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“By the way, I won’t be able to make it. I need to get back for the interview with Commander Fontaine.”

“Right. That’s at three?”

“Oui.”

They looked at the clock on the old mantel. It was quarter past two.

“You were telling me about the coroner,” said Gamache.

“Two bullets were used. That much was obvious.”

“Back and head, yes,” said Gamache.

“Not just back, it severed his spine.”

Gamache held his colleague’s gray eyes. Both knew what that could mean. “Commando? The GIGN?”

Dussault nodded. “Possible.”

They knew that was how commando units were trained to kill. Use as few bullets as possible and make sure each one counted. Spine to guarantee incapacitation. Head to guarantee death. Then move on. And do it again.

Even as he stared at Claude Dussault, Gamache remembered his colleague’s CV. Dussault liked to say he’d washed out of the elite corps, the GIGN, but Armand knew that wasn’t true.

He’d completed his training and was about to be assigned when he’d suddenly transferred to the Préfecture in Paris.

Or appeared to.

But the reality was, Claude Dussault had stayed with the GIGN, only leaving several years later to move up the ranks of the Préfecture.

Did Dussault realize that Armand knew the truth?

Was he looking at the man who’d killed Alexander Francis Plessner and been involved in the attempt on Stephen’s life? He had the skills, but did he have the motive?

“It could be a former member of the GIGN,” conceded Dussault. “Or the Sayeret Matkal, or the SAS. The SEALs. Even”—he smiled at Gamache—“Joint Task Force Two. There’re any number of highly trained former special forces floating around this city, hiring themselves out as security and intelligence contractors.”

“Mercenaries.”

“Why not use their skills?”

“Depends on which skills, doesn’t it?” said Gamache. “Have you had a chance to look at the security cameras around Stephen’s apartment?”

“We’re going through the footage. Unfortunately, most of the cameras are facing the Lutetia and Le Bon Marché.”

“So the cameras don’t show people entering or leaving Stephen’s apartment building?”

“No.”

“A shame.”

“Oui.”

Dussault knew Gamache well enough to know the man was almost always calm and courteous. Gracious, in an almost old-world manner. It was what made him an effective leader. Armand Gamache never flew off the handle. Never lost control. Unless he wanted to.

But Dussault also knew that the angrier Gamache became, the more contained, the more polite he became. Putting iron straps around any violent emotion.

As he regarded his colleague and friend, Claude Dussault realized with surprise that Armand’s politesse was being directed at him.

He was, at the moment, the target of Gamache’s brutal courtesy.