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“Nails in Calais,” he said, with a small laugh. “Very clever. Joseph Migneret. The Agence France-Presse notes by the murdered reporter. The links you and Monsieur Plessner made from the neodymium mine, to GHS’s manufacturing plants, to supermagnets and those accidents. It’s all there. And the final evidence. The hard evidence. I almost missed it. You were almost too clever for me.”
“You have it, Armand?” asked Reine-Marie.
He shook his head. “But I’m pretty sure I know where it is. You got them, Stephen. You and Monsieur Plessner did it.”
Finding the truth had cost Stephen his fortune. It had cost him his life. To save the lives of strangers. But it was done. If the seat on the board didn’t sink those giants, the hostile takeover of those two GHS subsidiaries would.
It had fallen to Armand to release that torpedo. Which, as Stephen’s guardian, he had done just before entering the hospital room.
At the start of trading on the Paris Bourse, Stephen’s buyout of the refinery and the tool and die manufacturer would go through. Giving him, or his heirs, the right to examine GHS’s books.
And then it would all become public.
Stephen had sunk everything he had into taking over those companies. Knowing in doing that, he himself would be sunk.
The doctor hovered behind Reine-Marie and caught Armand’s eye.
“Monsieur Gamache?”
“Just another minute, please,” said Armand. “We’re waiting for someone. Oh, here she is.”
Jean-Guy entered, holding the baby.
“This is your great-granddaughter,” said Armand.
Jean-Guy stood beside Armand. His mentor. In many ways, his own father. And wondered if he’d be able to do what Armand was about to.
Armand stood up, still holding Stephen’s hand, and said, “It’s time. Let him go.”
Then he sat back down, his legs weak.
If this was the right thing to do, why did it feel so wrong?
But no, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt wretched. Horrific. A nightmare.
But sometimes “right” felt like that.
When the ventilator was removed, and all the IVs and tubing and equipment taken away, the room grew very quiet.
What remained was Stephen.
Jean-Guy bent down and placed the child in the crook of Stephen’s arm.
“Her name’s Idola,” Armand whispered. “Named after Idola Saint-Jean, who fought for equal rights. She never gave up. She never gave in.”
“Her name means ‘inner truth,’” said Jean-Guy.
He looked into the irregular eyes and the flat facial features of their daughter with Down syndrome.
They’d known since early in the pregnancy. And had made a choice. For life. Just as Armand had just made a choice. To end a life.
There was, at that moment across Paris, a chorus of pings as, one after the other, board members received urgent messages.
Daniel looked at Claude Dussault, who nodded.
It was done.
The buy order Daniel had discovered at the bank had gone through.
