The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,122
reassessing his visitor. “Yes. We’d make a fortune, thanks to Dr. Couture.”
“Until Gerald Bull threatened the whole thing.”
Gamache took the photograph out of his pocket. He hadn’t planned to do this. In fact, his plan was not to do this. But he knew his only hope of getting information out of Fleming was to imply he already knew it.
He smoothed the picture on the metal surface then turned it around.
Fleming’s brows rose, and again his lips curled up. In his youth this man might have been attractive, but all that was gone, eaten away not by his age but by his actions.
Gamache tapped the photo. “This was taken at the Atomium in Brussels shortly before Bull was killed.”
“That’s a guess.”
“You don’t like guesses?”
“I don’t like uncertainty.”
“Is that why you killed Gerald Bull? Because he could no longer be controlled?”
“I killed him because I was asked to do it.”
Ah, thought Gamache. One piece of information.
“You probably shouldn’t have told me that,” said Gamache. “Aren’t you worried that with the gun discovered, you might be next? I’d be worried.”
He was taking a risk, he knew. But since he was in Fleming’s head, he might as well mess around and see what happened.
He saw fear in Fleming’s face and realized that this loyal agent of death was afraid of it himself. Or perhaps not so much afraid of death as the afterlife.
“Who are you?” Fleming asked yet again.
“I think you know who I am,” said Gamache.
Now he was in uncharted territory. Beyond Fleming’s head, beyond even that cavern that had once housed his heart, and into the dark and withered soul of the creature.
He was familiar with Fleming’s biography. A churchgoing, God-fearing man, he’d feared God so much he’d fled him. Into another’s arms.
That was why he’d made the Whore of Babylon. As tribute.
But now Gamache’s thoughts betrayed him. Once again the images of Fleming’s horrific offering exploded into his head. Gamache pushed, furiously shoving the pictures out of his mind. Across from him Fleming was watching closely, and now he saw what Gamache had taken pains to hide, was desperate to hide. His humanity.
“Why are you here?” Fleming snarled.
“To thank you, but also to warn you,” said Gamache, fighting to win back the advantage.
“Really? To thank me?” said Fleming.
“For your service and your silence,” said Gamache, and saw the creature pause.
“And the warning?”
Fleming’s voice had changed. The slight impediment had disappeared. The softness now sounded like quicksand. Gamache had hit on something, but he didn’t know what.
His mind raced over the case. Laurent, the missile launcher, the Whore of Babylon. Highwater. Ruth and Monsieur Béliveau. Al Lepage.
What else, what else?
The murder of Gerald Bull. Fleming had admitted to that. Gamache tossed it aside as done.
Fleming was staring at him, realization dawning that Gamache was a fraud, was afraid.
Gamache’s mind raced. Guillaume Couture, the real father of Project Babylon. Was there more? Gamache scrambled. What was he missing?
What warning could possibly be issued? What could a confined man have done?
And then he had it.
“She Sat Down and Wept,” he said, and saw Fleming’s face pale. “Why did you write it, John? Why did you send it to Guillaume Couture? What were you thinking, you little man?”
Gamache reached into his satchel and dropped the script, with a bang, onto the metal table.
Fleming unfolded one hand and caressed the title page with a finger that looked like a worm. Then a look of cunning crept into his face.
“You have no idea why I wrote this, do you?”
“If I didn’t, why would I be here?”
“If you did, you wouldn’t need to be here,” said Fleming. “I thought Guillaume Couture might appreciate the play. He gave me the plans, you know. Wanted nothing more to do with Project Babylon. I thought it poetic that the only clue to the whereabouts of the plans would rest with the father who abandoned them. Have you read it?”
“The play? I have.”
“And?”
“It’s beautiful.”
That surprised Fleming and he examined his visitor more closely.
“And it’s dangerous,” Gamache added, placing a steady hand on the play and dragging it toward himself, out of Fleming’s reach. “You should not have written it, John, and you sure as hell should never have sent it to Dr. Couture.”
“It frightens you, doesn’t it?” said Fleming.
“Is that why you did it?” said Gamache. “To try to frighten us? Was this”—he poked the script as though it was merde—“meant as a warning?”