All the Devils Are Here(76)

Monique walked up the stairs slowly. Thinking. Her husband’s scent, even more rank than she remembered it, clung to her clothing.

Beauvoir opened the door.

Once in, Reine-Marie hugged Jean-Guy.

“You all right?” Armand asked, noticing the scrapes on Jean-Guy’s hand.

“A bit shaken, to be honest. It really is different when it’s your own family.” His eyes were wide. “Thank you for coming.”

“Annie?” asked Armand.

“Asleep. So’s Honoré.”

Despite the reassurance, Reine-Marie and Armand walked to the bedrooms, peered in, then returned to the living room.

“We brought this.” Reine-Marie held up the pastry box. “I’ll make some tea.”

They followed her into the small kitchen and put out the tea things.

“What happened,” Armand asked.

Jean-Guy described it, then said, “I’ll tell you, Armand, that guy barely touched the wall as he went over. That’s no ordinary guard. And I’m pretty sure he wanted me to recognize him.”

“Bit of psychological warfare,” said Armand.

“But the good news is, his orders were to follow me, not to do any harm to Annie or Honoré. There’s something else. He works for SecurForte.”

“The same company that has the contract with the George V,” said Gamache. “Who almost certainly doctored the tapes.”

“It gets worse. SecurForte is owned by GHS.”

Armand paused for a beat, taking that in. “How do you know?”

“I found an old article in some American mercenary magazine. Let me show you.”

They returned to the living room and took seats side by side on the sofa, in front of the laptop.

Armand read, then looked up. “What are you thinking?”

“That GHS is using SecurForte to spy on other corporations.”

“And Stephen found out. It’s possible.”

Annie walked, waddled, into the room in her bathrobe.

“What time is it? Is it morning? What’s going on?” She looked at the clock on the mantel. “It’s eleven thirty. Why’re you here? Has something happened?” Her eyes landed on the cake. “Is that an Ispahan?”

“She seems to be giving birth to questions,” said Jean-Guy.

“Careful.” Annie placed a hand over her stomach. “You don’t want the baby to join the conversation, do you?”

Once they were all sitting down, Jean-Guy told her about the GHS guard.

Annie turned white. “You chased him? Are you crazy? Are you all right?” She took his hand. “You’re hurt.”

“No, no. I’m fine. They’re just trying to scare us.”

“Are you sure?” She looked at her father, who’d been silent. “Daddy?”

She only used that word when something awful had happened, or was happening.

Just then there was a knock on the door.

Jean-Guy went to it and returned a minute later. “It’s the cop, come to guard us.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Armand said, “that maybe you need to move into Stephen’s suite at the George V.”

“But will it be any safer?” asked Reine-Marie. “SecurForte’s there, too.”

“Mom’s right,” said Annie. “They’ll be all over the George V. Why would we be safer there?”

“Because you wouldn’t be alone,” said her father. “There’ll be other guests, staff. Support.”

“You mean witnesses? I see your point.” Annie turned to Jean-Guy. “A few days in a luxury hotel? If we must …”

“Just don’t order the caviar, dear,” said Reine-Marie. “Or toast. Or anything.”

“I need to show you something on the security cameras,” said Jean-Guy. “Something they didn’t erase.”

They huddled around his laptop while he showed them the clip, gone in the blink of an eye, of a woman arriving at the George V.

“This was yesterday, late afternoon,” he said.

“It’s the head of GHS,” said Reine-Marie. “I recognize her from the annual report.”

Eugénie Roquebrune was indeed recognizable. The only woman in the lobby, perhaps in the entire hotel, maybe in all of Paris, with gray hair.

“Now,” said Beauvoir, bringing up the next clip. “This’s half an hour later. Look at the reflection in the tray the waiter’s holding.”

They watched as the uniformed waiter put a teapot and a three-tiered tower of little sandwiches and petit fours on a table. While he spoke to the guests, he lowered the large silver tray to his side. So that it reflected the guests at another table.

They watched it twice through before Armand hit pause.

“It’s Claude Dussault,” he said, and sighed, staring at the screen. “Meeting with the head of GHS. That’s it then.”

His fear confirmed.

Despite the tension that evening, and Armand’s growing discomfort with his old friend and colleague, he’d still held out hope that he’d gotten it wrong.

But he could no longer hide from the truth.

Having afternoon tea with the head of an engineering giant was hardly a crime. But he was the Prefect of Police for Paris. And GHS appeared up to its neck in this business.