All the Devils Are Here(115)

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 this.”

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?”