All the Devils Are Here(136)

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.