All the Devils Are Here

by Louise Penny

  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.

  CHAPTER 36

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” said Claude Dussault as he took his place beside Gamache. “Almost mesmerizing.”

  The two men stared at the Fontaine des Mers, on the Place de la Concorde. It was lit up in the dark, so that what spouted from the leaping dolphins looked more like quicksilver than water.

  “It is,” agreed Armand.

  He hadn’t paused to admire the fountain in years, always passing right by on his way from the Champs-Élysées to the Tuileries Garden.

  But now he stared. And noticed that the center of the huge fountain was supported by mythical figures representing the oceans, each sitting in the bow of a ship.

  The symbol of Paris? The storm-tossed vessel, threatened, but never foundering.

  “When I was growing up,” said Dussault, “no one threw coins in fountains to make wishes. Seems incredible anyone thinks that works.”

  The next thing Gamache heard was a plop.

  “Then again,” said Dussault, who was watching his coin sink to the bottom, “it probably couldn’t hurt. You might want to make a wish, too.”

  “What do you want, Claude?”

  Far from being put off by the abrupt question, Commissioner Dussault nodded. Appreciating that there was no longer a need for pretense.

  “I thought it was time we talked. Alone.”

  “Are we alone?” asked Gamache.

  “What do you think?” Dussault looked this way, then that, then began strolling around the fountain.

  “I think it’s time for the truth,” said Gamache, falling in beside him. “You’re involved in this, aren’t you.”

  They were walking slowly, heads tilted toward each other. A moment of quiet companionship between two old friends.

  That would be the perception. The reality was, as it so often is, far different.

  “Perhaps,” said Dussault.

  Gamache was struggling to remain civil when standing so close to a man who’d all but admitted his role in the attempt on Stephen’s life. In the cold-blooded murder of Alexander Plessner, an elderly, unarmed man.

  Around them, floodlights lit up the magnificent monuments. Vehicles passed by. Distinctive French sirens sounded in the distance. Visitors took selfies in front of the statues.

  Armand heard snippets of conversations and bursts of laughter.

  But mostly he absorbed the words and subtle movements of the man beside him.

  The Prefect stopped in front of the Luxor Obelisk. Etched into the base of the great column were what many mistook for ancient hieroglyphics, but which were actually diagrams describing the engineering involved in bringing the three-thousand-year-old monument from Egypt to Paris. Then erecting it on this site.

  “Amazing what engineers can do,” said Dussault. “Where would we be without them? They’re the real magicians.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Did you know this was where much of the Terror took place?” Dussault looked at his companion. “But of course you do. You’re a student of history. You’d know that Madame La Guillotine stood right on this spot. Louis the Sixteenth. Marie Antoinette. So many others lost their lives. Right here.” He looked at the people laughing and taking selfies. “Do you think they know? Do you think they care?”

  Dussault turned to face him. “You’re a smart man, but like them, I don’t think you have any idea what you’re close to.”

  “Oh, I have some idea.” He stared at Dussault with undisguised disgust. “I saw the security video. You tried to have it erased, but they missed some. You were in the George V Friday afternoon, with Thierry Girard. You met with Eugénie Roquebrune. You’re running SecurForte, with Girard once again your second-in-command. You ordered the killing of Stephen and Monsieur Plessner. You’re the one who’s behind all t
his.”

  Dussault nodded, resigned. “I’m sorry you found that video. Sloppy.” He tilted his head back, staring at the gold pyramid at the very top of the obelisk. “Did you know the top of the obelisk was stolen in Luxor, in the sixth century B.C.? What’s up there now is fairly recent. People mistake it for original. But—”

  “Why are we here?”

  “I don’t know why you came. Seems an awful risk. It’s true I took that meeting, but it’s a huge leap of logic to go from my having tea with friends to being guilty of murder, don’t you think? Don’t overreach, Armand. That’s when you fall.”

  “Are you denying it?”

  “I’m saying you don’t know everything. Far from it. I tried to warn you once, and you didn’t listen. Alexander Plessner is dead and Stephen Horowitz is dying.” Dussault waited, but Armand didn’t argue. “What you’re doing will only make things worse.”

  “You forgot Anik Guardiola.”

  “You know about her.”

  “Yes. So did Stephen.”

  “That’s too bad.” Claude Dussault lowered his voice. “You and Reine-Marie need to get your family and leave. Get on a plane and go back to Montréal. For God’s sake, I’m begging you.”

  “You know I won’t do that, so stop wasting time.”

  “You’re a fool. The only consolation is that it’s probably too late anyway. For you. For your son.”

  Armand froze. “Daniel?”

  Dussault turned and began walking toward the Seine. But Armand reached out, grabbed his arm, and swung him around.

  “What’ve you done?” he demanded. “Where is he?”

  “He’s safe.” Dussault held his eyes. “But you know what they can do. And will do. What you don’t know is what they’ve already done. Those three, Plessner, Horowitz, the journalist? They’re not even the tip of the iceberg. You have no idea how powerful these people are. And now, thanks to your godfather, how desperate.”

  “Are you threatening to hurt Daniel?” When Dussault didn’t answer, or blink, Armand lowered his voice. “If you touch my son, I’ll bring holy hell down on you.”

  “Too late,” said Dussault. “It’s already here. The funny thing about Hell is that we assume it’s obvious. Fire, brimstone. We’ll be plunged into it by some horrific event in our lives. But the truth is, Hell can be as subtle as Heaven.” He looked around. “Sometimes we don’t recognize we’ve wandered into Hell until it’s too late.”

  “Where’s Daniel?”

  Dussault focused on the man in front of him. “Know this, Armand. I tried to help. If something happens to Daniel, or any member of your family, it won’t be on me. It’ll be your fault.”

  “Where’s Daniel?”

  “You bumbled in, you and your little group, like some amateur theater troupe putting on a show.” Dussault shook his head. “You think you’re so clever, going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Going to the basement and whispering about Patagonia. You thought you were moving forward, but that’s an illusion. You don’t even see the truck hurtling toward you. It’s two feet away and you can’t stop it. You and your family are nothing more than bugs on a windshield to these people.”

  Gamache grabbed Claude Dussault, lifting him almost off the ground. Bringing the shorter man to eye level. Within millimeters of his face.

  “Where’s my son?”

  “Put me down.” Dussault’s voice was strangled by his coat. “Or it ends now.”

  Gamache’s grip tightened. Then, against every instinct he possessed, his clenched and cramped fingers released the coat.

  Dussault had all but admitted there were snipers aimed at him. If he went down, all was lost.

  If Daniel was to have a chance, if any of them were, he had to think clearly. Act rationally.

  Gamache took several deep breaths and brought the thudding in his chest under control. “You asked for this meeting before you took Daniel. You want something.”

  Dussault raised his brows. Gamache had recovered his senses far faster than he’d expected.

  “There is one possible way out of this.”

  Gamache recognized what had just happened. It was a common technique. Scare, threaten, raise the pressure and the stakes until the person was out of their mind with terror.

  Then offer them a way out.

  Even as he recognized it, he also recognized that it worked. He was terrified and he was desperate. And he was listening.

  “How?”

  “There’s something they want. Something your godfather has.”

  “What Thierry Girard was looking for in Stephen’s apartment. Something to do with the neodymium mine.”

  Dussault pressed his lips together.

  Armand could see that Dussault hadn’t expected him to know so much. This was not working out as Dussault had planned. But neither was it going as Armand had hoped.

  Both had delivered punches. And now both were reeling.

  But Armand knew he was by far the more bruised. Dussault had Daniel. And therefore Dussault had him.

  But Claude had said there was a chance.

  “You want me to find whatever evidence Stephen’s hidden. That’s why you’ve taken Daniel. To make sure I do it.”

  “Added incentive, yes. It needs to be found before tomorrow morning’s board meeting.”

  “And if I do?”

  “I think I can convince them to release your son, and let you all leave Paris.”

  Armand stared at his feet. Then, looking up, he gave a small nod. As though he believed him. “I’ll need to see Daniel.”

  Dussault brought out his iPhone.

  “Non. I mean in person. There must be”—the familiar phrase Armand had used so often in hostage negotiations now stuck in his throat, so that for a moment he tasted vomit—“proof of life.”

  Dussault considered the man in front of him. “Follow me.”

  He turned and walked briskly away from the ghosts of the Place de la Concorde.

  They walked for ten minutes, in silence, Armand Gamache following Dussault along boulevard Saint-Germain. Past the young lovers and elderly men and women arm in arm.

  Though one elderly woman caught his eye. And smiled reassuringly. As though she knew. That all would be well.

  Daniel’s father clung to the look in those clear and kindly eyes long after she was gone. He knew it was an illusion, a delusion, but it comforted him as he walked through the darkness.

  When they turned down boulevard Raspail, Armand knew where they were going. Where Daniel had been taken.

  It was both cruel and kind. Armand was both sickened and relieved.

  They were holding Daniel in Stephen’s apartment. A place Daniel had visited many times. Where his son had happy memories and where he might be less afraid.

  But it was one more violation for Armand. His own safe place defiled beyond redemption.

  When they arrived, Madame Faubourg came out to greet them.

  “It’s wonderful to see Daniel. I hope you don’t mind my letting him and his friends into Monsieur Horowitz’s apartment. He did have the JSPS card.” She leaned closer to Armand. “Not that he needed it. I’d have let him in anyway.”

  Light spilled from the open door to her apartment, and with it the scent of ginger and molasses.

  “Any more news about Monsieur Horowitz?”

  “I’m afraid not. I won’t be staying long, but I think Daniel and his friends might stay the night. Sort through things. Best not to disturb them.”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded to Dussault and wiped her hands on her apron as she watched them walk through the courtyard.

  In the elevator, Gamache turned to Dussault. “How can you be part of this? What happened?”

  “Don’t be so fucking sanctimonious, Armand. Have you looked around? What’s the difference between this and the tobacco companies? The pharmaceuticals that continue to sell drugs they know are killing people? Airlines that fly planes they know are dangerous, elevators that plunge to the ground
? How about nuclear power stations coming online? Engineers who continue to use faulty and inferior materials? The governments that drop regulations in favor of profit? They’re killing thousands, hundreds of thousands. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t tell me you haven’t knowingly endangered innocent lives, justifying it as for the greater good. Where’s the line?”

  “That’s your justification? I’ll tell you where the line is. It’s buried under that pile of corpses you helped make.”

  The elevator jerked to a stop, and Dussault yanked the metal accordion door open.

  “You can’t win. Since you refused to leave, what you’re fighting for now is how badly you’re going to lose. How much you’re going to lose. If they think you know what Horowitz has and aren’t telling them, they’ll kill Daniel now. In front of you. And then they’ll go to the archives, hunt down everyone there, and kill them. And then they’ll go to the George V—”

  “Enough!”

  “—and they’ll kill everyone there. One by one. Until you hand it over.”

  “You’d do that?” demanded Armand, horrified. “You’d let them do that?”

  “I can’t stop it even if I wanted to. Fuck, Armand, they’re the truck and you’re the bug. You and your family are about a millimeter away from that windshield now.”

  “But I don’t know what Stephen found. Maybe nothing.” Armand felt himself sliding into panic. “Maybe he just had suspicions and no hard evidence. He might’ve hoped it would be enough to frighten the board. He might’ve thought coming from him, that would be enough.” He stared at Claude Dussault. Desperate now. “Maybe there’s nothing to find.”

  “You’d better pray there is, and that you find it.”

  Dussault knocked, then opened the door to Stephen’s apartment.

  Four men stood up and turned to them. One of them, Gamache saw with near despair, was Xavier Loiselle.

  He was holding an assault rifle. On Daniel.

  CHAPTER 37

  Armand pushed past Dussault.

  Xavier Loiselle swung his weapon toward him, but Dussault simply gestured and Loiselle stepped back.

  Armand grabbed Daniel and held him close, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”