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He hailed a taxi. He had to get back to the Place de la Concorde, but on the way he stopped at the Hôtel Lutetia.

Alain Pinot was no longer in bar Joséphine. Nor was he in any of the other bars or restaurants of the grand hotel.

The front desk called Pinot’s room, but there was no answer.

Gamache approached the concierge. “Has Monsieur Pinot asked for a restaurant reservation for tonight?”

“Non, monsieur.”

Armand knew that might not be true. Discretion was a vital part of a concierge’s job.

“I’d very much appreciate your help in finding a restaurant for this evening,” he said, sliding a hundred-euro note across the marble top.

“Most of our guests belong to private clubs.”

“I’ve always wanted to join one. Any suggestions?”

He walked out of there with a short list. Any the concierge’s fingerprint smudging one name.

Cercle de l’Union Interalliée. What General de Gaulle had called the French embassy in Paris.

“May I help you, monsieur?” the well-dressed woman asked in a hushed voice as he entered the private members club.

Gamache had heard about this place but had never been in it.

The Cercle, in the Eighth Arrondissement, was a hub for diplomats, political leaders, industrialists. The elite of Paris.

In other words, the boards of directors of most of the major corporations in Europe.

Armand quickly, instinctively, took in his surroundings.

The high ceilings. The opulent décor unchanged from a century earlier. And yet there was nothing faded about its grandeur.

It whispered power and glory.

Decisions that changed the world, for better or worse, had been made within these walls for a hundred years.

The woman at the door expertly sized up the man in front of her. Well-groomed. Good coat, classic cut. No tie, but crisp white shirt and well-tailored jacket beneath the overcoat.

An elegant man. Clearly used to a certain authority. But then, everyone who came through that door had authority. Or they wouldn’t get past her.

“Oui, merci. I’m looking for one of your guests. Monsieur Pinot. Alain Pinot.”

“Are you a member of a reciprocal club? Perhaps the Mount Royal in Montréal?”

How subtly she’s made it clear that she’d placed him as a Québécois.

“Non. I’m just a visitor. Is Monsieur Pinot here?”

“I really cannot say.”

“I understand. If he were here, could you please give him this?”

Gamache handed her the card and saw her face open in a smile. “Bienvenue. This”—she held up the JSPS card—“is your membership. Do you mind?”

Selecting a burgundy-and-dark-blue Pierre Cardin tie, she waited while he did it up, then indicated he should follow her up the wide stairway.

At the top, in a hushed voice, she said, “Wait here, please.”