The Nature Of The Beast Part 19

He got up and Gamache rose with him.

"You didn't believe the boy either," said Rosenblatt quietly. "And look what happened."

Gamache felt himself go numb, for a moment. As though the life had been snuffed out of him. And then he took a breath and sat back down.

"Please," he said, indicating the seat beside him. Professor Rosenblatt hesitated, then took his seat again. "Tell us what you know about Project Babylon and Gerald Bull."

Professor Rosenblatt looked at them, still seeing disbelief, but now also seeing a willingness to try. To be open to the possibility that what he was about to tell them was the truth.

"It was no secret that Saddam wanted to destroy Israel," said Rosenblatt. "And start a full-scale war. He wanted to control the whole region."

Gamache nodded, remembering the late 1980s, early nineties. To Beauvoir and Lacoste it was history. To him, and Rosenblatt, it was a memory.

"To be fair, there are all sorts of theories about Project Babylon," said Rosenblatt. "Some more outlandish than others."

No one looked at Beauvoir who, with a mighty effort, was keeping his mouth shut.

"Some even believed Dr. Bull was building the Supergun for the Israelis. To hit Iraq first. They're pragmatists. They believe in G.o.d, but how do you fight the devil? With prayers? Well, Gerald Bull was the answer to a prayer."

"But the Israelis have all sorts of sophisticated weapons," said Lacoste. "Why would they need the Supergun?"

"They wouldn't," said Gamache. "But Saddam Hussein would."

Across from him, Armand saw Beauvoir's brows come together as logic began to penetrate disbelief.

"Yes," said the scientist. "A weapon of ma.s.s destruction that could be a.s.sembled anywhere, the middle of a desert, for instance. Without need of electronics or expertise."

"How would the missiles be aimed?" Gamache asked, remembering images of Israeli citizens wearing gas masks and huddling in their homes as the sirens wailed during the Gulf War.

"There's a guidance system," said Professor Rosenblatt. "But without electronics it's difficult to be completely accurate, especially at a distance. It's the one possible flaw in Bull's design."

"Flaw?" asked Gamache. "I'd call it more than that, wouldn't you?"

The professor, under the sharp gaze, reddened.

"And that means?" Gamache pushed.

"It means from a distance the Supergun could not be guaranteed to hit just military targets."

"It means more than that," said Gamache. "It was never designed to hit military targets, was it?"

"Then what was it designed to hit?" asked Lacoste.

"Cities," said Gamache. "The biggest, crudest bull's-eye. It was meant to destroy Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. It was designed to kill men, women, children. Teachers, bartenders, bus drivers. It was meant to wipe them out. To bomb Israel back to the Stone Age."

"Or Baghdad to the Stone Age," said Lacoste. "If the buyer was Israel. After all, that inscription on the etching was in Hebrew."

Beauvoir had been quiet, except the initial grunts as he fought to keep scathing comments in.

"What are you thinking?" Armand asked him.

"I'm thinking about Armageddon," he said.

"The movie?" asked Lacoste, and saw him smile.

"Non. If that thing in the woods works, this Bull fellow made a gun that would fling a missile into orbit with the intention, the hope, of wiping out entire cities. Anywhere."

Professor Rosenblatt nodded. "Anywhere."

It was now clear who the real monster was. Not the Wh.o.r.e of Babylon, not even the Supergun. But the man who had made them.

Gamache and Beauvoir left the house a few paces behind Lacoste and the professor.

Rosenblatt was heading home to pack a few things and return to the B and B, to be on hand to help. Lacoste and Beauvoir were going back to the Incident Room, to see if the forensics reports were in. And Gamache was going to join Reine-Marie at the bistro.

Beauvoir fell in beside Gamache.

"Do you believe him?" asked Beauvoir. "About the Iraqis?"

He was unconsciously mimicking Gamache by clasping his hands behind his back and falling into the rhythm of his walk.

"I'm not sure," said Gamache.

"Well, even if it's true, it can't possibly matter anymore. The intended target, or buyer, is long gone. Saddam Hussein was executed years ago. Any danger is long gone."

"Hmmm" came from Gamache.

"What is it?"

"Someone killed Laurent to keep the gun a secret," Gamache reminded him. "I think the danger might've been dormant."

They walked for a few more paces in silence.

"But now it's back," said Jean-Guy.

"Hmmm," said Gamache again. Then after a few more paces, "Did you notice where that gun is pointed?"

Beauvoir stopped then and looked toward the stone bridge and the forest.

"It's not pointing to Baghdad, that's for sure," said Beauvoir.

"No. It's pointing south. Into the United States."

Beauvoir turned to stare at Gamache, who was watching the elderly scientist get into his car.

"I wonder what Project Babylon was really about," said Gamache. "And if it really died with Gerald Bull."

CHAPTER 13.

As Chief Inspector Lacoste approached the old railway station, she noticed a nondescript car parked off to the side.

A man and woman were sitting in the front seat, and as the doors opened her heart sank.

Journalists, she thought. Much as a doctor might think, plague. But the thought was fleeting, disappearing as soon as she got a good look at them.

"Chief Inspector Lacoste?" the woman asked, after inelegantly slinging a large cloth handbag over her shoulder.

"Oui."

"Oh good. We wondered if we had the wrong place."

She looked so relieved that Isabelle was relieved for her.

"I told you I knew where we were going," said the man. "Not a wrong turn all the way down."

"Which is why you're the navigator," said the woman.

"No. I'm the navigator because you insist on driving."

"Only after-"

The woman put up her hands and whispered to the man, loudly enough for Lacoste to hear it, "We can talk about this later."

Isabelle Lacoste, far from being put out, almost smiled. These two reminded her of her parents, and were about the same age. Mid-fifties, she guessed. Sensibly, if unimaginatively, dressed. The woman wore a cloth coat of decent cut, though slightly baggy, while the man had on a raincoat, with the lightest dusting of doughnut sugar down the front.

The woman's hair was obviously dyed at home, and due for another treatment. And the man's hair was combed over, in an attempt to hide what could not be hidden.

"My name's Mary Fraser." Her hand, extended in greeting, revealed chipped nail polish. "This is my colleague, Sean Delorme."

He smiled and shook hands. His cuticles were nibbled and torn.

"We're from CSIS," she said cheerfully.

Had Mary Fraser said they were from the moon it would have been more believable. Isabelle Lacoste tried not to show her surprise.

"Are we supposed to tell her that?" Sean Delorme asked, averting his face from Lacoste and putting his hand to his mouth. Again, trying to hide the obvious.

"What else are we going to say?" whispered Madame Fraser. "That we're tourists?"

"Okay, but we should have consulted."

"We had the whole drive down-"

Now it was the man's turn to put up his hand to stop the bickering.

"We can talk about this later," he said. "But if we get into trouble, it's your fault."

They spoke to each other in English but had spoken to Lacoste in heavily accented, textbook good, French.

Perhaps, thought Lacoste, they didn't think she spoke English. She decided not to disabuse them of that thought.

"Un plaisir," she said, shaking their hands. "CSIS, you say? The Canadian Security Intelligence Service?"

She had to be sure. If two people looked less like spies, and even less like intelligence agents, it was these two.

The man, Sean Delorme, looked around, then leaned closer to Lacoste. "Can we talk privately?"

His eyes darted around, as though they were in Berlin in 1939 and he had the codes.

"Of course," said Lacoste, and unlocking the door into the Incident Room, she led them inside just as Beauvoir arrived.

Lacoste made the introductions.

Like her, Beauvoir looked at them and asked, obviously needing to clarify, "CSIS? The spy agency?"

"We prefer intelligence," said Mary Fraser, but she didn't seem displeased to be called a spy.

"What brings you here?" asked Lacoste, taking them over to the conference table.

"Well," said Delorme, dropping his voice to barely above a whisper. "We heard about the gun."

Lacoste half expected him to tap the side of his nose.

"You'll have to forgive Monsieur Delorme," said Mary Fraser, giving her colleague a filthy look. "We're not often allowed out of the office."

Now he gave her an equally filthy look.

"Where is your office?" asked Lacoste.

"Ottawa," said Ms. Fraser. "We're at headquarters."

"May I see your identification?" asked Beauvoir.

Delighted by the request, they were completely oblivious to the possible insult.

They brought out their wallets but had trouble getting their laminated ID cards out. Mary Fraser was even having trouble finding hers.

As the two squabbled, Jean-Guy and Isabelle exchanged a grimace. Ottawa, and CSIS, could not have thought much of the find in the woods if this is what they sent.

Finally they handed the ID cards over to Beauvoir and Lacoste, who confirmed the two smiling middle-aged people across the conference table were Canadian intelligence agents.