Now the CSIS agents really did stare at him, though both Lacoste and Beauvoir dropped their eyes to the table.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Mary Fraser. “John Fleming?”
“Yes,” said Gamache, his voice conversational, friendly even. “How is he connected?”
Mary Fraser looked first at her colleague, then over to the Sûreté agents. There was an awkward silence.
“You do know we’re talking about Project Babylon,” she said.
“Oui,” Beauvoir jumped in. “We found a play by John Fleming and it seemed a coincidence, that’s all.”
“You found it at the site of the gun?” asked Sean Delorme, trying to follow, trying to find the logic.
“Well, no,” Gamache admitted.
“Then why’re we talking about this?” Mary Fraser looked at the Sûreté officers, obviously asking for clarification. None was coming. They’d lapsed into embarrassed silence.
Armand Gamache, however, had not.
“So as far as you know, John Fleming has no involvement at all with Gerald Bull and Project Babylon?” he asked, looking from Mary Fraser to Sean Delorme and back again.
“I frankly don’t even know who you’re talking about,” said Mary Fraser, getting to her feet. “I think this conversation has run its course. Thank you for your company and your help. Will you excuse us?”
“I have work to do too,” said the professor. “Notes I’d like to reread. I’d also like to borrow those”—he pointed to the redacted pages—“if you don’t mind. I’ll give them back to you.”
“It would be good to get your opinion, sir,” said Lacoste, handing them to the elderly scientist.
Professor Rosenblatt chose the spacious banquette by the window and immediately started reading.
After Gabri took their breakfast orders, Isabelle turned to Gamache.
“What was that about?”
“What?”
“John Fleming.”
“I just wanted to see their reaction,” said Gamache.
“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.