Which would mean your friend had a sample of the neodymium,” she said. “That’s what had magnetized the coins. Is that what you thought was in the box? The neodymium itself?”

“I’d hoped.”

It was now clear that his godfather had had suspicions for years. Had spent the last precious years of his life, and any amount of his fortune, to piece together the evidence. Had brought the engineer and his trusted friend Alexander Plessner in to help.

He’d sold everything he owned, mortgaged his home, gone all in.

But what had he found out? Was it corporate espionage? Was it something to do with neodymium?

They knew, he realized, almost nothing.

He checked his watch.

Quarter to nine. Time he left for the rendezvous.

But he wasn’t armed, with information or anything else. He glanced at the bookcase. Had he just made a fatal error?

But it was done now.

He called Daniel at the bank again. And again, no answer.

“Something wrong?” Séverine Arbour asked.

“No.”

He stared at his phone, then hit the app. Within seconds it showed Daniel’s location.

Armand exhaled.

He was at the bank. Probably with his phone on silent.

“I’m going to meet Commissioner Dussault,” he said.

“Can I go home now?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“You still don’t trust me? What do I have to do?”

“It’s not that,” he said, though of course it was. “It won’t be safe for you at home. The only safety is in numbers. You need to join the others at the archives. You’ll be fine there.”

“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and egotistical?”

When he looked surprised, she explained. “Beauvoir told me about your Québec village. He talks about it a lot. Apparently it’s filled with fine people.”

They’d left the apartment and were walking quickly through the dark streets of the Marais, trying without success to avoid puddles on their way to the archives.

Armand laughed. “They’re certainly fine. And so am I.”

He called Reine-Marie, and when they approached the massive gates, he saw her and Jean-Guy waiting for them on the other side.

He was surprised by the wave of emotion that washed over him. And by the gulf that existed between them, the immeasurable distance between in there and out here.

“Let me come with you,” said Jean-Guy.

“Claude wants to speak to me alone.”

“I can still be there. Watch from a distance.”

“And do what?” asked Armand.

Without being more explicit, they both knew if it came to that, Armand would be dead before he hit the ground, and there’d be nothing Jean-Guy could do except get himself killed.

“Stay here,” said Armand. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

As he left them for his rendezvous, he felt very alone.