The Nature of the Beast (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #11) - Louise Penny Page 0,43
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.”
“Only after—”
The woman put up her hands and whispered to the man, loudly enough for Lacoste to hear it, “We can talk about this later.”
Isabelle Lacoste, far from being put out, almost smiled. These two reminded her of her parents, and were about the same age. Mid-fifties, she guessed. Sensibly, if unimaginatively, dressed. The woman wore a cloth coat of decent cut, though slightly baggy, while the man had on a raincoat, with the lightest dusting of doughnut sugar down the front.
The woman’s hair was obviously dyed at home, and due for another treatment. And the man’s hair was combed over, in an attempt to hide what could not be hidden.
“My name’s Mary Fraser.” Her hand, extended in greeting, revealed chipped nail polish. “This is my colleague, Sean Delorme.”
He smiled and shook hands. His cuticles were nibbled and torn.
“We’re from CSIS,” she said cheerfully.
Had Mary Fraser said they were from the moon it would have been more believable. Isabelle Lacoste tried not to show her surprise.
“Are we supposed to tell her that?” Sean Delorme asked, averting his face from Lacoste and putting his hand to his mouth. Again, trying to hide the obvious.
“What else are we going to say?” whispered Madame Fraser. “That we’re tourists?”
“Okay, but we should have consulted.”
“We had the whole drive down—”
Now it was the man’s turn to put up his hand to stop the bickering.
“We can talk about this later,” he said. “But if we get into trouble, it’s your fault.”
They spoke to each other in English but had spoken to Lacoste in heavily accented, textbook good, French.
Perhaps, thought Lacoste, they didn’t think she spoke English.