“I hope so.”
He looked back down at the report. At the word. That should have been blacked out.
“Superguns.” Plural.
Jesus, he thought. Could there be more than one of them?
Reine-Marie pushed her glasses back up her nose and took the pen from behind her ear.
Katharine Hepburn was gone. Spencer Tracy was gone. This was no comedy. Armand and Reine-Marie looked at each other. Then Armand got up, and started pacing. Not frantically. He took long, measured, almost graceful steps, up and down the living room.
“It might mean nothing,” he said. “It might be just a typo, as you said. Almost certainly is. Let’s stick to what we know to be true.”
“Well, according to the files, we know Dr. Bull worked at McGill, doing research into long-range artillery. We know he moved to Brussels in the early eighties and was killed there on March 20, 1990.”
“Do the reports you found say who was responsible?”
“The main theory is Mossad. Gerald Bull was apparently also working on the Scud missile program for the Iraqis. But the main thrust of his work was to build a cannon for Saddam that could shoot a missile into low orbit.”
“And from there travel just about anywhere,” said Armand.
“Project Babylon,” said Reine-Marie. “The Supergun was for the Iraqis after all.”
“Gun or guns,” said Armand. “He was killed on March 20, 1990, you say?”
“Yes. Why?”
Armand took a few more agitated paces, then stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. I know it doesn’t.”
“What doesn’t?”
“John Fleming’s first murder was in the summer of 1990.”
There was a pause as Reine-Marie absorbed that, and tried to compose herself. “Are you suggesting there’s a link? How could there be?”
Armand sat down, his knees touching hers. “Gerald Bull built Project Babylon, and etched onto it not just the Whore of Babylon but lines from a psalm, ‘By the waters of Babylon, we sat down and wept.’”
He looked across their living room to the front door, where the goddamned play lay.
“John Fleming writes a play quoting the same line, or near enough. She Sat Down and Wept.”
“It’s a famous line, Armand.” She tried to sound supportive without sounding patronizing. She could see the intensity in his eyes. “There’ve been lots of literary references to it, even music. Didn’t Don McLean write a song with that lyric?”
Then she saw what he was thinking and felt her concern spike.
“You’re wondering if John Fleming could be Gerald Bull? But surely that couldn’t be hidden.”
He picked up the blacked-out sheets. “You can hide anything, depending on who ‘you’ are.”
Reine-Marie leaned forward and took both his hands in hers. She spoke slowly, quietly. Holding his gaze. “You’ve just been reading the play. It’s brought up all sorts of memories of John Fleming. Do you think it’s possible that your grief for Laurent has somehow gotten all mixed up with the trauma of the Fleming trial? I don’t know what happened there, and maybe one day you’ll tell me, but this isn’t making sense, Armand.” She paused to let her words sink in, penetrate, and perhaps even overpower this delusion. “The two aren’t connected, except by a very common quote from the Bible. Do you see that? Fleming has gotten under your skin, or up your nose,” she smiled, and saw a small upturn at the corners of his mouth, “but however he got there, he’s in your head and you have to get him out. He doesn’t belong there, and he doesn’t belong in the murder of Laurent. It’s just muddying things.”
Armand got up and stood by the fireplace, his back to her, looking at the flames. Then he turned around.
“You’re right, of course. John Fleming is in his early seventies now. Far too young to be Gerald Bull. That was foolish of me. My imagination run wild again.”
He ran his large hands through his hair and smiled an apology.
“Still, I’d like to know more about that play. How it came into the possession of Antoinette’s uncle, for instance.”
“Does it matter? Antoinette said he probably picked it up at a flea market. People collect strange things. Maybe he collected the macabre. Items associated with crimes or criminals.”
“But neither Brian nor Antoinette mentioned a collection,” said Armand. “Why would an engineer who showed no interest at all in the theater buy any script, never mind one by the most brutal killer in the country?”
Reine-Marie stared at him. It was, she had to admit, an interesting question.
He took a deep breath and shook his head, then smiled at her. “You have a lot of patience, ma belle.”
“Not as much as you might think.”
He smiled again. “Nor should you. You’ve put up with all this for far too long. It’s supposed to be over.”
He kissed her and walked to the door, inviting Henri along.
“I think I’ll get some fresh air. Clear my head.”
“It has gotten a little crowded in there. Why don’t I meet you at the bistro for tea in, say, twenty minutes?”
“Parfait. By then the eviction notices will have been served.”
CHAPTER 16
It was getting dark by the time the Gamaches returned home from the bistro. They found Ruth in the living room sipping Scotch from a measuring cup and eating leftover casserole while Rosa nibbled on a wild rice salad.
Reine-Marie sat down next to the poet while Armand went into the kitchen to wash up and prepare dinner.
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
Gamache leapt, startled, then grabbed his chest.
“Jesus,” he gasped. “You scared me half to death.”
“Something’s very wrong, patron,” said Isabelle Lacoste, getting up from her chair, “when seeing Ruth is normal and we’re the ones who frighten you.”
He laughed, recovering, though he’d been genuinely alarmed.
“I thought we locked the door,” he said.
“Ruth walks through walls,” said Jean-Guy. “You should know that by now.”
“What did you want to see me about?” Gamache dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to face them.
“The forensics are back,” said Isabelle, getting herself a beer and taking her seat again. “They found one set of fresh prints on the missile launcher. Laurent’s. But there were also smudges. Our killer touched it, but wore gloves.”
“What did you find on Laurent’s stick and cassette tape?” asked Gamache.
“All sorts on the stick, including yours. But on the cassette we only found three sets. Laurent’s own, of course, as well as his parents’. You were right. The cassette must’ve belonged to the Lepages.”
“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” said Armand, joining them at the long pine table.
“No,” Beauvoir agreed. “But it could mean everything. It could mean that the cassette dropped from the murderer’s pocket in the struggle, or as he picked the boy up. If not, then how did it get there?”
Armand nodded. It made sense, of course. It might not be a smoking gun, but it was a pointing finger. Right at Al Lepage. With some surprise Armand realized he felt protective of Al Lepage. Perhaps because he liked the man and felt Laurent’s father was suffering enough without the added weight of suspicion.
But suspicion was inevitable and often turned out to be true. People were almost always killed by someone they knew, and knew well, which compounded the tragedy and was probably why, Gamache thought, so many murder victims did not look frightened. They looked surprised. While Gamache liked Al Lepage, and sympathized with him, he’d arrested enough grieving family members for murder to know that Laurent’s father was a legitimate suspect.
And he wasn’t the only one who thought so. While he and Reine-Marie were at the bistro they’d heard the conversations, the rumors. Suspicion was settling on Laurent’s father.
“We’ve interviewed the Lepages once,” said Jean-Guy. ?
??And searched the house. But we’ll go out again tomorrow.”
Gamache nodded. He understood that Beauvoir and Lacoste did not need to report to him, and they weren’t. They were simply informing him. It was a courtesy, not a requirement.
“I saw you taking some people into the woods.”
“Yes. Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme,” said Lacoste. “CSIS. Low-level functionaries.”
“File clerks,” said Jean-Guy, opening the fridge and taking out a ginger ale.
“But they know a great deal about Gerald Bull,” said Lacoste.
She told him what they’d told her about the arms dealer.
“They also know our Professor Rosenblatt,” said Jean-Guy. “And he knows them. There’s not a lot of love lost.”
“Why not?” asked Armand.
“He thinks they’re hiding something,” said Jean-Guy. “He suspects the Canadian government might’ve been more involved with Gerald Bull than they’re willing to admit.”
“His work or his murder?” asked Gamache.
“I’m not sure,” said Beauvoir. “But he did say Fraser and Delorme might not have been as surprised about the Supergun as they appeared. He doesn’t trust them.”
“And they don’t trust him,” said Lacoste. “They think it’s odd that the retired professor is so obsessed with a long-dead arms dealer. And so do I.”
“What do you make of the CSIS people?” Gamache asked.
“They seem straightforward enough,” she said. “A little out of their depth perhaps.”
“What is it?” asked Gamache. “You’re smiling.”
“They remind me of my parents,” said Lacoste. “Bickering and a little baffled. They’re sort of endearing. But they’re also not fools. They’re very good at what they do, it’s just that what they do is filing, correlating. Not fieldwork.”
“So why were they sent?”
“Probably because they know more than anyone else about Gerald Bull and his work,” said Beauvoir.
“Did you call them in?” he asked Lacoste, who shook her head.
“They just showed up. I think General Langelier at CFB Valcartier must’ve called someone at CSIS. He said he’d try to find us someone who could help. But I don’t think anyone really believed that what we found was Project Babylon. I think if they did believe it they’d have also sent some higher-ranking intelligence agents. I expect some to arrive any moment now.”
She gazed out the window at the quiet village.
“They want to keep the existence of the Supergun secret, which might suit their purposes—”
“But it makes investigating Laurent’s murder almost impossible,” said Jean-Guy. “But I guess we have no choice.”
“Mmmm,” said Gamache. “There’s something I think you should see.”
He got up and returned a minute later with the papers he and Reine-Marie had left in the living room. Had Ruth read them? Had she learned about Gerald Bull and Project Babylon? And realized that was what was hidden in the woods?
Armand had the uneasy feeling that she probably had, though she didn’t say anything when he picked them up. Which in itself was suspicious.
Returning to the kitchen, Gamache handed a page to Isabelle.
“Madame Gamache found these in a search of the archives,” he explained. Jean-Guy was reading over Lacoste’s shoulder. “Much of the information has been redacted, but they missed one reference.”
Jean-Guy got there first and looked up from the page into Gamache’s thoughtful eyes.
And then, a moment later, Lacoste hit it. The one word. The one letter.
“A typo?” she asked.
“Maybe. We wondered the same thing.”
“And if it’s not?” asked Beauvoir, sinking back into his chair. “If there’s another one?”
“Or two, or three?” said Lacoste.
Gamache held up his hand. “We don’t know if there are more. I think we need to keep this quiet for now.”
“Not even tell CSIS?” asked Lacoste.
“They’re presumably the ones who blacked it out,” said Gamache. “They must already know.”
“There was something else strange. Arabic and Hebrew. They look quite different, don’t they?”
“Very,” said Gamache. “Why?”
“Would you expect CSIS agents to know the difference?”
“I would,” he said, and studied her for a moment. “Why’re you asking? Is it the etching?”
“Yes. Mary Fraser found the writing, but she thought it was Arabic.”
He stared at her, not sure what to make of that.
“And there’s something else,” she said. “They didn’t get lost.”
“Pardon?”
“Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme,” said Lacoste. “They drove down from Ottawa and came straight to Three Pines.”
Gamache grew very still. The village itself was lost. Hidden in the hills. It was not on any map, or GPS. And yet the CSIS agents had come straight there. Which meant they might already have known where the village was.
* * *
Though invited to stay for dinner with the Gamaches and Ruth, and Rosa, the Sûreté officers declined.
“I think we’ll go to the bistro, patron,” said Beauvoir. “See what people are talking about.”
“You know what they’re talking about, numbnuts,” snapped Ruth. “Al Lepage.”
“And are you helping spread the rumors, Ruth?” Armand asked.
She glared at him, then shook her head and went back to her drink.
“Should she be…?” Beauvoir tipped his hand up to his mouth.
“It’s tea,” said Armand as they walked to the front door. “We put it in the Glenfiddich bottle.”
“And she doesn’t know?” asked Lacoste.
“If she does, she doesn’t say,” said Gamache. “Thank you for coming over and keeping me informed.”
“Always, patron,” said Lacoste. “Why don’t you join us for breakfast at the B and B? We’ll see if our little social experiment of throwing the professor and the CSIS agents together has produced anything.”
“Like an explosion?” he asked, and agreed to meet them for breakfast.
* * *
“Oh, dear.”
Mary Fraser sat straight up in bed the next morning and stared at the softly closing door. The footsteps retreated down the corridor of the B and B and she heard a tap next door.
The owner, Gabri, was bringing up morning coffee. And news.
And now Mary felt like bringing up too.
“It’s all over the village,” he’d said as he put the cup of strong, rich coffee on the bedside table and fluffed up her pillows. “About the gun. Crème?”
“What gun?” Mary Fraser had asked, hauling herself upright and pulling the warm duvet over her flannel nightgown, for modesty.
The large, friendly man had walked to the door and now he turned and gave her an astute look. Then a quick and forgiving smile.
“You know which gun. The one in the woods. The one you’re here to see.”
“Oh. That one.” She could think of nothing more intelligent to say.
“Yes, that one. They’re calling it a Supergun.”
“Who’re ‘they’?” she asked.
“Oh, you know. ‘Them.’”
He left to deliver the morning coffee and spread the word. The word being “Supergun.”
“Oh, dear,” she whispered. And then amended that to “Merde.”
* * *
“Merci,” said Sean Delorme, coming out of the bathroom, razor in hand, foam on his face, to thank the innkeeper for the coffee. And the news.
Once the door had swung shut, he sank down on the side of the bed and stared at the closed door. Then out the window, where fresh air was blowing in from the mist-covered forest and across the village green. Below, he saw villagers stopping to talk. Hands were waving, gesturing. He could almost hear them.
Huge, one was saying, spreading his arms wide.
The o
ther nodded. And pointed. Into the woods.
Despite the fresh, slightly pine-scented air, the CSIS agent smelt a foul odor.
“Fuck, fuck, shit.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Oh, dear.”
* * *
“Well.”
Michael Rosenblatt sat in bed and sipped coffee and watched the commotion on the village green.
“Well, well, well.”
He reached for his iPhone, then remembered it didn’t work in this funny little village. Still, it wasn’t the worst thing.
The worst thing was on the lips of everyone in Three Pines.
Professor Rosenblatt almost felt sorry for the CSIS agents. Almost.
* * *
Armand Gamache came out of the washroom in his bathrobe, a towel in hand, rubbing his hair dry. Then he stopped. And stood motionless in the middle of their bedroom.
A word had drifted in through the wide-open window, fluttering the curtains as it went by. And that word was “Supergun.”
He shifted his gaze to Reine-Marie, whose eyes were wide with surprise.
“Did you hear that, Armand?”
He nodded and, looking out the window, he saw two villagers walking their dogs and talking, animatedly.
He thought he must have misheard. Surely they said Superman. Or Superglue.
One gestured toward the forest.
Or Supergun.
* * *
Clara Morrow was woken up by the phone. She answered, dazed, on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Did you hear?” Myrna asked.
“Hear what? The phone waking me up?”
“No, what people are saying. Meet me in the bistro.”
“Wait, what’s this about?”
“The Supergun. Hurry.”
“The what?” But Myrna had hung up.
Clara showered and dressed quickly, her curiosity and imagination fueling each other. But as wild as her imagination could be, it could never have conceived of what she was about to hear.
* * *
Isabelle Lacoste sat on the edge of her bed in the B and B. She thought about what she’d heard. And what it meant.
Then she gave one curt nod and went into the bathroom to shower and prepare for the day.
There was going to be hell to pay.
* * *
Ruth Zardo heard the soft knock on the back door.