All the Devils Are Here
- Автор: Пенни Луиза
- Серия: Chief Inspector Gamache #16
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- ISBN: 9781250145253
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «All the Devils Are Here». Краткое содержание книги:
On their first night in Paris, the Gamaches gather as a family for a bistro dinner with Armand's godfather, the billionaire Stephen Horowitz. Walking home together after the meal, they watch in horror as Stephen is knocked down and critically injured in what Gamache knows is no accident, but a deliberate attempt on the elderly man's life.
When a strange key is found in Stephen's possession it sends Armand, his wife Reine-Marie, and his former second-in-command at the Sûreté, Jean-Guy Beauvoir, from the top of the Tour d'Eiffel, to the bowels of the Paris Archives, from luxury hotels to odd, coded, works of art.
It sends them deep into the secrets Armand's godfather has kept for decades.
A gruesome discovery in Stephen's Paris apartment makes it clear the secrets are more rancid, the danger far greater and more imminent, than they realized.
Soon the whole family is caught up in a web of lies and deceit. In order to find the truth, Gamache will have to decide whether he can trust his friends, his colleagues, his instincts, his own past. His own family.
For even the City of Light casts long shadows. And in that darkness devils hide.
Jean-Guy shifted. He really hated it when Gamache talked about instincts, or accused him of being intuitive. It was, he was pretty sure, an insult.
But he was equally sure his father-in-law saw it as a compliment.
“I think the guard Loiselle was following me. But I don’t know why he would’ve stopped.”
“Maybe his orders were to scare you. What do you think is going on at GHS?”
Beauvoir exhaled and shook his head. “I wish I knew. I wish I could understand that report.” He pointed to the printout in Gamache’s hands. “The engineering could be flawed and they’re covering up. Could be money laundering. Drugs? Arms dealing? The company has the scope for it. Projects all over the world. Shipments of equipment going back and forth to places known to traffic in drugs and weapons and people. But the Luxembourg project?” Beauvoir shook his head. “A funicular in a grand duchy? It seems unlikely. Too small. Too time-limited. They’d choose something that would go on for years, not months.”
Gamache was quiet, nodding slightly, as though listening to music. Or some internal voice.
“What is it?” asked Beauvoir.
“There’s either something very wrong about the Luxembourg project, or there isn’t.”
That was a little cryptic even for Gamache.
Beauvoir was about to ask for clarification when he suddenly understood. “You think they were erasing all those messages so that we wouldn’t see that there’s nothing wrong with it. So we’ll continue to focus on the Luxembourg project, and not where the issue really is.”
“I think it’s possible.”
“Shit,” said Beauvoir, leaning back in the taxi seat and staring ahead. His mind working rapidly. “The problem will be understanding the report and emails well enough to spot a flaw.”
“We need a financial analyst and an engineer,” said Gamache, staring at Beauvoir.
“Oui.” And his eyes widened. “Jesus. Like Stephen and Plessner.”
Gamache’s phone vibrated. It was Mrs. McGillicuddy.
Jean-Guy could hear her voice, high-pitched with anxiety.
She was at Stephen’s office with Isabelle Lacoste—
Just then his own phone vibrated. It was Lacoste.
Both Stephen’s office and home had been broken into, the security systems circumvented.
“They’ve thrown things everywhere,” said Mrs. McGillicuddy.
“Agents at his home report it’s been searched, too,” said Lacoste, her voice calm, stating facts. “I can’t tell what they were looking for, but seems like papers.”
“Did they find them?” Jean-Guy asked.
“I’m not sure. The place is a mess.”
“Ask her about his safety-deposit boxes,” said Armand, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. In the background, Jean-Guy could hear Mrs. McGillicuddy still talking. Upset. Shocked.
“I heard,” said Lacoste. “We’re going there next. Mrs. McGillicuddy has the card that’ll get us in.”
“The JSPS card, oui,” said Beauvoir. “Let us know.”
He hung up. Armand was talking with Mrs. McGillicuddy, who’d calmed down a little. As he listened, Gamache pulled out his notebook and made notes.
Thanking her, he hung up.
“The code to Stephen’s laptop. Claude wanted it.”
“Are you going to give it to him?”
“I’ll have to, yes. Let’s just hope Stephen didn’t have anything important on his laptop.”
“Yes, because people don’t,” said Beauvoir, all but rolling his eyes.
The taxi had arrived at the Lutetia.
Getting out, Gamache took a step toward the liveried woman holding the heavy door open for them.
Then stopped.
Though he’d known the history of the hotel, including during the war, what Gamache had heard most about was that this was where the survivors of some of the concentration camps had been brought immediately after liberation.
He’d seen photographs of emaciated men, their striped clothing still hanging in tatters from their bones. They sat glaze-eyed in the opulent surroundings.
This was an act of brutality. Though unintentional. What had the liberators been thinking, to bring the survivors there?
What had those ghostly men and women been thinking as they looked around?
There was no celebration, no triumph, in those blank faces. Those photographs spoke only of savagery. Of an unspeakable cruelty, made even more hideous, if that was possible, by the luxury around them.
Yes, he’d known about what seemed a misguided attempt at kindness.
But now another image superimposed itself. Of Stephen. His hand on the shoulder of the monster who had done that.
“Patron?” Beauvoir broke into his thoughts.
Gamache turned away. “I’m going across to Stephen’s apartment. I have some questions for the concierge.”
Beauvoir watched as his father-in-law jogged across rue de Sèvres, between oncoming vehicles.
He’d seen Gamache go into homes, warehouses, forests where they knew heavily armed gunmen waited.
Armand Gamache had never hesitated. Had only ever moved forward, the first in. His agents following him.
And now Beauvoir followed Gamache as he ran away.
“You know she was messing with you,” said Beauvoir once he’d caught up with Gamache.
“Fontaine? I don’t think she was,” said Gamache, walking rapidly along the sidewalk. “I think she believes what she said about Stephen.”
“Do you? Believe it, I mean.”
To Jean-Guy’s surprise, Armand hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”
At the huge red-lacquered doors into Stephen’s building, Gamache pressed a button. A minute later the door was opened by a thin older man, who peered out, then smiled.
“It’s the boy,” he called behind him. Then opening the door fully, he let Armand and Jean-Guy in.
Claude Dussault sat in his office, going through the box. Again.
Was it just the annual report Armand wanted to see, or was there something else?
There were the predictable items. Stephen Horowitz’s wallet, with euros and some Canadian money. Various credit cards and ID.
Dussault took out Stephen’s passport and examined it. There were no stamps, but then there wouldn’t be if he’d traveled elsewhere in Europe.
Like Luxembourg, for instance.
There were pens and paper clips in the box. Two screws and an Allen wrench. Scotch tape and a pristine notepad with the George V logo. All of which Armand had swept into the container while Reine-Marie stalled the manager.
Then there were the interesting items.
The slender laptop. The crushed phone.
The Préfecture’s technical department had examined the phone, taking out the chip and declaring that it was destroyed. And Stephen Horowitz had not used any cloud-based system to store information. Either because he was too technically challenged, or because he didn’t trust it. Or, most likely, thought Dussault, Horowitz trusted technology. It was people he distrusted.
“The boy’?” whispered Jean-Guy, as they took seats at the kitchen table.
Madame Faubourg had just brought a pain au citron out of the oven, filling the kitchen with a citrusy baking scent. Now she put a kettle on the gas stove, while Monsieur Faubourg opened a cupboard and brought out three bottles of warm beer.
“He doesn’t want tea, Madame,” said Monsieur. “He’s a grown man. He wants beer.”
“Actually—” Gamache began but was drowned out.
“Beer and pain au citron?” said Madame. “Whoever heard of that? And after what happened? He needs tea.” She turned to Armand. “Unless you’d prefer chocolat chaud?”
“Actually—” Armand tried again.