All the Devils Are Here

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 resting 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.

“Stephen Horowitz came to you with his concerns a few years ago, didn’t he?” Daniel said to the CEO, giving the Prefect a chance to catch his breath. “You promised to look into it, but instead you covered it up. And when he realized that, and collected evidence himself, you began a campaign against him. Ending with an attempt on his life Friday night.”

“That’s a lie,” said Eugénie Roquebrune. “Slander.”

“The truth,” said Claude Dussault. “Monsieur Horowitz sold his entire art collection. Raised hundreds of millions of dollars, and with that money he bought Monsieur Pinot’s seat on this board.”

The CEO was shaking her head and smiling. “You’re misinformed. The places on the board are given freely. They’re not for sale.”

“But the stock options that go with the seat are. They’re not supposed to be, there was an understanding that they’re never sold. Stephen knew he had to approach someone who was especially greedy.”

All eyes turned to Alain Pinot.

He looked at his fellow board members and colored.

“Okay, yes, he approached me. Because we’re old friends. He was like a father, a mentor to me. Most of you know that.”

There were some nods, but most remained stony-faced.

“He wanted on the board, but I refused, of course,” said Pinot. “I’d heard rumors about his Nazi past, and I knew that would tarnish GHS and everyone associated with it.”

The mention of “Nazi” had the desired effect. Daniel and Dussault could feel the tide turn. Could see support for Pinot rising. There were murmurs of agreement.

“Well done.”

“Quite right.”

“Merci.”

“Stephen Horowitz was no Nazi,” snapped Daniel. “Just the opposite. He worked for the Resistance.”

“Right,” said one member. “And so did Pétain.”

The damage had been done. Doubt had entered the room.

“I have proof,” said Pinot, pressing his advantage. “A file on Horowitz you yourself found, Monsieur le Préfet, hidden in the Archives nationales.”

“It wasn’t proof,” said Claude. “Far from it.” He looked at the CEO. “You used it to try to blackmail Stephen Horowitz into stopping his investigation.”

“He came to me with his wild ideas,” said Madame Roquebrune. “Poor man was clearly in the early stages of dementia. I took him for dinner, reassured him, and we parted friends. Or so I thought. But he kept coming back with more and more crazy accusations. I’m sorry you believed, Monsieur le Préfet, what amounts to a sad old man’s delusions.”

Claude Dussault pressed on. “Stephen Horowitz and Alexander Plessner worked for years, and finally had their proof. It’s all there. In that file.”

The CEO glanced down at it, then looked around the table. “I’m afraid the Prefect here might also need to be tested. This is a dossier on the number of handmade nails in Calais in 1523.”

That was met with laughter, and relief.

“Does it not look a little thick to you,” said Dussault. “Must’ve been a lot of nails. No, that was found this morning where Monsieur Horowitz had hidden it. Inside are the internal GHS memos and emails, schematics. External investigations that were suppressed. Internal reports that were suppressed. As well as the notes of the Agence France-Presse reporter murdered in Patagonia.”

“This is ludicrous,” said Madame Roquebrune. “If you have any proof, I’ll be happy to take a look at it. Make an appointment with my assistant. In the meantime, this is a board meeting and we have important business to go over. Guards,” she called. “Remove these people.”

There was no movement.

“No one’s coming,” said Dussault. “And Monsieur Gamache has a perfect right to be here. He now sits on the board.”

“He does not. I never sold him my place,” Pinot repeated.

“Then what’s this?” Daniel put a paper onto the table. “Stephen put this in that file with the rest of the evidence.”

Pinot looked at it and felt light-headed.

Stephen had told him it was a customs and excise form, to allow the transfer of that much money out of Canada and into France.

Alain Pinot had trusted Stephen. Alain Pinot had underestimated Stephen.

The old man had tricked him into signing over his seat after all.

“Even if this was legitimate,” said Pinot, scrambling, “the shares would belong to Horowitz, not you. And he’s in a coma.”

“True. And while he is, my father has power of attorney. And he’s delegated me to take his place. So if you’ll stand up.”

“You idiot,” snarled the CEO as Pinot blanched.

The Prefect of Police faced the head of Agence France-Presse.

“Alain Pinot, you’re under arrest for the murder of Alexander Plessner and the attempted murders of Stephen Horowitz, Allida Lenoir, Judith de la Granger, and Séverine Arbour.”

Then he turned to Eugénie Roquebrune. And slowly, carefully, listed the charges against her.