The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,137
in. His device showed five bars. And no messages.
Closing his eyes for just a moment, Adam Cohen gathered himself and then got out of the car and walked, resolutely, toward the small door in the thick wall.
* * *
“Our top story tonight, an astonishing find in Québec’s Eastern Townships.”
“Merde,” said Isabelle Lacoste. The broadcast streamed over her laptop in the Incident Room.
It was six o’clock, and it was worse than they thought. The CBC did not yet know the exact location of Gerald Bull’s Supergun, but they’d narrowed it down to this region.
The story unfolded. One journalist had a report on Gerald Bull’s unlikely life and mysterious death. Another told the story of Project Babylon, and Saddam Hussein, and the coming together of two madmen.
Three, Lacoste knew. Three madmen.
* * *
“I heard you coming,” said Fleming in his soft, flawed voice. He studied the young man in front of him. “You used to be a guard here, didn’t you?”
But Adam Cohen heeded Gamache’s warning, not to tell Fleming anything. Not to engage the man.
“Does he need a change of clothes?” one of the five guards who’d accompanied Cohen asked.
“No,” said Cohen. “We won’t be gone for long. He’ll be back by midnight.”
“Before I turn into a pumpkin?” asked Fleming as they put the cuffs and restraints on him. “Or something.”
“You sure you want to do this?” asked another guard. The one who’d been Cohen’s friend when he’d worked at the SHU. The one Adam Cohen had gone to with the authorization. Because he knew this man would trust him.
And he had. He’d accepted without question the letter from the Sûreté authorizing Cohen to take Fleming.
Fleming was watching this exchange, his reptile eyes sliding from one man to the other, sensing, perhaps, a betrayal in progress.
* * *
Jean-Guy skidded to a stop. He’d turned the corner and was sprinting across the bridge to the Incident Room to tell Lacoste to call off Cohen.
“Where’re you going?” he called after Gamache, who’d missed the turn and was running, plans in hand, toward the bistro.
“We have to make sure these are the plans.” Gamache held them up but didn’t stop running.
“They say Project Babylon, patron. What else could they be?”
“Highwater, that’s what. More misdirection.”
Beauvoir looked at the old railway station behind him, then at Gamache in front of him.
“Shit,” said Jean-Guy, and raced to catch up with Gamache.
In the bistro, Armand hurried over to Professor Rosenblatt, who’d moved to the sofa by the fire.
“You found them?” the elderly scientist said, standing up.
“We hope so.”
Gamache opened the tube and tipped the scroll out. He sat down and unrolled it onto the blanket box. Rosenblatt joined him, bending over the paper.
“Is it them?” asked Beauvoir.
Rosenblatt didn’t answer. He made humming sounds, his finger tracing the lines of the schematic.
Come on, come on, thought Beauvoir. Behind them, the clock on the mantel said six minutes past six. Somewhere in the background he could hear the Radio Canada news. The French service also had the story of Gerald Bull and Project Babylon.
Olivier and Gabri must be in the kitchen, Beauvoir thought. Listening. Along with the rest of the world.
“Are these the plans?” he demanded.
* * *
Adam Cohen walked beside his friend down the long corridor. He felt sick and wondered if it was the flu, or the overpowering stink of disinfectant, or the memories conjured by that smell. Of eighteen long months in this hellhole, guarding these psychopaths.
Was it the thought of what he was about to do that was turning his stomach? Or was it more simple than all that? Less heroic. Was it just garden-variety fear, rooted and blossoming into terror?
Behind Cohen, with two heavily armed guards in front and two guards beside him, John Fleming was shuffling, his chains clinking. And mixed with that sound was humming. An old hymn.
By the waters of Babylon …
Agent Cohen walked on, his eyes riveted on the bright red exit sign. His hand in his pocket, clutching the device. Willing it to leap to life with a message.
* * *
Professor Rosenblatt studied one page, then the next, and the next. Looking at the schematics, pausing now and then to consider, then moving on.
“I see how they solved the trajectory problem, just here,” he said, pointing at a diagram.
“Are they genuine?” demanded Gamache, his own patience worn thin and finally worn through.
Rosenblatt straightened up and nodded. “I believe so.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said a woman’s voice, and they turned to see Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme at the door. “We