“No,” said Rosenblatt, and pointed toward the great long tube stretching out in front of them.

Rosenblatt was studying the wall of the borehole.

“Empty. There’s never even been a missile in here. It’s unmarked.”

Gamache reached out and touched the side. It felt slightly greasy.

“It’s been prepared,” he said.

Rosenblatt looked at him and nodded. “You know guns.”

“Sadly, yes,” said Gamache. “We all do. But never anything like this.”

“No one has known anything like this,” said Rosenblatt, and even by the limited beam of the flashlight Gamache could see the wonder in the professor’s eyes.

“Can it be fired?” Lacoste asked.

“I need to find the firing mechanism before I can answer and for that, we need to leave.”

He did not need to say it twice. Lacoste was out in a flash, following the professor around to the side of the machine.

“That’s interesting. The trigger should be here.” He placed his fist in a large hole. “But it’s missing.”

“Maybe it’s somewhere else,” Beauvoir suggested.

“No, it would have to be here, given the configuration inside.”

He looked behind him, toward the back wall of the camouflage netting, and shook his head.

“But the main thing is,” said Lacoste. “It isn’t armed, and even if it was, it can’t be fired.”

“Not without the mechanism, no.”

“What would it look like?” Gamache asked.

“The trigger would have cogs that fit onto this wheel.” The professor pointed to a circle with teeth, about a foot wide. “There’s nothing electronic on this thing. Not even the guidance system. It’s all done manually.”

“Could it have fallen off?” asked Beauvoir, looking on the ground.

“This isn’t a LEGO set. Things don’t just fall off. It’s intricate, perfectly made. Each piece fits snugly, exactly.”

“So, no?” said Beauvoir.

“No,” said Rosenblatt. “If it’s gone, someone took it, and by the looks of it, not recently. I need to see the etching again.”

The elderly man spoke with determination and Gamache realized that while he was afraid of heights, and Beauvoir was afraid of confined spaces, Professor Michael Rosenblatt was afraid of the etching.

They walked back to it, and Rosenblatt stepped back, taking in the winged monster as it reared and bucked. Its seven heads were straining, its long necks intertwining like serpents. There was a woman on its back, holding reins. Controlling the beast. She stared out at them, a strange expression on her face. It wasn’t wrath, thought Gamache. It wasn’t vengeance or blood lust. It was more sinister. Something Gamache couldn’t quite define.

Professor Rosenblatt whispered under his breath.

“What did you say?” asked Gamache, who was closest to the scientist.

Rosenblatt pointed to what looked like scales on the monster’s body.

Gamache stepped closer, then, putting on his glasses, he bent in. Straightening up, he looked at the professor.

“Hebrew?”