The Nature Of The Beast Part 17

Being a scientist, Professor Rosenblatt knew it could not possibly be a tree, walking. But he also knew that this forest contained other unbelievable things.

And then his vision adjusted, and he saw that it wasn't, of course, a tree at all, but another Srete officer, dressed in his moss-green uniform. And off to the side was another one.

And coming around that hill, still another.

And then his eyes adjusted some more, and focused on what it was they circled. And guarded.

He thought he was prepared, but as he stared at the towering jumble of vines in front of them all rational thought escaped and left him light-headed.

"Ready?" Isabelle Lacoste asked.

One by one they went inside. First Inspector Beauvoir, then Chief Inspector Lacoste. Then it was Professor Rosenblatt's turn.

He hesitated and realized with some surprise that he was afraid. Afraid of what he'd find. Afraid it wasn't what he thought it was. Afraid it was.

Gamache held back the thick vines at the opening so that the professor could squeeze through on his hands and knees, pus.h.i.+ng his briefcase ahead of him.

The Srete officers had turned on their flashlights but they didn't provide much light. And then there was a thump and huge floodlights were turned on.

Michael Rosenblatt brought his hand to his forehead, s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the glare. And then his gaze traveled up. And up. And up.

And his mouth went slack. He held his breath and then released it in a long, long exhale, at the tail end of which were two words, barely audible.

"He didn't."

And then Professor Rosenblatt dropped his briefcase.

CHAPTER 12.

"My G.o.d," Rosenblatt whispered.

But he didn't seem to Gamache, who stood beside the elderly professor, like a man who'd seen his G.o.d. Just the opposite.

"Can I go closer? Am I allowed to touch it?"

"Yes. But be careful," said Lacoste.

He handed his briefcase, no longer all that important, to Gamache and approached the gun. Slowly, carefully. His hands out in front of him, as though worried he might scare it off.

"The main thing we need to know from you, Professor," said Lacoste, as they followed him, "is whether it can be fired. We'd need to disable it."

"Yes," said Rosenblatt, in a dream state.

He walked up to the etching, and stopped. Considering the monster. Then he laid his palms flat on it. Feeling the cold metal. Almost expecting to feel a pulse.

He leaned into it, and Gamache thought he heard a whisper, but couldn't make out the words.

Then Professor Rosenblatt stepped back. And back again. And another step. Craning his neck, dropping his head back until it could go no further. His mouth open, his eyes wide, he tried to take in the magnitude of what he was seeing. Not simply the size of the weapon, but the very fact of it.

He turned his head to look along the barrel as it disappeared into the darkness. Not even the floodlights could reach to the end.

Gamache watched as the professor closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, then with one last exhale he turned to his companions.

"I need to find the firing chamber, to see if it's armed."

He was all business now.

"It'll be around here," he said, walking to the rear of the gun. "Did you open this?"

He pointed to a round metal door, large enough to walk into.

"We tried, but couldn't make it open," said Lacoste. "We stopped, afraid we might inadvertently fire it."

Professor Rosenblatt was nodding. "You wouldn't have. The firing mechanism is somewhere else. This is the breech. If there's a missile, it would be in here."

They watched as the professor ran his hands over the latches and handles and k.n.o.bs.

"Careful," warned Beauvoir, but Rosenblatt didn't respond. He was too focused on the mechanism.

"Do we know for sure he knows what he's doing?" Lacoste asked Beauvoir.

Before Beauvoir could answer, they saw the professor reach out and grasp a lever. Leaning into it, the elderly man pulled but nothing happened.

"I need help," he said. "It's stuck."

Beauvoir joined him, and between them they pulled and pulled until it gave with such suddenness both men leapt back.

There was a whirring, grinding sound, then a loud hiss.

Gamache tensed. Afraid Rosenblatt had just set it off, but not at all sure what to do if he had.

Then the ma.s.sive door swung open, like a mouth. Like a maw. Inviting them in.

The four of them stared. Gamache could hear heavy breathing and knew it came from Jean-Guy. Not because the effort had winded him, but because he was staring into his nightmare.

While Gamache was afraid of heights, Beauvoir was terrified of holes. Armand stepped over to him.

"Stay here," he said. "If the door closes, please open it again."

Beauvoir didn't answer, but continued to stare.

"Do you need to write that down?" asked Gamache.

"Huh? Pardon?" said Jean-Guy, coming out of his reverie. "Right. Wait, are you going in there?"

He waved to the opening, where Professor Rosenblatt was already standing.

"I am. And if we need to climb up on the thing?"

"I'll go," said Beauvoir, with a smile.

"You'd better."

Gamache followed Rosenblatt and Lacoste into the chamber.

In the beams of their flashlights, Gamache could see the professor's face. His eyes. Bright, but not overexcited. He seemed almost calm, in control.

This was his natural environment. The belly of the beast. This was where the little professor belonged.

"Incredible," Rosenblatt murmured, shaking his head. "No electronics." He looked back at his companions. "It's like a Meccano set."

"But is it armed?" asked Lacoste. She was beginning to get antsy. She'd never suffered from claustrophobia, but then she'd never been crammed into the firing chamber of a giant weapon with two other people before.

"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 s.p.a.ces, 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 l.u.s.t. 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 gla.s.ses, he bent in. Straightening up, he looked at the professor.

"Hebrew?"

"Yes. Can you read it?" asked Rosenblatt.

"No, I'm afraid not."

Rosenblatt looked again at the creature. At the detailing, which were not scales at all, but words. And he read, out loud.

Then he turned to his companions in this dark place. He looked both triumphant and terrified. As though his worst fear and greatest wish were one and the same. And had come true.

"By the waters of Babylon," he said, "we sat down and wept."

The blood rushed from Gamache's face. In front of him the gun glowed, unnaturally, supernaturally, in the floodlights. Shadows were thrown on the canopy, a false sky above, a grotesque constellation.

"Now," said Professor Rosenblatt, "I can tell you what this is."

They sat in the living room of the Gamache home, around the fireplace where flames leapt and danced and threw cheerful light on the somber faces.

It had been cold in the forest, and the decision was made to return to someplace warm. And private.