All the Devils Are Here

CHAPTER 38

Armand unlocked the door to their apartment in the Marais and quickly went over to the bookcase.

The gun was still there.

Slipping it into his coat pocket, he locked up and left.

But where to? He had no idea where Stephen and Plessner had hidden the evidence, if there even was any.

Had Stephen and Plessner uncovered a scam, claiming to use neodymium in next-generation telecommunications where actually it didn’t work? Taking investor’s money on false pretenses?

Or maybe it was real, and GHS needed to protect a breakthrough that would net them billions.

Was it corporate espionage? Fraud? Money laundering?

What had that young journalist found in the mountains of Patagonia? And how could the derailment of a train in Colombia four years ago have anything to do with it?

There was something. Something terrible enough to murder. And now he had just hours to find it.

Armand stood on the sidewalk outside their door and looked this way, then that.

He honestly had no idea where to go next.

He turned toward the Seine and started walking, his mind racing. Though he tried to slow it down, to marshal his thoughts.

What did they know?

For one thing, Claude Dussault had let slip that he knew that they’d talked about Patagonia in the subbasement of the George V.

Which meant he knew everything they’d discussed. Which meant there was an informant in their midst.

And that could be only one person. Séverine Arbour.

What had Dussault said? That the deaths Gamache knew about weren’t even the tip of the iceberg. GHS was responsible for many, many more. On a scale almost unimaginable.

Gamache stopped, realizing he was standing across from the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu. Where Annie was busy giving birth, and Stephen was busy dying.

He took a step off the curb, toward the entrance. Then he stepped back.

No. He couldn’t give in to the nearly overwhelming temptation to go in.

In an act so painful he was trembling, Armand Gamache turned his back on them and walked on, sparing a glance at Notre-Dame.

Then he turned his back on that, too, though he allowed his thoughts to linger on the heroics of the men and women who’d run in to save the artifacts. Who’d fought the fire at risk to themselves.

Hell might be empty, but there was evidence of the divine in their midst, too. The trick, as Stephen had taught him in the garden of the Musée Rodin so many years ago, was to see both.

Dreadful deeds were obvious. The divine was often harder to see.

And which, he heard Stephen’s voice and still felt the tap on his chest, would have more weight with you, garçon?

He was essentially alone now, on the Pont des Coeurs. The Bridge of Hearts.

He stopped to peer over the edge. To cool and calm his thoughts. Reaching out, he felt the old stone, the cold stone, wall and looked down at the dark water.

Claude Dussault had suggested he make a wish. And perhaps he should have also thrown a coin into the Fontaine des Mers. It was ironic, of course. To call a site where the Terror had taken so many lives the Place de la Concorde. The Place of Agreement.

How many wishes, how many fervent prayers, had gone unanswered? Unless the slide of the guillotine was the answer. He wondered now what Dussault had wished for.

Gamache turned toward Place de la Concorde. His mind finally settling. Coming to a halt.

Why had Dussault asked to meet him there, of all places? In front of that fountain? In front of the famous column. That marked the guillotine.

Armand went over what Dussault said. What Dussault did.

Gamache’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

He hailed a taxi. He had to get back to the Place de la Concorde, but on the way he stopped at the Hôtel Lutetia.

Alain Pinot was no longer in bar Joséphine. Nor was he in any of the other bars or restaurants of the grand hotel.

The front desk called Pinot’s room, but there was no answer.

Gamache approached the concierge. “Has Monsieur Pinot asked for a restaurant reservation for tonight?”

“Non, monsieur.”

Armand knew that might not be true. Discretion was a vital part of a concierge’s job.

“I’d very much appreciate your help in finding a restaurant for this evening,” he said, sliding a hundred-euro note across the marble top.

“Most of our guests belong to private clubs.”

“I’ve always wanted to join one. Any suggestions?”

He walked out of there with a short list. Any the concierge’s fingerprint smudging one name.

Cercle de l’Union Interalliée. What General de Gaulle had called the French embassy in Paris.

“May I help you, monsieur?” the well-dressed woman asked in a hushed voice as he entered the private members club.

Gamache had heard about this place but had never been in it.

The Cercle, in the Eighth Arrondissement, was a hub for diplomats, political leaders, industrialists. The elite of Paris.

In other words, the boards of directors of most of the major corporations in Europe.

Armand quickly, instinctively, took in his surroundings.

The high ceilings. The opulent décor unchanged from a century earlier. And yet there was nothing faded about its grandeur.

It whispered power and glory.

Decisions that changed the world, for better or worse, had been made within these walls for a hundred years.

The woman at the door expertly sized up the man in front of her. Well-groomed. Good coat, classic cut. No tie, but crisp white shirt and well-tailored jacket beneath the overcoat.

An elegant man. Clearly used to a certain authority. But then, everyone who came through that door had authority. Or they wouldn’t get past her.

“Oui, merci. I’m looking for one of your guests. Monsieur Pinot. Alain Pinot.”

“Are you a member of a reciprocal club? Perhaps the Mount Royal in Montréal?”

How subtly she’s made it clear that she’d placed him as a Québécois.

“Non. I’m just a visitor. Is Monsieur Pinot here?”

“I really cannot say.”

“I understand. If he were here, could you please give him this?”

Gamache handed her the card and saw her face open in a smile. “Bienvenue. This”—she held up the JSPS card—“is your membership. Do you mind?”

Selecting a burgundy-and-dark-blue Pierre Cardin tie, she waited while he did it up, then indicated he should follow her up the wide stairway.

At the top, in a hushed voice, she said, “Wait here, please.”

They were at the entrance to a massive room, with groupings of sofas and armchairs.

Gamache watched as she walked over to a gathering of men and women, all of whom he recognized from the GHS board.

The man looked up as the concierge bent over and handed him the card. Then he looked over.

At Gamache.

Alain Pinot rose, saying a few words to his companions, and followed the woman to where Gamache was waiting.

Corpulent and red-faced from too much wine and too much rich food over too many years. And yet, Gamache thought, there was about him a force. Here was an undeniable personality.

Pinot looked at Gamache, then said to the concierge, “Is there a private salon available?”

“Absolutely. Follow me please, gentlemen.”

The room she led them to was intimate, the walls lined with bookcases. There were two large leather armchairs with the imprints of bodies, as though the spirits of long-dead members, reluctant to leave this sanctuary, still sat there.

A small fire had been laid in the grate, and before she left, she lit it.

There was a decanter of cognac and bulbous glasses on a sideboard.

“May I bring you anything?” she asked.

“Non, Marie, merci. I think we’d like to be alone.”

“Of course, Monsieur Pinot.”

Pinot locked the door and turned to Gamache. “You were at the Lutetia earlier. Who are you? And”—he handed him back his card—“how do you have this?”

“My name is Armand Gamache.”

Pinot’s eyes widened and he grinned. “You’re Armand. The famous Armand. I’ve been jealous of you for years. Decades. Stephen’s son.”

So Pinot and Stephen did know each other, and apparently very well. Armand exhaled, almost a sigh. It was the first time he’d felt relief in what seemed ages. They were finally getting somewhere. He hoped.

“Godson,” he said.

“Stephen didn’t seem to make the distinction.”

He put out his hand, and Armand took it, feeling it both fleshy and strong. A man of immense appetite.

Alain Pinot should have been a king, might have been a king in another lifetime. Gamache could see him wrapped in miles of armor on top of some great staggering warhorse.

Leading the charge, slashing and mutilating anyone who stood between himself and whatever he wanted.

But this was now, and the closest a man like Pinot could get to that sort of power was to ride atop some great corporation. And Agence France-Presse was that. It was the power behind the power. It could make and break politicians, governments, industrialists. Corporations.

And did.

“So you do know Stephen?” said Armand, declining the offer of cognac. “I wasn’t sure.”

Taking a seat in front of the fire, he glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel.

Eleven thirty.

“He never mentioned me?” asked Pinot. “I guess not.” There was no mistaking the disappointment, even hurt. “Still, he talked about you.” Pinot leaned forward. “Is he…?”

“In hospital. Critical condition. You know what happened?”

“Yes. Hit-and-run. Terrible. I tried to visit him, but they wouldn’t let me get even close.” Pinot’s eyes, almost buried behind folds of flesh and outcroppings of skin tags, were searching. Shrewd. He examined Gamache. “I’m guessing it was no accident.”

“No. I was there. It was a deliberate attempt on his life.”

“Mon Dieu,” said Pinot, leaning back. “Merde. Who’d do such a thing?” He was silent for a moment, studying Gamache. “Do you know something about this? Stephen told me you’re now the head of the Sûreté du Québec.”

“Used to be. I’m now the head of homicide.”

Pinot raised his brows. “That doesn’t sound like a promotion.”

“It isn’t.” Gamache left it at that. “Did you hear about the body found yesterday morning in an apartment in the Seventh Arrondissement?”

“No.”

No, of course not, thought Gamache. The police hadn’t yet released the news.

“The man was murdered. The apartment is Stephen’s, and the dead man is Alexander Plessner.”

“Oh, shit. I know Monsieur Plessner. Stephen introduced us a few months ago. Jesus, what’s going on? What’s happening?”

Pinot’s face was blossoming from red to purple. Gamache wondered if, before their conversation was over, he’d have to do CPR on him.

How deeply buried was his heart? Wrapped in layers of ambition and foie gras.

“I don’t know,” said Gamache. “I’m hoping you can help.”

“How?” asked Pinot.

“What do you know about GHS Engineering?”

“Ahhh, so that’s it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gamache.

“I’m on the board. Stephen approached me about buying my shares, which would get him on the board. I asked why, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“How long ago was this?”

Pinot considered. “Six, seven months.”

About the time the job at GHS had been offered to Jean-Guy, thought Armand. Stephen was putting his plan in place.

“And did you agree? Without even knowing why?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked. That’s all I needed.” Pinot studied Gamache. “Would you need more?”

Armand smiled slightly and shook his head.

“I was willing to do it immediately, but Stephen wanted to wait until the last minute, until the morning of the board meeting. He swore me to secrecy. Do you have any idea what he had in mind?”

“No, but I found this in his agenda.” Armand showed Pinot the photograph of the slip of paper. “We think the AFP means Agence France-Presse. Do these dates mean anything to you?”

Pinot studied them. “Yes. This one. It’s when one of my reporters disappeared.”

“Anik Guardiola. In Patagonia.”

“You know about her?”

“I know it was called an accident. But almost certainly wasn’t. What happened?”

“I don’t know. Not for sure. I should’ve asked more questions, back when her body was found. Should’ve pushed more. That’s how I got on the GHS board, you know.”

Armand did not know. But he knew enough to keep quiet and let Pinot talk.

“The police in Patagonia said it was a hiking accident. I sent investigators. They discovered that her laptop and phone and all her notes were missing. But by then her body had been cremated. We pressured the government, but—” He lifted his beefy hands.

“What story was she on?”

“It was about water quality. We traced her steps to meetings with various corporations, including GHS. They were very open, said she’d visited the site of the proposed treatment plant and the mine that they’d closed. They seemed extremely disturbed by her death. That’s when they offered me a seat on their board. As a gesture of transparency and goodwill.”

He took a sharp breath and a long exhale. “This was four years ago. It seems they knew me better than I knew myself. It appealed to my ego. I was dazzled by the other board members. Completely taken in.”

“When did you realize things were not as they seemed?”

“Only when Stephen asked me to give him my seat on the board.”

“Give?” asked Gamache. “He was going to pay you hundreds of millions, non? Hardly a gift.”

“You do know a lot.”

“It’s what I do,” said Gamache, his patience wearing thin. “I get information. Please stop obfuscating. We don’t have time.”

“Yes, he was paying for the shares, but it wasn’t for me. A trust has been set up for victims. Some of that has been set aside for the family of my murdered journalist. You can check.”

“Victims. Of what?”

“I don’t know. I asked Stephen, and all he’d say is that it would be clear at the board meeting.”

Armand nodded, taking this in. It sounded like Stephen, who liked to keep information to himself. “Have you ever heard of neodymium?”

“It’s a rare earth element, isn’t it? We did a series on them a couple of years ago. They’ve become a hot commodity. Why?”

“That mine in Patagonia GHS bought and Anik Guardiola investigated hasn’t been closed. They’ve been mining neodymium. I think she found out about it.”

Pinot’s brows rose. “Huh. If that’s true, it’s quite a find. GHS hasn’t announced this to the board. Why keep it a secret? Why would Anik Guardiola finding out about it be a problem? It’s not illegal, is it?”

“I think the issue isn’t the mineral, but what they’re doing with it. I think your young journalist found out too much and was murdered to keep her quiet. She also did a story, which Stephen noted, about a train derailment in Colombia. Any idea what that was about?”

“No, none. You’re going to have to remind me. What’s neodymium used for?”

“Batteries. Laptops. Hard drives,” said Gamache. “But there’s some suggestion a new use has been found. Something in telecommunications. Do you know any engineers, someone not associated with GHS, who might know?”

“My daughter-in-law’s an engineer. Works for Lavalin.” He made the call.

As far as the daughter-in-law knew, no revolutionary new uses had been found for neodymium.

“Ask her if it could cause a train to derail,” said Gamache.

Pinot did. Listening to the answer, he grimaced. Thanked her, then hung up.

“She says it would have to be a cartoon magnet to drag a train off its tracks. I think she thinks I’m nuts.”

Gamache looked again at what Stephen had written. “The derailment has something to do with the journalist’s murder. And these other dates are significant, too.”

Pinot got up. “We need to look them up. The Agence France-Presse morgue keeps all the old stories. We can go there.”

Armand also got to his feet. “Can you get access to your files from anywhere?”

“Yes. They have trusted me with the passwords,” said the owner of AFP, with a smile.

“Bon. Make your excuses to your guests and meet me at the front door.”

Pinot joined him a couple of minutes later. “Well, I just left three baffled friends including a former Prime Minister of Italy, though I suspect he’s often baffled. I might’ve suggested I was going to meet a mistress. I just hope they don’t see us together.”

“You could do worse,” said Armand.

“True.” Pinot laughed. Then, at a subtle signal, a liveried chauffeur hurried over to a limousine. “We can use my car.”

“Best not,” said Gamache, and asked the doorman to get them a taxi. Telling him where they wanted to go.

“La Défense, s’il vous plaît,” the doorman told the driver.

Pinot opened his mouth, but at a stern look from Gamache, he shut it.

A block along, Gamache leaned forward again and said, “But first, we need to go to Place de la Concorde.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“I thought we were going to my offices,” said Pinot.

“Non,” was all Gamache said.

Pinot settled into the back of the taxi, marveling that it had been years, decades, since he’d used anything other than a limousine or a helicopter to get around Paris.

He did not like this new experience.

Once at Place de la Concorde, Gamache quickly crossed to the Fontaine des Mers. As the driver and Pinot watched, he took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers, and climbed into the fountain.

Shoving up his sleeves, he reached into the freezing-cold water and moved his hands around until he found what he was looking for.

As he got out, a woman approached and gave him a two-euro coin. “Use it for food, monsieur.”

“Merci, mais—” Gamache began, but she’d walked away, into the night.

“What was that about?” asked Pinot when Gamache returned, shivering, to the taxi. With a look of warning not to actually speak, Armand opened his hand.

Resting in his palm were two Canadian nickels. Stuck firmly together.