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“I came here the next morning, to look for myself,” said Dussault. “That’s when you and Reine-Marie arrived.”

“Then it was you. We weren’t sure if it was you or Girard here.”

“If it was me, you’d have been dead,” said Girard. “It was one of the few mistakes the Prefect has made.”

“He’s right,” said Dussault. “I probably should have killed you then. But then we wouldn’t have this”—he tapped the file beside him on the sofa—“would we?”

“I’ve read the evidence,” Gamache said, his voice no longer matter-of-fact. “Thousands were killed in the so-called accidents, over years. You’re the head of the Préfecture. You could have stopped it, but you didn’t. How does that happen? How could you make that choice?”

He was searching his old friend’s face, his sharp eyes flicking over to the file, then back again. Trying to find the answer to a crucial question.

“Me?” Dussault looked up. “Not me. I was still only second-in-command at the Préfecture when all this started. I had nothing to do with it. Not then.”

“Then when?”

“Turns out, when Messieurs Plessner and Horowitz had enough evidence to be suggestive but not enough to be sure, they went to my predecessor in the Préfecture. Clément Prévost. Hoping he’d be able to start an investigation. You met him.”

“I did. He wasn’t just your predecessor,” said Gamache. “He was your mentor.”

“True. While he believed Horowitz and Plessner were sincere, he needed proof. There were very powerful people involved. Some were personal friends of his. He began to ask questions. Quietly. Uncomfortable questions. But then there was that accident two years ago. Poor man was hit by a car crossing from a brasserie in broad daylight. And, voilà, I was made Prefect.”

“Were you working for them then?” asked Gamache.

“No. I knew none of this at the time.”

“So what happened? What changed?”

“I went to Monsieur Prévost’s funeral. State funeral. Impressive. You were there, too, I believe.”

“I was,” said Gamache.

“But you didn’t go to the family reception?”

“Non. It was private. Only for the closest friends and colleagues. I was neither.”

“But I was,” said Dussault. “I went back to their apartment. It’s a small two-bedroom walk-up in the Eighteenth. Neat, tidy. Orderly, like the man. And I saw my future. All the sacrifices, Armand. My own. My wife’s. My children’s. What we gave up for people who didn’t notice and didn’t care. A two-bedroom walk-up.”

“Clément Prévost was a good man,” said Armand.

That simple statement left Dussault silent for a moment. “He was a dead man.”

“He was murdered,” said Gamache. “When did you start to work for them?”

“Girard here had left to work for SecurForte, as their second-in-command. We’d get together for drinks, and he’d talk about his day. It sounded interesting. Fascinating, in fact. The international aspect, the businesses, the clients. And, of course, the money.”

“So you recruited him?” Gamache asked Girard.

“I didn’t have to, he asked me.”

Gamache turned back to Dussault. “When did you realize—”

“That part of the job would be to cover up criminal activity?” Dussault thought for a moment. “Fairly early on. I was essentially moonlighting, but then many officers do. They work their shift as a flic, then work nights as a security guard somewhere. This was no different. I had my job as head of the Paris Préfecture, and worked on the side for the largest private security firm in Europe. As a consultant.”

“As the head of it,” said Gamache.

“That’s not what my contract says.”

“But what’s written and what’s reality are often two different things, as you know,” Gamache said to Alain Pinot, before returning his attention to Dussault. “So you did as they asked?”