The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

No one looked at Beauvoir who, with a mighty effort, was keeping his mouth shut.

“Some even believed Dr. Bull was building the Supergun for the Israelis. To hit Iraq first. They’re pragmatists. They believe in God, but how do you fight the devil? With prayers? Well, Gerald Bull was the answer to a prayer.”

“But the Israelis have all sorts of sophisticated weapons,” said Lacoste. “Why would they need the Supergun?”

“They wouldn’t,” said Gamache. “But Saddam Hussein would.”

Across from him, Armand saw Beauvoir’s brows come together as logic began to penetrate disbelief.

“Yes,” said the scientist. “A weapon of mass destruction that could be assembled anywhere, the middle of a desert, for instance. Without need of electronics or expertise.”

“How would the missiles be aimed?” Gamache asked, remembering images of Israeli citizens wearing gas masks and huddling in their homes as the sirens wailed during the Gulf War.

“There’s a guidance system,” said Professor Rosenblatt. “But without electronics it’s difficult to be completely accurate, especially at a distance. It’s the one possible flaw in Bull’s design.”

“Flaw?” asked Gamache. “I’d call it more than that, wouldn’t you?”

The professor, under the sharp gaze, reddened.

“And that means?” Gamache pushed.

“It means from a distance the Supergun could not be guaranteed to hit just military targets.”

“It means more than that,” said Gamache. “It was never designed to hit military targets, was it?”

“Then what was it designed to hit?” asked Lacoste.

“Cities,” said Gamache. “The biggest, crudest bull’s-eye. It was meant to destroy Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. It was designed to kill men, women, children. Teachers, bartenders, bus drivers. It was meant to wipe them out. To bomb Israel back to the Stone Age.”

“Or Baghdad to the Stone Age,” said Lacoste. “If the buyer was Israel. After all, that inscription on the etching was in Hebrew.”

Beauvoir had been quiet, except the initial grunts as he fought to keep scathing comments in.

“What are you thinking?” Armand asked him.

“I’m thinking about Armageddon,” he said.

“The movie?” asked Lacoste, and saw him smile.

“Non. If that thing in the woods works, this Bull fellow made a gun that would fling a missile into orbit with the intention, the hope, of wiping out entire cities. Anywhere.”

Professor Rosenblatt nodded. “Anywhere.”

It was now clear who the real monster was. Not the Whore of Babylon, not even the Supergun. But the man who had made them.

*

Gamache and Beauvoir left the house a few paces behind Lacoste and the professor.

Rosenblatt was heading home to pack a few things and return to the B and B, to be on hand to help. Lacoste and Beauvoir were going back to the Incident Room, to see if the forensics reports were in. And Gamache was going to join Reine-Marie at the bistro.

Beauvoir fell in beside Gamache.

“Do you believe him?” asked Beauvoir. “About the Iraqis?”

He was unconsciously mimicking Gamache by clasping his hands behind his back and falling into the rhythm of his walk.

“I’m not sure,” said Gamache.

“Well, even if it’s true, it can’t possibly matter anymore. The intended target, or buyer, is long gone. Saddam Hussein was executed years ago. Any danger is long gone.”

“Hmmm” came from Gamache.

“What is it?”

“Someone killed Laurent to keep the gun a secret,” Gamache reminded him. “I think the danger might’ve been dormant.”

They walked for a few more paces in silence.

“But now it’s back,” said Jean-Guy.

“Hmmm,” said Gamache again. Then after a few more paces, “Did you notice where that gun is pointed?”

Beauvoir stopped then and looked toward the stone bridge and the forest.

“It’s not pointing to Baghdad, that’s for sure,” said Beauvoir.

“No. It’s pointing south. Into the United States.”

Beauvoir turned to stare at Gamache, who was watching the elderly scientist get into his car.

“I wonder what Project Babylon was really about,” said Gamache. “And if it really died with Gerald Bull.”





CHAPTER 13

As Chief Inspector Lacoste approached the old railway station, she noticed a nondescript car parked off to the side.

A man and woman were sitting in the front seat, and as the doors opened her heart sank.

Journalists, she thought. Much as a doctor might think, plague. But the thought was fleeting, disappearing as soon as she got a good look at them.

“Chief Inspector Lacoste?” the woman asked, after inelegantly slinging a large cloth handbag over her shoulder.

“Oui.”

“Oh good. We wondered if we had the wrong place.”

She looked so relieved that Isabelle was relieved for her.

“I told you I knew where we were going,” said the man. “Not a wrong turn all the way down.”

“Which is why you’re the navigator,” said the woman.

“No. I’m the navigator because you insist on driving.”