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They were at the entrance to a massive room, with groupings of sofas and armchairs.

Gamache watched as she walked over to a gathering of men and women, all of whom he recognized from the GHS board.

The man looked up as the concierge bent over and handed him the card. Then he looked over.

At Gamache.

Alain Pinot rose, saying a few words to his companions, and followed the woman to where Gamache was waiting.

Corpulent and red-faced from too much wine and too much rich food over too many years. And yet, Gamache thought, there was about him a force. Here was an undeniable personality.

Pinot looked at Gamache, then said to the concierge, “Is there a private salon available?”

“Absolutely. Follow me please, gentlemen.”

The room she led them to was intimate, the walls lined with bookcases. There were two large leather armchairs with the imprints of bodies, as though the spirits of long-dead members, reluctant to leave this sanctuary, still sat there.

A small fire had been laid in the grate, and before she left, she lit it.

There was a decanter of cognac and bulbous glasses on a sideboard.

“May I bring you anything?” she asked.

“Non, Marie, merci. I think we’d like to be alone.”

“Of course, Monsieur Pinot.”

Pinot locked the door and turned to Gamache. “You were at the Lutetia earlier. Who are you? And”—he handed him back his card— “how do you have this?”

“My name is Armand Gamache.”

Pinot’s eyes widened and he grinned. “You’re Armand. The famous Armand. I’ve been jealous of you for years. Decades. Stephen’s son.”

So Pinot and Stephen did know each other, and apparently very well. Armand exhaled, almost a sigh. It was the first time he’d felt relief in what seemed ages. They were finally getting somewhere. He hoped.

“Godson,” he said.

“Stephen didn’t seem to make the distinction.”

He put out his hand, and Armand took it, feeling it both fleshy and strong. A man of immense appetite.

Alain Pinot should have been a king, might have been a king in another lifetime. Gamache could see him wrapped in miles of armor on top of some great staggering warhorse.

Leading the charge, slashing and mutilating anyone who stood between himself and whatever he wanted.

But this was now, and the closest a man like Pinot could get to that sort of power was to ride atop some great corporation. And Agence France-Presse was that. It was the power behind the power. It could make and break politicians, governments, industrialists. Corporations.

And did.

“So you do know Stephen?” said Armand, declining the offer of cognac. “I wasn’t sure.”

Taking a seat in front of the fire, he glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel.

Eleven thirty.

“He never mentioned me?” asked Pinot. “I guess not.” There was no mistaking the disappointment, even hurt. “Still, he talked about you.” Pinot leaned forward. “Is he … ?”

“In hospital. Critical condition. You know what happened?”