“His apartment in Brussels was searched several times before his death, and nothing was found,” Gamache explained. “After his murder, people looked but the designs for Project Babylon never turned up. It was assumed that Bull, knowing he was in trouble, destroyed them. But suppose they weren’t found on him because he didn’t have them?”
“Because he gave them to Dr. Couture,” said Lacoste.
“Or because Couture stole them,” said Beauvoir.
“Or,” said Gamache, “because Gerald Bull never had the plans to begin with.”
“You think Gerald Bull was the ‘front of house,’” said Lacoste. “And Dr. Couture the real genius?”
“I think it’s possible Dr. Bull did not have the plans because Dr. Bull did not make the plans,” said Gamache. “Do you still have the photograph, Adam?”
Agent Cohen jumped up and returned a moment later with the picture. He put it on the kitchen table and everyone leaned in.
“Do you want more light?” asked Reine-Marie.
“No, this is fine,” said her husband. The candlelight was indeed soothing. “I think they might have been a perfect team,” he said, looking at the photo. “Bull gregarious, outgoing. Dr. Couture quieter, a bachelor scientist. Devoted to his work.”
“His work being Project Babylon,” said Beauvoir.
“According to what you found out”—Gamache turned to Cohen—“Dr. Couture started working with Gerald Bull at McGill, on HARP.”
“Right, but funding for the High Altitude Research Project was cut,” said Cohen. “And Dr. Bull left McGill.”
“What did he do then?” Gamache asked.
“He formed the Space Research Corporation,” said Cohen.
“And the SRC eventually developed the long-range artillery that became Project Babylon,” said Lacoste. “By then it was a private company, run by Bull.”
“Gerald Bull became an arms dealer,” said Gamache. “But not, perhaps, an arms designer.”
“That explains why Project Babylon was built here,” said Beauvoir. “Because Guillaume Couture was here.”
“He built the prototype close to home,” said Lacoste. “Where he could oversee it, but no one else could. In the middle of a Québec forest, where the Iranians, the Israelis, the Iraqis, our own people would never think to look. A gun that doesn’t exist in a village that doesn’t exist.”
“The last place on earth,” said Beauvoir. “Three Pines.”
“And no one guessed that Gerald Bull wasn’t the creator of Project Babylon?” asked Cohen.
“Why would they?” asked Chief Inspector Lacoste. “And who would care? As long as he delivered.”
“And when he’s murdered, Couture gets scared,” said Beauvoir. “He hides the plans, or maybe destroys them, and goes to ground. Retires to his tomatoes and peppers, and tries to forget about the thing in the woods.”
“It was covered with camouflage netting,” said Gamache. “An effort had been made to hide it. And the firing pin was removed. Who else but the designer could do that? Did you find the firing pin in Antoinette’s home?”
“No, though to be fair, we weren’t looking,” said Beauvoir. “We’ll go back and have another look.”
“If it was there, the killer probably took it,” said Gamache. “But worth a look.”
“I’ll double the guard on the gun,” said Lacoste, and headed to the telephone in the study.
The lights suddenly went on, full force, and Armand looked over at Reine-Marie, who was standing by the switch, then she returned to the table.
“Well, that killed the mood,” said Jean-Guy.
“I wanted a clearer look at this picture,” she said, bending over it.
“Do you recognize someone, Madame Gamache?” Adam Cohen asked.
“No, not the people, but the place looks familiar. Armand?”
The three men in the grainy enlargement were standing at the top of a very long tunnel that sloped downward. The walls appeared to be metal, with strips of more metal shooting down the sides and ceiling. Huge pot lights were attached to the top.
“I don’t think this’s a tunnel,” she said. “I think they’re standing at the top of a long cylinder.”
“The mouth of a gun, perhaps,” said Gamache.
“It would have to be a pretty big gun.”
“Well, we have a pretty big gun,” he said.
“I don’t think it’s a gun,” said Beauvoir, leaning over Madame Gamache’s shoulder. “It actually looks more like a stairway.”
“Or an escalator,” said Armand.
It did look vaguely familiar. A metro stop? An airport? It could be anywhere.
“Oh, this’s killing me,” said Reine-Marie.
“Probably doesn’t matter,” said Armand. “The picture was obviously taken years ago.”
“What would happen if another one of those guns was built?” Reine-Marie asked.
Gamache was silent for a moment, then opened his mouth. But there were no words. Certainly none of the reassuring words she was hoping for. The candlelit words. And to Reine-Marie’s horror, he simply closed his mouth and looked at her.
“Do you think the killer found the plans?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” said Gamache. “Mary Fraser accused me of not understanding how dangerous the world of arms dealers is. And she’s right. I don’t think anything we’ve faced compares to it. The scale of death they deal in is almost beyond comprehension. They create and feed wars, they encourage genocide. For profit. And what a profit. The money must be in the billions. Lives are worthless, incidental.”
He spoke almost matter-of-factly, which only added to the horror of what he was saying.
“I think we have to assume the worst,” said Jean-Guy. “That the plans have been found.”
The dinner broke up shortly after that. There didn’t seem much else to say. They made arrangements for Adam Cohen to take Beauvoir’s room at the B and B while Jean-Guy moved into the Gamaches’ home. The young man seemed relieved not to have to drive back to the city.
After Lacoste and Cohen had gone and the dishes were done, Armand and Henri went for a walk.
“Mind if I join you?” Jean-Guy asked.
The three of them walked in companionable silence around and around the village green. It was a clear, cold night and they could see their breath. The sky was filled with stars, and moon shadows from the three huge pines stretched across the grass and landed at the bistro.
They could see Professor Rosenblatt sitting alone at a table. Gamache paused and thought. And knew it was time.
“Chilly night,” he said to Jean-Guy. “I feel like something to warm me up.”
“I was thinking the same thing, patron.”
A minute later they were standing over the professor’s table.
“Bonsoir,” said Armand.
“Hello,” said the professor, looking up and smiling.
Armand took the photograph from his pocket and placed it on the bistro table, sliding it slowly forward, toward Michael Rosenblatt.
“I’d like an answer to my question now, s’il vous plaît,” said Gamache. “Did Gerald Bull design the Supergun? Or did someone else? Someone smarter?”
He watched as the smile flattened. Flatlined. Died on Rosenblatt’s face.
CHAPTER 27
“Last call,” said Olivier from behind the bar.
There were two other occupants of the bistro, young lovers on a date, holding hands across the table. Gamache wasn’t worried about them. They clearly were in their own world. One that, thankfully, did not include genocide, and warheads, and dark things hidden in deep forests. Gamache wanted to make sure the two worlds did not meet.
“Monsieur?” Gamache nodded toward Rosenblatt’s cognac.
“Oh, I think not.”