He leaned into it, and Gamache thought he heard a whisper, but couldn’t make out the words.
Then Professor Rosenblatt stepped back. And back again. And another step. Craning his neck, dropping his head back until it could go no further. His mouth open, his eyes wide, he tried to take in the magnitude of what he was seeing. Not simply the size of the weapon, but the very fact of it.
He turned his head to look along the barrel as it disappeared into the darkness. Not even the floodlights could reach to the end.
Gamache watched as the professor closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, then with one last exhale he turned to his companions.
“I need to find the firing chamber, to see if it’s armed.”
He was all business now.
“It’ll be around here,” he said, walking to the rear of the gun. “Did you open this?”
He pointed to a round metal door, large enough to walk into.
“We tried, but couldn’t make it open,” said Lacoste. “We stopped, afraid we might inadvertently fire it.”
Professor Rosenblatt was nodding. “You wouldn’t have. The firing mechanism is somewhere else. This is the breech. If there’s a missile, it would be in here.”
They watched as the professor ran his hands over the latches and handles and knobs.
“Careful,” warned Beauvoir, but Rosenblatt didn’t respond. He was too focused on the mechanism.
“Do we know for sure he knows what he’s doing?” Lacoste asked Beauvoir.
Before Beauvoir could answer, they saw the professor reach out and grasp a lever. Leaning into it, the elderly man pulled but nothing happened.
“I need help,” he said. “It’s stuck.”
Beauvoir joined him, and between them they pulled and pulled until it gave with such suddenness both men leapt back.
There was a whirring, grinding sound, then a loud hiss.
Gamache tensed. Afraid Rosenblatt had just set it off, but not at all sure what to do if he had.
Then the massive door swung open, like a mouth. Like a maw. Inviting them in.
The four of them stared. Gamache could hear heavy breathing and knew it came from Jean-Guy. Not because the effort had winded him, but because he was staring into his nightmare.
While Gamache was afraid of heights, Beauvoir was terrified of holes. Armand stepped over to him.
“Stay here,” he said. “If the door closes, please open it again.”
Beauvoir didn’t answer, but continued to stare.
“Do you need to write that down?” asked Gamache.
“Huh? Pardon?” said Jean-Guy, coming out of his reverie. “Right. Wait, are you going in there?”
He waved to the opening, where Professor Rosenblatt was already standing.
“I am. And if we need to climb up on the thing?”
“I’ll go,” said Beauvoir, with a smile.
“You’d better.”
Gamache followed Rosenblatt and Lacoste into the chamber.
In the beams of their flashlights, Gamache could see the professor’s face. His eyes. Bright, but not overexcited. He seemed almost calm, in control.
This was his natural environment. The belly of the beast. This was where the little professor belonged.
“Incredible,” Rosenblatt murmured, shaking his head. “No electronics.” He looked back at his companions. “It’s like a Meccano set.”
“But is it armed?” asked Lacoste. She was beginning to get antsy. She’d never suffered from claustrophobia, but then she’d never been crammed into the firing chamber of a giant weapon with two other people before.
“No,” said Rosenblatt, and pointed toward the great long tube stretching out in front of them.
Rosenblatt was studying the wall of the borehole.
“Empty. There’s never even been a missile in here. It’s unmarked.”
Gamache reached out and touched the side. It felt slightly greasy.
“It’s been prepared,” he said.
Rosenblatt looked at him and nodded. “You know guns.”
“Sadly, yes,” said Gamache. “We all do. But never anything like this.”
“No one has known anything like this,” said Rosenblatt, and even by the limited beam of the flashlight Gamache could see the wonder in the professor’s eyes.
“Can it be fired?” Lacoste asked.
“I need to find the firing mechanism before I can answer and for that, we need to leave.”
He did not need to say it twice. Lacoste was out in a flash, following the professor around to the side of the machine.
“That’s interesting. The trigger should be here.” He placed his fist in a large hole. “But it’s missing.”
“Maybe it’s somewhere else,” Beauvoir suggested.
“No, it would have to be here, given the configuration inside.”
He looked behind him, toward the back wall of the camouflage netting, and shook his head.
“But the main thing is,” said Lacoste. “It isn’t armed, and even if it was, it can’t be fired.”
“Not without the mechanism, no.”
“What would it look like?” Gamache asked.
“The trigger would have cogs that fit onto this wheel.” The professor pointed to a circle with teeth, about a foot wide. “There’s nothing electronic on this thing. Not even the guidance system. It’s all done manually.”
“Could it have fallen off?” asked Beauvoir, looking on the ground.
“This isn’t a LEGO set. Things don’t just fall off. It’s intricate, perfectly made. Each piece fits snugly, exactly.”
“So, no?” said Beauvoir.
“No,” said Rosenblatt. “If it’s gone, someone took it, and by the looks of it, not recently. I need to see the etching again.”
The elderly man spoke with determination and Gamache realized that while he was afraid of heights, and Beauvoir was afraid of confined spaces, Professor Michael Rosenblatt was afraid of the etching.
They walked back to it, and Rosenblatt stepped back, taking in the winged monster as it reared and bucked. Its seven heads were straining, its long necks intertwining like serpents. There was a woman on its back, holding reins. Controlling the beast. She stared out at them, a strange expression on her face. It wasn’t wrath, thought Gamache. It wasn’t vengeance or blood lust. It was more sinister. Something Gamache couldn’t quite define.
Professor Rosenblatt whispered under his breath.
“What did you say?” asked Gamache, who was closest to the scientist.
Rosenblatt pointed to what looked like scales on the monster’s body.
Gamache stepped closer, then, putting on his glasses, he bent in. Straightening up, he looked at the professor.
“Hebrew?”
“Yes. Can you read it?” asked Rosenblatt.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Rosenblatt looked again at the creature. At the detailing, which were not scales at all, but words. And he read, out loud.
Then he turned to his companions in this dark place. He looked both triumphant and terrified. As though his worst fear and greatest wish were one and the same. And had come true.
“By the waters of Babylon,” he said, “we sat down and wept.”
The blood rushed from Gamache’s face. In front of him the gun glowed, unnaturally, supernaturally, in the floodlights. Shadows were thrown on the canopy, a false sky above, a grotesque constellation.
“Now,” said Professor Rosenblatt, “I can tell you what this is.”
They sat in the living room of the Gamache home, around the fireplace where flames leapt and danced and threw cheerful light on the somber faces.
It had been cold in the forest, and the decision was made to return to someplace warm. And private.
They sat with mugs of tea, warm and comforting, and plates of madeleines Armand had picked up at Sarah’s boulangerie as they’d passed by.