“No,” said Armand. “Neither am I. Dr. Bull was doing research that obviously had weapons applications.”

“Right. What surprised me is this.”

Reine-Marie sifted through the pages. She’d put a pen behind her ear and her glasses had now slipped down her nose. She looked like Katharine Hepburn in Desk Set. All smart and efficient and completely unaware of how beautiful she was. Armand could watch her all day long.

Reine-Marie found what she was looking for, and handed him one of the sheets. It had been heavily blacked out.

“It’s part of an internal report on Dr. Bull’s work. It was written after his murder. Look at that.”

She pointed to one line. He put on his glasses and read it, then reread it, his brows drawing together. He sat up straight in the chair.

The censor had missed one reference to the Supergun. Not a huge omission, since Dr. Bull’s effort to create one was a kind of open secret.

“Do you think it’s a typo?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

He looked back down at the report. At the word. That should have been blacked out.

“Superguns.” Plural.

Jesus, he thought. Could there be more than one of them?

Reine-Marie pushed her glasses back up her nose and took the pen from behind her ear.

Katharine Hepburn was gone. Spencer Tracy was gone. This was no comedy. Armand and Reine-Marie looked at each other. Then Armand got up, and started pacing. Not frantically. He took long, measured, almost graceful steps, up and down the living room.

“It might mean nothing,” he said. “It might be just a typo, as you said. Almost certainly is. Let’s stick to what we know to be true.”

“Well, according to the files, we know Dr. Bull worked at McGill, doing research into long-range artillery. We know he moved to Brussels in the early eighties and was killed there on March 20, 1990.”

“Do the reports you found say who was responsible?”

“The main theory is Mossad. Gerald Bull was apparently also working on the Scud missile program for the Iraqis. But the main thrust of his work was to build a cannon for Saddam that could shoot a missile into low orbit.”

“And from there travel just about anywhere,” said Armand.

“Project Babylon,” said Reine-Marie. “The Supergun was for the Iraqis after all.”

“Gun or guns,” said Armand. “He was killed on March 20, 1990, you say?”

“Yes. Why?”

Armand took a few more agitated paces, then stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. I know it doesn’t.”

“What doesn’t?”

“John Fleming’s first murder was in the summer of 1990.”

There was a pause as Reine-Marie absorbed that, and tried to compose herself. “Are you suggesting there’s a link? How could there be?”