The Nature of the Beast

by Louise Penny

  “And you saw it,” said Lacoste. “They think you’re nuts.”

  “And you?” he asked, the smile softening. “What do you think?”

  Isabelle Lacoste looked into his shrewd eyes. “I’ve never known you to ask a stupid question, sir. You might sometimes be wrong, but not foolish. I think you genuinely believe there might be a connection.”

  “But you don’t?”

  He looked from Lacoste to Beauvoir, who dropped his eyes.

  “I just don’t see it,” Isabelle admitted. “Bull and Fleming use a popular biblical quote on their creations, but that doesn’t mean they worked together or knew each other.”

  Gamache looked over at Beauvoir, who was fidgeting a little.

  “I agree with Isabelle. I think you blew your credibility with those people. I could see the way she looked at you.”

  “Yes,” said Gamache, sitting back. “That was interesting. A bit too dismissive, wouldn’t you say? She never even asked who I meant by John Fleming.”

  Once again, Lacoste and Beauvoir exchanged a quick glance, not lost on Gamache.

  “What do you make of the CSIS agents?” Lacoste asked, her voice overly cheerful. Changing the subject.

  “I think they know a great deal about a gun no one thought had been built by a man long dead,” said Gamache.

  “So do I,” said Lacoste. “They’re not quite as bumbling as they appear. Do they really spend their days filing?”

  “And reading,” Beauvoir said to Gamache. “I told you it was dangerous.”

  “I don’t think the sports page will kill you, mon vieux.”

  Their breakfasts arrived. Crêpes and sausages for Gamache and Beauvoir, and eggs Florentine for Lacoste.

  A basket of warm, flaky croissants was placed on the table by Gabri, who smiled at Lacoste.

  Beauvoir looked from Isabelle to the retreating apron of Gabri.

  “He and I shared a very special night,” said Lacoste.

  Armand slowly lowered his cutlery. “It was you. You told Gabri about the Supergun,” he whispered so that Professor Rosenblatt wouldn’t hear. “And asked him to spread it around.”

  Isabelle Lacoste gave a very small shrug. “Oui.”

  “You did it?” asked Beauvoir. “Why?”

  “Everyone agrees the gun would be dangerous if it fell into the hands of people who wish us harm, but let’s not be blind,” she said. “It’s also dangerous in the hands of our own people. Especially if it’s a secret. But I didn’t do it for reasons of national security. Honestly, I’m not smart enough to understand all the working parts of that beast.”

  Gamache doubted that. He’d always had great respect for his young protégé, and never more than now.

  “You said it earlier, Jean-Guy,” she continued. “It’s almost impossible to investigate Laurent’s murder unless we can talk about the motive. The gun. Our duty is to Laurent, not CSIS. Besides, if the murderer wants the Supergun to be a secret, the best thing we can do is not comply. Get it out there. See if it rattles the killer. And, as you taught us, Monsieur Gamache, a rattled killer will make himself known.”

  It was true. But what struck both men wasn’t her reasoning, but her calling Gamache “Monsieur.” It was the first time she had not called him Chief Inspector.

  It was natural, healthy. It was true. But to Armand Gamache it felt like having a tattoo scraped off.

  “And what else did I teach you?” he asked.

  “Never use the first stall in a public washroom,” said Lacoste.

  “Besides that.”

  “That a murderer is dangerous,” she said. “And a rattled murderer is even more dangerous.”

  Gamache got up. “That was a big boot you used, Chief Inspector. You hit CSIS where it hurts. In their secret parts. But we can at least see their reaction. You also delivered a swift kick to the killer and he’s still invisible to us.”

  “I’m hoping this will make him act,” said Lacoste, also rising. She examined his face. So familiar from so many conversations just like this. Except he’d always been the one making the decisions.

  “Did I make a mistake?” she asked.

  “If you did, it was one I’d also have made,” he said, and smiled. “It’s dangerous, but necessary. This is not a time for timidity. Or secrets.”

  “Except ours,” said Beauvoir.

  CHAPTER 18

  Michael Rosenblatt looked up from his French toast and saw the Sûreté officers get up to leave.

  He’d been reading and making notes and eating. The trip to this little village had been a revelation. The village itself had been a revelation. As had the excellent French toast and sausages and maple syrup almost certainly made from the sap of trees he could see out the window.

  But mostly that gun had been a revelation. When he’d crawled through that tiny opening on his hands and knees and looked up, he half expected to hear the celestial choir singing, “Ahhhh.”

  There was Gerald Bull’s Supergun. Bathed in light.

  Goddamned Gerald Bull. Dead, but never gone. How had he done it?

  How had he built the goddamned gun?

  Professor Rosenblatt looked at the papers by his plate, then over to his notebook, slightly stained by drops of maple syrup. One word had been written large, and circled.

  How.

  Then he wrote, Why?

  That too seemed a good question.

  But now that he thought about it, he added another.

  Who?

  Professor Rosenblatt put down his pen and watched Gamache say good-bye to his colleagues.

  John Fleming. When the former Chief Inspector had said that name it had rattled the professor. He hadn’t heard it in years. He knew, of course, who Gamache meant, and he could see the CSIS people knew too. The serial killer. A man gone badly wrong.

  But to make the connection between Fleming and Bull? It seemed incredible.

  Professor Rosenblatt watched as Gamache and the Sûreté officers parted. He could see the expressions on the young officers’ faces as they looked at Gamache. With some concern and a great deal of affection.

  Here was a nice man, Rosenblatt felt, and he realized that he did not himself know many nice people. Clever people, smart people, accomplished people, certainly. But not very nice. And not always good.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Gamache, walking across the wide-plank floor to the professor’s table.

  “Not at all, please.” Rosenblatt indicated a seat in the booth across from him.

  “Did you sleep well?” Armand asked, sliding in.

  “Not so well,” admitted Rosenblatt. “New bed. New Supergun.”

  Gamache grinned. The professor did, in fact, look tired. But his eyes still glowed with intelligence.

  Here is a formidable man, thought Gamache.

  Here is a formidable man, Rosenblatt knew. While his assessment that Gamache was a nice man hadn’t changed, it had broadened. To include what else he now knew about Armand Gamache, having done some research the evening before.

  The large and thoughtful man across from him had turned in, and on, his superiors. He’d killed. And almost been killed.

  Rosenblatt had learned those eyes, as kind as they appeared, had seen things few others had. And the hand that shook his, as warm as it was, had done things.

  And would again, if need be.

  Michael Rosenblatt was both comforted and a little frightened by Armand Gamache.

  “You obviously spent some time in the night thinking about the gun,” said Gamache. “The CSIS agents have their strengths but they’re not scientists. I’d like to hear what you make of Gerald Bull’s creation.”

  Professor Rosenblatt shook his head and exhaled. “As a scientist? It’s even bigger than I imagined possible. Incredible. Powerful, but also elegant.”

  “Elegant?” said Gamache. “An odd word for something destined to become a weapon of mass destruction.”

  “It’s not a moral judgment, it’s just a descripti

on of the mechanics. Mostly what we mean by elegant is that it’s simple. Easy to use.”

  “It’s simple?”

  “Oh, yes. The best designs are. That’s its genius. It looks complex because it’s so big. But there aren’t all that many moving parts, so it would be fairly easy to manufacture and assemble. And fewer things to break down. Like a slingshot is elegant, or a bow and arrow. Or the gun you wore.”

  “I rarely wore a gun,” said Gamache. “Hate the things. They’re very dangerous, you know.”

  “You don’t believe in the theory of the balance of terror?” asked Rosenblatt.

  “Prime Minister Pearson’s phrase to describe the Cold War?” said Gamache. “I think he used it as a condemnation and warning, not as a goal.”

  “Maybe,” said Rosenblatt. “But it has worked, hasn’t it? When both sides can destroy each other, neither side is willing to pull the trigger.”

  “Until you give that weapon to a madman,” said Gamache.

  Rosenblatt’s face grew grim and he nodded. “That’s the flaw in the argument.”

  “So Gerald Bull’s gun is elegant,” said Gamache. “But is it still relevant, or have time and technology passed it by?”

  “A slingshot will still kill,” said Rosenblatt.

  “And so will a bow and arrow. But it’s not an advantage when faced with a nuclear bomb.”

  Rosenblatt thought for a moment. “I feel I should agree that the ICBMs of today are more dangerous than what Bull designed thirty years ago, but the fact is, they aren’t. What Gerald Bull built might be less sexy, but it gets the job done.”

  “The question is, what was the job?” said Gamache.

  “Yes, that is a good question.”

  “If the Supergun is really just a huge cannon,” said Gamache, “would it fire only conventional missiles or could it be adapted?”

  “It would fire anything put into it.”

  Gamache paused to absorb that statement, said so matter-of-factly.

  “Including a nuclear warhead?”

  Rosenblatt shifted a little in his seat and nodded.

  “Chemical weapons?” asked Gamache.

  Another nod.

  “Biological weapons?”

  Now Rosenblatt leaned forward. “It would shoot a Volkswagen into the lower atmosphere. It would carry whatever the person firing it wanted.”

  That was followed by silence.

  “So what’s it doing here?” Gamache asked.

  More silence, until Rosenblatt finally spoke, quietly. “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “I won’t guess. I’m a scientist. Guessing isn’t part of what I do.”

  Gamache smiled. “Of course it is. Scientists come up with theories all the time. What are they except best guesses? Try. It’s not as though you haven’t been sitting here wondering the same thing.”

  Professor Rosenblatt took a deep breath. “It could be a prototype, something to show buyers. That might explain why the firing mechanism is missing. It’s not meant to be fired. It’s meant as a sort of mock-up. A sales tool.”

  “Or?”

  “Or it’s meant to be fired. Did you notice where it’s pointed?”

  “Into the United States,” said Gamache. “Which theory do you think is most likely? A mock-up, or built to be used?”

  Rosenblatt shook his head. “The missing firing mechanism is a puzzle. Was it never made? Was it removed?” He looked into Gamache’s face. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Armand Gamache wasn’t sure he believed the scientist, but he knew he would not, at this point, get a clearer answer.

  “The good news is we found the Supergun before it could be fired, if that was the intention,” said Gamache. “Unfortunately, it cost Laurent Lepage his life.”

  Professor Rosenblatt looked closely at his companion. “You’re retired. What’s your interest in this?”

  “Laurent was my friend.”

  Rosenblatt nodded. The statement was simple. Elegant. And as powerful as the gun.

  “And now you’re out for revenge?” asked Rosenblatt.

  Gamache tilted his head slightly. “I hope that’s not it.”

  Now it was Rosenblatt’s turn to tilt his head. “But you’re not sure.”

  “Anything interesting in the papers you borrowed?” Gamache asked, his voice clipped.

  Rosenblatt looked at him for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the pages.

  “A shame about the blacked-out bits, but I don’t think there’s really anything in here that isn’t common knowledge.”

  “Common?”

  “Since Bull’s death and with the passage of time, some information has come out about his work,” said Rosenblatt. “I’m sure you’ve found some yourselves now that you know the key words. But there’re still some things only people in the field know, or guessed.” Rosenblatt paused a moment. “Theorized.”

  “And what field would that be?”

  Rosenblatt realized, too late, that his initial impression had been right. Here was a dangerous man. And he’d led him into dangerous territory.

  Rosenblatt’s formidable mind raced, but kept coming back to the same place.

  He could lie, but it would be found out eventually.

  “The field of armament design,” said Professor Rosenblatt, and noticed that Gamache showed absolutely no surprise.

  “It would have to be, wouldn’t it?” said Gamache, being equally open with Rosenblatt. “After all, why else would you be here?”

  The two men stared at each other. Not challenging, not threatening each other. There was no power struggle. Just the opposite.

  There was recognition.

  Here was someone else best in his field. And that field was pitted, and weedy, and pocked with land mines. You didn’t get to the other side without some wisdom, and without some wiles. And without some scars.

  “What are you asking me, monsieur?”

  “I’m asking if you worked with Gerald Bull.”

  Gamache saw the eyes flicker, wanting to drop, to break contact. But they held, and Michael Rosenblatt gave one curt nod.

  “As I told your young colleague, Inspector Beauvoir, we worked at McGill at the same time, but I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest. We did work together, not in the same department but on some of the same projects. Though no one really worked with Gerald Bull. It might start out that way, but eventually you found yourself working for him.”

  “Were you working for him when he came up with the plans for the Supergun?”

  “No. I left when he began using the Soviets as a back door to sell his arms. He wasn’t very smart.”

  “Is that why you left? Fear you’d get caught?”

  “No. I left because it was wrong. It’s one thing to design weapons for your own country, it’s another to sell them to the highest bidder. Gerald Bull was the consummate salesman, and completely without a conscience.”

  “Why did you just say that he wasn’t very smart?” asked Gamache.

  “He made some stupid choices, like cozying up to the Soviets. He had an outsized ego that told him he was smarter than other people.”

  “The ego lied?” asked Gamache.

  “Shocking, I know. Dr. Bull was bombastic. The perfect personality for a man who sold cannons and Bull was, as I said, a great salesman.”

  “Why would he have the Whore of Babylon etched into the cannon? Was it a sort of calling card? A signature? Did Dr. Bull put it into all his designs?”

  “Not that I know of. It was probably another sales tool. What else would appeal to a crazy despot like Saddam but a weapon etched with a symbol of the apocalypse? And one from ancient Iraq, no less. It was perfect.”

  “But this wasn’t Saddam’s gun, was it?” said Gamache. “Gerald Bull didn’t build it in Iraq, he built it in Québec. And he etched the Whore of Babylon on it. Why?”

  “Maybe it supports the mock-up theory,” said Rosenblatt. “He built it to show the Iraqis. After all, by then all the intelligence agencies in the world were interested in Bull and Project Babylon but they’d never think to look for it here. He could show it to the Iraqis and once the order was in, he could dismantle it, and ship it piece by piece to Baghdad.”

  Gamache listened to this curiously detailed hypothesis. He had to admit, it fit. Québec was a showroom. Though there was still another possibility. The other one.

  “Or it could’ve been meant for Québec all along,” said Gamache. “Saddam couldn’t strike U.S. soil with a Scud. Maybe the goal was never to hit Israel, or Iran, or any target in the region. Maybe the target was the U.S. Maybe those weapons of mass destruction that the Americans were so sure were there were actually here.”

  Maybe, maybe, thought Gamache. All maybes.

  It was frustrating. Though he felt they were getting closer. Maybe.

  Gamache leaned against the banquette and looked across the table at his companion, remembering something else Reine-Marie had discovered while researching Gerald Bull.

  “Dr. Bull got his Ph.D. very young,” said Gamache. “In physics. A remarkable achievement. But I understand his marks weren’t very good.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I didn’t know him as a student.”

  “No. But you knew him afterward. He’d have been about twenty years older than you, is that about right?”

  “About.” Now Rosenblatt was watching Gamache closely. He’d not be tricked again, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were again wandering into the minefield.

  “His marks weren’t terrific,” said Gamache, musing almost to himself. “And you’ve described him a few times as a great salesman. Not a great scientist. But a salesman.”

  And now Michael Rosenblatt knew he was indeed in the middle of the minefield. Drawn there by this calm, reasonable, kindly man.

  And he waited for the next, inevitable, question.

  Gamache leaned forward and seemed almost apologetic.

  “Was Gerald Bull smart enough to design the Supergun? Or was he just the salesman? Was there another genius at work we don’t know about?”

  Ka-boom.

  CHAPTER 19

  Clara Morrow turned into the Lepages’ driveway. It was long and rutted, as most of the dirt drives were in this area.

  She glanced down at the passenger-side foot well, where a casserole covered in foil sat, along with an apple crisp. Still warm. She could smell the brown sugar and cinnamon, and wondered if it was a bad thing that she was salivating. And tempted to turn around. And eat it all herself.

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