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

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.”