The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

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.

“What you’ve found,” said Professor Rosenblatt, “is Project Babylon. When we spoke this morning and you described it, I barely believed you. Project Babylon is a tale physicists told to scare each other. It’s a Grimms’ tale for scientists.”

He took a deep breath and tried to cover his discomfort by reaching for another pastry. But his unsteady hand betrayed him.

Gamache couldn’t decide if the tremble was caused by fear or excitement.

“What you have is a Supergun. No, not ‘a’ Supergun, it’s ‘the’ Supergun. The only one of its kind. Within the armaments community it’s a sort of legend. For years we’d heard rumors that it’d been built. Some people tried to find it, but gave up. Then the talk died away, as time passed.”

“When you first saw it,” said Gamache, “you whispered, ‘He didn’t.’ Who did you mean?”

Armand leaned forward, forearms on his knees, his large hands forming a sort of bow in front of him. Like a ship plowing through the seas.

“I meant Gerald Bull,” said Rosenblatt, and seemed to expect some sort of reaction. A gasp, perhaps. But there was nothing beyond rapt attention.

“Gerald Bull?” Rosenblatt repeated, looking from one to the other to the other.

They shook their heads.

“Look on my works, ye Mighty,” said Rosenblatt as he drew his battered leather briefcase toward him. “And despair.”

“Oh no,” sighed Beauvoir. “Now we have two of them.”

“‘Ozymandias,’” said Gamache, looking at Jean-Guy with despair. “The professor was quoting a sonnet by Shelley—”

“—of course he was.”

“—that speaks of arrogance, of hubris. A king who thought his achievements would stand for thousands of years, but all that remained of him was a broken statue in the desert.”

“And yet he was finally immortalized,” said Rosenblatt. “Not because of his power, but because of a poem.”

Beauvoir looked about to say something smart-ass, but stopped. And thought.

“Who was Gerald Bull?” he finally asked.

Professor Rosenblatt had unbuckled the briefcase and, after sorting through the contents, brought out some papers.

“I found these in my files after we spoke. I thought they might be needed.”

He put the papers, held together by a staple, on the coffee table.

“This is Dr. Bull.”

Isabelle Lacoste picked them up. What the professor had brought was yellowed and typewritten. There was also a grainy black-and-white photograph of a man in a suit and narrow tie, looking put upon.

“He was an armaments engineer,” said Rosenblatt. “Depending on who you speak to, Dr. Bull was either a visionary or an amoral arms dealer. Either way, he was a brilliant designer.”

“He made that thing in the woods?” asked Lacoste.

“I think so, yes. I think it was part of what he called Project Babylon. His goal was to design and build a gun so powerful it could launch a missile into low Earth orbit, like a satellite. From there it would travel thousands of miles to its target.”

“But don’t those exist?” asked Beauvoir. “ICBMs?”

“Yes, but the Supergun is different,” said Rosenblatt.

“The Meccano set,” said Lacoste. “No electronics.”

“Exactly.” The professor beamed at her. “No computer guidance systems. Nothing that depends on software or even electricity. Just good old-fashioned armaments, not that far off the artillery used in the First World War.”

“But why was that such an achievement?” asked Gamache. “It sounds like a step back, not forward. As Inspector Beauvoir says, if there’re ICBMs that can send nuclear warheads thousands of miles accurately, why would anyone want or need Gerald Bull’s Supergun?”

“Think about it,” said Rosenblatt.

They did, but nothing came to mind.

“You’re too mired in the present, in thinking that newer must be better,” he said. “But part of Gerald Bull’s genius was recognizing that ancient design could not only work, but in some cases, work better.”