Those muscular memories pushed and shoved and stuffed the others back into their own bedlam. Armand Gamache sat in the sterile room and smelled old garden roses in summer, and heard laughter on the village green. He tasted strong café au lait, and felt the fresh morning mist on his face.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice strong, “to talk to you about Gerald Bull and Project Babylon.”

He was rewarded by a blink. A moment of uncertainty. Of caution.

John Fleming hadn’t been expecting that statement.

“I know you. You were at my trial,” said Fleming. “You just sat and watched. Do you like to watch? Was it fun for you?”

Gamache’s expression didn’t change, but in his peripheral vision he saw Beauvoir stir and he could tell that Fleming sensed it too. A slight reaction. Exactly what he wanted.

It was the first time Gamache had heard his voice. Fleming had not testified at the trial. Armand was surprised by how soft the voice was. There was the hint of a speech impediment. Real? Or manufactured to make him appear more human, even vulnerable?

People instinctively let down their guard when they saw a limp, an illness, a flaw in someone else. Not out of compassion but because it made them feel superior. Stronger. Those people, Gamache knew, did not always last long. It was not a useful instinct.

“What do you want to know?” Fleming asked.

“I want to know how you came to be the project manager.”

“Dr. Bull was looking for someone to coordinate the day-to-day work. Not a scientist. They might be precise, but they’re not good at the big picture. I am.”

“But how did Bull hear about you?” Gamache asked, recognizing that Fleming had only partially answered the question.

“Word gets around.”

“Depending on the circles you move in,” said Gamache. “Who recommended you?”

“It could’ve been any number of happy clients. I worked for an agency that specializes in discretion.”

“Which agency was that?”

“I don’t think you’re listening closely enough. Discretion, remember?”

“Why don’t you want to tell me?” Gamache asked.

“Why do you want to know? Can it possibly matter?”

“I wasn’t so sure before,” said Gamache. “But now I’m beginning to wonder.”

The two men stared at each other.

“Tell me about the Whore of Babylon.”

And now there was a reaction. A thinning of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes. And then the razor smile again.

“I wondered when someone would come asking.” Fleming regarded Gamache as though he was Fleming’s guest and not the other way around.

“And what’s the answer?” Gamache asked.

“Who are you?” Fleming asked.

He hadn’t moved since sitting down. Not a millimeter. His hands, his head, his body remained completely still, like a mannequin. As far as Gamache could tell, he wasn’t even breathing.