"How did you get them?" he asked. "I've been trying for years."

"And if you'd joined the Srete you might've been successful," said Lacoste. She caught Gamache's eyes and saw his appreciation. She was not going to mention Madame Gamache.

Rosenblatt frowned, but didn't say anything. Mary Fraser picked up the pages and scanned them, pausing at the black-and-white photograph of Gerald Bull.

"Did you ever meet him?" Lacoste asked, and Mary Fraser shook her head.

"This is a common photo of him though," she said. "Just about the only one I've seen. For a man with an outsized ego, he didn't like to have his picture taken."

Mary Fraser put the photo down and turned to the typed pages.

"Interesting reading," said Isabelle Lacoste. "The details are blacked out, but the reports confirm that Gerald Bull would sell anyone anything. Not just the Iraqis."

"I think it's over to you," Rosenblatt said to the CSIS agents. "Unless you'd like me to answer."

Mary Fraser looked annoyed, but realized she really had no choice.

"The papers are correct. Gerald Bull went completely off the rails in Brussels. He took on contracts with anyone and everyone. All the legitimate powers who once worked with him backed off. He was like the Black Death."

"Tell them about the Soviets," said Rosenblatt, obviously enjoying himself.

Delorme shot him what he must've thought was a withering look but managed to be just comical.

"Bull used the Soviets and South Africans as conduits for his weapons and designs," said Fraser. "But as you know, his biggest contract was with the Iraqis. He was completely amoral."

"Let's not be disingenuous here," said Lacoste. "We've been doing our own research. Saddam got a lot of his weapons from the West. Dr. Bull was far from alone."

"The region's a quagmire," Mary Fraser admitted. "We supplied Saddam, but stopped when we realized what he was capable of. Gerald Bull did not. He saw a business opportunity, a market, and he jumped in. We deeply regret selling Saddam any weapons, but who knew he'd turn out to be a sociopath?"

Professor Rosenblatt looked about to say something, so Sean Delorme jumped in.

"No one's proud of the choices we made, but at least we were trying to keep order. But Gerald Bull was a whole other beast. He was beyond any form of control. He'd slipped below the official channels and was into the dark region of arms suppliers. There were no rules or laws, and no boundaries. If governments were making a mess of it, you can imagine the damage the arms dealers were doing. We're pretty sure the gun was destined for the Iraqis. Bull apparently convinced Saddam that he could make him the only superpower in the region."

"And you had no idea this was happening?" asked Beauvoir.

Sean Delorme shook his head and a long strand of the combover came loose. "Informants told us they thought Gerald Bull was having parts of the cannon made in different factories around the world, but he was killed before he could a.s.semble it."

"Then what's that?" Beauvoir pointed toward the forest.

The CSIS agents shook their heads in unison. More combover came loose, exposing Sean Delorme's skull if not his thoughts.

"I don't know," said Mary Fraser. "I mean, we know what it is. It's a Supergun. But we don't know how it got there."

"And why someone had to murder a nine-year-old boy to keep it quiet," said Gamache.

"Thank G.o.d it doesn't work," said Lacoste.

"But why doesn't it work?" asked Professor Rosenblatt. "Don't get me wrong, I'm as relieved as you, but, well..."

"Where's the key?" said Beauvoir.

"The what?" asked Delorme.

"The key," said Professor Rosenblatt. "The missing firing mechanism."

"But there's something else missing," said Beauvoir. "Something you haven't mentioned."

"What?" asked Delorme.

"The plans," said Professor Rosenblatt.

He no longer looked like he was enjoying this. Now he was deadly serious, his eyes bright and his voice grave. This was not a man who was there for amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Oui," said Beauvoir, nodding. "When I make a model plane, I have plans. You can't tell me Gerald Bull made it up as he went along. He might've been a genius, but no one could do that. He must've had drawings."

The CSIS agents fell silent.

"Well?" asked Beauvoir.

"No plans were ever found," said Mary Fraser. "And not for lack of trying. Dr. Bull's apartment had been broken into several times before he was killed. As a warning for him to stop his activities, but also, we suspect, to search for his schematics."

"You suspect?" said Lacoste. "So it wasn't CSIS?"

"No. We don't know who broke into his home."

"Probably the same people who killed him," said Delorme.

"It was a professional hit," said Mary Fraser, the words coming out with disconcerting ease. And familiarity. "Bullets to the head to be sure of the kill."

And Isabelle Lacoste looked with fresh eyes at this middle-aged, slightly drab woman. Was she familiar with this method through training or personal experience? Was it possible she knew much more about the murder of Gerald Bull than she was saying? This conversation was obviously redacted.

Lacoste did a quick calculation. Mary Fraser was probably in her mid-fifties. Gerald Bull was murdered in Brussels twenty-five years ago.

Fraser would have been in her mid-twenties.

It was possible. Most soldiers were that age, or younger.

"Are you sure he's dead?" asked Gamache, and all eyes swung to him.

"Pardon?" said Mary Fraser.

"Gerald Bull. Did CSIS see the body? Did anyone at the Canadian Emba.s.sy identify it?"

"Yes, of course," said Delorme. "He's dead. Five bullets to the head will do that."

Gamache smiled. "Merci. I was just wondering. And John Fleming?"

Now the CSIS agents really did stare at him, though both Lacoste and Beauvoir dropped their eyes to the table.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Mary Fraser. "John Fleming?"

"Yes," said Gamache, his voice conversational, friendly even. "How is he connected?"

Mary Fraser looked first at her colleague, then over to the Srete agents. There was an awkward silence.

"You do know we're talking about Project Babylon," she said.

"Oui," Beauvoir jumped in. "We found a play by John Fleming and it seemed a coincidence, that's all."

"You found it at the site of the gun?" asked Sean Delorme, trying to follow, trying to find the logic.

"Well, no," Gamache admitted.

"Then why're we talking about this?" Mary Fraser looked at the Srete officers, obviously asking for clarification. None was coming. They'd lapsed into embarra.s.sed silence.

Armand Gamache, however, had not.

"So as far as you know, John Fleming has no involvement at all with Gerald Bull and Project Babylon?" he asked, looking from Mary Fraser to Sean Delorme and back again.

"I frankly don't even know who you're talking about," said Mary Fraser, getting to her feet. "I think this conversation has run its course. Thank you for your company and your help. Will you excuse us?"

"I have work to do too," said the professor. "Notes I'd like to reread. I'd also like to borrow those"-he pointed to the redacted pages-"if you don't mind. I'll give them back to you."

"It would be good to get your opinion, sir," said Lacoste, handing them to the elderly scientist.

Professor Rosenblatt chose the s.p.a.cious banquette by the window and immediately started reading.

After Gabri took their breakfast orders, Isabelle turned to Gamache.

"What was that about?"

"What?"

"John Fleming."

"I just wanted to see their reaction," said Gamache.

"And you saw it," said Lacoste. "They think you're nuts."

"And you?" he asked, the smile softening. "What do you think?"

Isabelle Lacoste looked into his shrewd eyes. "I've never known you to ask a stupid question, sir. You might sometimes be wrong, but not foolish. I think you genuinely believe there might be a connection."

"But you don't?"

He looked from Lacoste to Beauvoir, who dropped his eyes.

"I just don't see it," Isabelle admitted. "Bull and Fleming use a popular biblical quote on their creations, but that doesn't mean they worked together or knew each other."

Gamache looked over at Beauvoir, who was fidgeting a little.

"I agree with Isabelle. I think you blew your credibility with those people. I could see the way she looked at you."

"Yes," said Gamache, sitting back. "That was interesting. A bit too dismissive, wouldn't you say? She never even asked who I meant by John Fleming."

Once again, Lacoste and Beauvoir exchanged a quick glance, not lost on Gamache.

"What do you make of the CSIS agents?" Lacoste asked, her voice overly cheerful. Changing the subject.

"I think they know a great deal about a gun no one thought had been built by a man long dead," said Gamache.

"So do I," said Lacoste. "They're not quite as b.u.mbling as they appear. Do they really spend their days filing?"

"And reading," Beauvoir said to Gamache. "I told you it was dangerous."

"I don't think the sports page will kill you, mon vieux."

Their breakfasts arrived. Crpes and sausages for Gamache and Beauvoir, and eggs Florentine for Lacoste.

A basket of warm, flaky croissants was placed on the table by Gabri, who smiled at Lacoste.

Beauvoir looked from Isabelle to the retreating ap.r.o.n of Gabri.

"He and I shared a very special night," said Lacoste.

Armand slowly lowered his cutlery. "It was you. You told Gabri about the Supergun," he whispered so that Professor Rosenblatt wouldn't hear. "And asked him to spread it around."

Isabelle Lacoste gave a very small shrug. "Oui."

"You did it?" asked Beauvoir. "Why?"

"Everyone agrees the gun would be dangerous if it fell into the hands of people who wish us harm, but let's not be blind," she said. "It's also dangerous in the hands of our own people. Especially if it's a secret. But I didn't do it for reasons of national security. Honestly, I'm not smart enough to understand all the working parts of that beast."

Gamache doubted that. He'd always had great respect for his young protege, and never more than now.

"You said it earlier, Jean-Guy," she continued. "It's almost impossible to investigate Laurent's murder unless we can talk about the motive. The gun. Our duty is to Laurent, not CSIS. Besides, if the murderer wants the Supergun to be a secret, the best thing we can do is not comply. Get it out there. See if it rattles the killer. And, as you taught us, Monsieur Gamache, a rattled killer will make himself known."

It was true. But what struck both men wasn't her reasoning, but her calling Gamache "Monsieur." It was the first time she had not called him Chief Inspector.

It was natural, healthy. It was true. But to Armand Gamache it felt like having a tattoo sc.r.a.ped off.

"And what else did I teach you?" he asked.

"Never use the first stall in a public washroom," said Lacoste.

"Besides that."

"That a murderer is dangerous," she said. "And a rattled murderer is even more dangerous."