All the Devils Are Here(9)

But he wouldn’t tell Madame Gossette all that.

“It was time for a change,” he simply said as the flight attendant cleared their plates.

And change it certainly was proving. Though perhaps not quite as much of a change as he’d thought.

“What happens if I find something’s wrong?”

“You come to me.”

“How do I know the—how did you put it?—crack in the teacup didn’t come from higher up? It often does, you know. Start there.”

“Oui. I guess that’s where your investigative skills come in.” Once again she leaned forward, as the plane banked and prepared to land on the tiny island in the middle of the vast and impossibly blue ocean. “Voyons, I have absolutely no reason to suspect anything’s wrong. If I did, I’d direct you to it. You’re here to make sure we don’t, intentionally or not, open a lane to the land of the dead.” Her gaze now was hard. Almost fierce. “We design things that improve quality of life. But that, if they fall apart, take lives. We need to make absolutely sure. You understand?”

She stared at him so intently, he was taken aback. Until that moment he’d seen the job from his perspective.

A soft landing after the harsh realities of the S?reté. A salary far in excess of anything he ever thought he’d make. They’d be safe. They’d be comfortable. They’d be in Paris.

Now he saw it from Madame Gossette’s perspective.

Lives were at stake. And his job was to make sure none were lost.

“I can’t possibly keep an eye on all the projects,” he said. “There are hundreds.”

“Which is why you have a staff. Don’t worry, once you get comfortable, you’ll be able to get a sense when something’s off. To sniff it out.”

Sniff? he almost said. What exactly did she think investigating was? And yet he had to admit when something went corrupt, there was a certain odor.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had thought about that conversation a lot in the following weeks and months. And he thought about it again as he looked at his deputy head of department, radiating Dior and resentment.

“I think I can muddle through the Luxembourg plans, Séverine. Merci. How’s work going on the Patagonia project?”

A part of him sympathized with Madame Arbour. But if she hadn’t accepted him by now, hadn’t gotten on board with his leadership, then one of them would have to go.

And it won’t be me, thought Beauvoir.

“Patagonia? I know nothing about Patagonia.” She got to her feet. “I’m sorry. I was under the impression you’d want to talk about the Luxembourg project.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, the final safety tests are next week. Maybe you’d like to be there for that?”

“I don’t see why. Would you like to go? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, no. That’s okay.”

It was, even by Séverine Arbour standards, an odd and off-putting exchange.

“Is there something you want to say, Séverine, about Luxembourg?”

“No.”

As she left his office, Jean-Guy considered looking at the Luxembourg report. Again. But it was past five. He had to get home and help feed Honoré, let Annie nap before their dinner out.

Luxembourg would wait.

Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he walked next door to Arbour’s office and said, “I’m going home. Have a good weekend.”

She glanced up, then back down to her screen. Without a word.

When she was alone in the office, Arbour looked around. She was about, she knew, to pass what pilots called the point of no return. One more keystroke and she’d be totally committed to this course of action.

Through the window she could see the Tour Eiffel in the distance.

A marvel of French engineering. A monument to innovation and audacity. Something to be proud of.

Then, returning to her laptop, she pressed send.

Gathering her Chanel handbag, she left, pausing only to sign out.

“Bon weekend,” said the guard, after he’d searched her bag.

She smiled, wished him a good weekend, too. Then headed to the métro.

There was no turning back now.





CHAPTER 3




Reine-Marie Gamache slipped her arm through her husband’s as they walked along rue des Archives to the bus stop on rue des Quatre-Fils.

Armand had suggested he flag down a taxi to take them from their apartment in the Marais to the restaurant, but Reine-Marie preferred the bus. It was a route she knew well. One that always confirmed for her that she was in Paris.

“Do you remember the first time we took this bus?” she asked.

He heard her words but was thinking about the first time Reine-Marie had taken his arm. Like this.

It was their third date, and they were walking along the slippery winter sidewalk in Montréal after dinner.

He’d reached out for her, to keep her steady, just as Reine-Marie had reached for him.

To keep him steady.

She’d put her arm through his. So that their fates would be intertwined. If one lost their balance, the other would right them. Or they’d fall together.

“You had on that blue cape your mother loaned you,” he said, remembering that chilly night.