by Louise Penny
If the power went out they’d still have warmth and light. They could still cook. No thanks to modern technology. That would be rendered useless, but they’d have power because of old, even ancient, tools. Woodstoves. Wells.
Three Pines might be primitive in many ways, but unlike the outside world, it could survive a very long time without power. And that itself was powerful.
“The weapon needs no power source,” said Gamache slowly. Coming to the realization, and the implication. “It can send a missile into orbit without even a battery.”
Professor Rosenblatt was nodding. “That’s it. The brilliance and the nightmare.”
“Why nightmare?” asked Beauvoir.
“Because Dr. Bull’s Supergun meant any terrorist cell, any extremist, any crazy dictator could become an international threat,” said the scientist. “They didn’t need technology, or scientists, or even electricity. All they’d need was the Supergun.”
He let that sink in, and as it did even the cheery fireplace couldn’t take the chill out of the room, or wipe the alarm from their faces.
“But maybe he didn’t do it,” said Lacoste. “Maybe he wasn’t successful. Maybe Bull abandoned it because it doesn’t work.”
“No,” said Professor Rosenblatt. “He abandoned it because he was killed.”
They stared at him.
“How?” asked Gamache.
“He was murdered in 1990. Some describe it as an assassination. He was living in Brussels at the time. Five bullets to the head.”
“Professional,” said Lacoste.
Rosenblatt nodded. “The killers were never caught.”
Gamache’s eyes narrowed in concentration.
“I seem to remember this,” he said. “Gerald Bull was a Quebecker—”
“Actually, he was born in Ontario and studied at Queens University. It’s all in there.” Rosenblatt waved at the papers he’d brought them. “But he did much of his work here in Quebec. At least, at first.”
“Did you know him?” asked Gamache.
“Not really. He was at McGill for a short while. Considered a bit of a crank. Difficult.”
“Unlike physicists?” asked Gamache, and saw Rosenblatt smile.
“I’m afraid I’m not brilliant enough to be difficult,” he said. “That’s reserved for geniuses. I was just an academic, teaching students about trajectory. Or trying to. When sophisticated systems came in, students realized they didn’t really have to know these things. Computer programs would do it all for them. I might as well have been using a slide rule and an abacus.”
“Dr. Bull never came to you for advice?” Gamache prodded.
Now Rosenblatt laughed outright. “Advice? Gerald Bull? No. And he wouldn’t have come to me anyway. I was much too lowly.”
The two men regarded each other before Gamache finally smiled and dropped his eyes. But Michael Rosenblatt took warning, and wondered if he might have just overdone it.
“The chatter after he’d died was that Bull had in fact built the Supergun,” said Rosenblatt. “And it was ready to be tested. But no one knew where it was. And it was all just gossip. People like drama but no one really believes it.”
“Why was he killed?” Beauvoir asked.
“No one knows for sure, of course,” said Rosenblatt. “The assumption was he was killed to stop him from building the gun.”
“By the waters of Babylon,” Gamache quoted, his eyes on the elderly scientist, “we sat down and wept. There’s more to tell, Professor. We’ll find out eventually, you know. Why was that etching, the beast, carved into the gun? Why did Gerald Bull put it there? And why that quote?”
Professor Rosenblatt looked around in a glance that would have been ludicrously furtive had they not been talking about a gun whose very existence had killed at least two people. Its maker and Laurent. And whose intent was to kill far more.
Michael Rosenblatt realized, too late, that he had vastly underestimated all three of them. And certainly Gamache. It was true, they would find out eventually.
But perhaps, he thought, his mind racing, not everything.
He might as well tell them. But perhaps, he thought, not everything.
“Gerald Bull was a Renaissance man,” he said, and heard Beauvoir snort. He turned to the Inspector. “The Renaissance created amazing works of art, of innovation. But it was also a brutal time. I’m not unaware of the fact that this is a weapon.”
“Of mass destruction,” said Gamache, who was also having none of this glorification of an arms designer, an arms dealer.
Professor Rosenblatt studied him to see if there was any other agenda, anything else behind the exact words Gamache had just chosen. But there didn’t seem to be.
“True. But he was also a classicist. A man who loved music and art and history. Dr. Bull knew perfectly well what he was building. Stories circulated within the armaments community that he’d not only built the Supergun, but carved a seven-headed beast on it, as a reference to the Book of Revelation.”
He looked at them. Isabelle Lacoste was thinking, trying to remember her Bible classes as a child. Beauvoir shook his head impatiently. And Gamache just stared in a way the professor found disconcerting.
“The Whore of Babylon?” said Rosenblatt.
“Just tell us,” said Beauvoir, his patience at an end.
The professor took out his iPhone, punched at the screen, then put it on the table. Beside the golden madeleines glowed the image of a monster rearing up with seven heads on long serpentine necks springing from the body.
And riding the monster was a woman, not looking out to where the beast was taking her, but staring back at whoever was staring at her.
“Who’s the Whore of Babylon supposed to be?” Beauvoir demanded.
Professor Rosenblatt was about to answer, but then turned to Gamache. “I think you know.”
Gamache hadn’t taken his eyes off the image. “The Antichrist.”
Beauvoir sputtered in amusement. “Oh, come on,” he said, his handsome lean face breaking into deep lines of laughter. “Really?”
He looked at them, his eyes finally resting on the elderly scientist.
“Are you seriously saying that thing in the forest is the devil?”
“I’m not saying that, but you asked about the Whore of Babylon and that’s the answer. You can look it up yourselves or ask any biblical scholar. There’re all sorts of interpretations about what the beast and the seven heads represent, but most come to the same conclusion. She’s heading for Armageddon.”
“As was Gerald Bull,” said Lacoste. “In building the Supergun he was courting the end of the world.”
“Well now,” said Rosenblatt. He looked down at his feet, then up at her. “The community is divided on that. Many, probably most, think Dr. Bull was a mercenary. An arms dealer. A one-stop shop. He’d design, build and sell any weapon to the highest bidder.”
“And the others?” asked Gamache. “The minority?”
“They think Dr. Bull was a hero. That he was very clear about why he was building the Supergun, and who he was making it for. They believe he carved the beast on it as a sort of gesture. Like pilots in the Second World War often painted frightening images on their planes.”
“He called it Project Babylon,” said Gamache. “Why?”
“Who was the devil in the late 1980s?” Rosenblatt asked.
“The Soviet Union,” said Lacoste, remembering her history.
“The Cold War was waning,” said Gamache. “Yeltsin and President Gorbachev were bringing in glasnost.”
“Exactly,” said Rosenblatt. “But there was someone else. An ally who was fast becoming an enemy. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, to use another biblical image.”
“Babylon?” said Gamache. “Are you saying Gerald Bull built that thing for Saddam Hussein?”
He didn’t even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice, and he could only imagine the look on Jean-Guy’s face.
“You don’t believe it?” asked Professor Rosenblatt.
“Would you?” asked Isabelle Lacoste, regarding the elderly man and wondering just how crazy he might be. The gun itself was hard enough to swallow, but she could at least see it, touch it. She knew it was real. But this was a step too far.
“I don’t suppose it really matters if you believe it or not,” said Rosenblatt, gathering up his papers. “You asked me here to tell you what I know. That’s what I know.”
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 God, 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 mass destruction that could be assembled 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 Whore 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.
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