The Nature of the Beast
“Yes,” agreed Rosenblatt. Gamache waited for more, but nothing more came.
“It didn’t work, you say?”
“They tried it a few times, apparently, but while the force could be corrected, they couldn’t solve the trajectory problem. Eventually they abandoned the site.”
That sounded like the end of the story, but Gamache knew it was really just the beginning. They weren’t even at the end now, thirty years later. But he had a feeling they were approaching it. Or it was approaching them.
“What happened next?” he asked.
“Project Babylon was closed down. Gerald Bull moved to Brussels and Guillaume Couture retired to his roses.”
“Except that Project Babylon wasn’t over,” said Gamache. “In fact, it got bigger. You say not many knew about the next phase?”
“That was the only thing that was disconcerting. Gerald Bull was guarded about the second weapon, Big Babylon. It was unlike him. He was a snake-oil salesman, a huckster. So when he was quiet about this second design, it got some people wondering.”
“If it was true,” said Gamache.
“If Gerald Bull was building an even more dangerous weapon, and playing an even more dangerous game. With even more dangerous people.”
“More dangerous than the Iraqis?”
Michael Rosenblatt didn’t answer that.
Gamache thought for a minute. “If Bull didn’t talk about it, how did people find out?”
“Most didn’t. And any information that did come out was patchy. A whispered word here and there. It’s a community filled with whispers. They add up to a sort of scream. Hard to separate the good intelligence from the noise.” He paused, thinking back. “They should’ve known.”
“CSIS? About the other half of Project Babylon?”
“Everything, they should’ve known it all. I think they did know. They just didn’t believe it. They dismissed Gerald Bull as a fool, a dilettante, especially after Baby Babylon failed.”
“So did you,” Gamache pointed out.
“But I didn’t have the entire intelligence apparatus at my disposal. I worked with the man, I knew he wasn’t capable of actually creating the machines he was marketing. What I didn’t appreciate was that Guillaume Couture was.”
Rosenblatt looked at Gamache.
“It honestly never occurred to anyone that Project Babylon wasn’t just a madman’s delusion. Especially after Baby Babylon failed. But he did it. He actually built it.” Rosenblatt shook his head and looked into his fragrant cider, stirring it with his cinnamon stick. “How did we miss it?”
“Did you miss it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If everyone thought Bull was such a buffoon, and his designs the product of a delusional mind, why was he killed?”
“To be sure,” said Rosenblatt. “To be on the safe side.”
“Murder puts you on the safe side?” Gamache asked.
“Sometimes, yes.” Rosenblatt stared at the former head of homicide. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought that.”
“And is this the ‘safe side’?” Gamache asked. “We’re half a kilometer from a weapon that could wipe out every major city down the East Coast, never mind Europe.”
Rosenblatt leaned closer to Gamache. “Like it or not, the death of Gerald Bull meant Project Babylon did not end up in the hands of the Iraqis. They’d have won the war. They’d have taken over the whole region. They’d have wiped out Israel and anyone else who stood up to them. In a dangerous world, Monsieur Gamache, this is the safe side.”
“If this is so safe,” said Gamache, “why are you so afraid?”
CHAPTER 32
Clara confided her suspicions to Myrna.
As she spoke she became more convinced. Sometimes, on saying things out loud, especially to Myrna, Clara could see how ludicrous they were.
But not this time. This time they jelled.
“What should I do?” asked Clara.
“You know what you have to do.”
“I hate it when you say that,” said Clara, sipping her white wine.
Across from her Myrna smiled, but it was fleeting, unable to penetrate beyond what Clara had just told her.
They hadn’t noticed the two men in the dark corner until one of them got up.
Clara nodded to Professor Rosenblatt as he walked by their table. He didn’t stop but continued to, and out, the door. Then they turned their attention to the person left behind.