The Nature of the Beast

There was Gerald Bull’s Supergun. Bathed in light.

Goddamned Gerald Bull. Dead, but never gone. How had he done it?

How had he built the goddamned gun?

Professor Rosenblatt looked at the papers by his plate, then over to his notebook, slightly stained by drops of maple syrup. One word had been written large, and circled.

How.

Then he wrote, Why?

That too seemed a good question.

But now that he thought about it, he added another.

Who?

Professor Rosenblatt put down his pen and watched Gamache say good-bye to his colleagues.

John Fleming. When the former Chief Inspector had said that name it had rattled the professor. He hadn’t heard it in years. He knew, of course, who Gamache meant, and he could see the CSIS people knew too. The serial killer. A man gone badly wrong.

But to make the connection between Fleming and Bull? It seemed incredible.

Professor Rosenblatt watched as Gamache and the Sûreté officers parted. He could see the expressions on the young officers’ faces as they looked at Gamache. With some concern and a great deal of affection.

Here was a nice man, Rosenblatt felt, and he realized that he did not himself know many nice people. Clever people, smart people, accomplished people, certainly. But not very nice. And not always good.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Gamache, walking across the wide-plank floor to the professor’s table.

“Not at all, please.” Rosenblatt indicated a seat in the booth across from him.

“Did you sleep well?” Armand asked, sliding in.

“Not so well,” admitted Rosenblatt. “New bed. New Supergun.”

Gamache grinned. The professor did, in fact, look tired. But his eyes still glowed with intelligence.

Here is a formidable man, thought Gamache.

Here is a formidable man, Rosenblatt knew. While his assessment that Gamache was a nice man hadn’t changed, it had broadened. To include what else he now knew about Armand Gamache, having done some research the evening before.

The large and thoughtful man across from him had turned in, and on, his superiors. He’d killed. And almost been killed.

Rosenblatt had learned those eyes, as kind as they appeared, had seen things few others had. And the hand that shook his, as warm as it was, had done things.

And would again, if need be.

Michael Rosenblatt was both comforted and a little frightened by Armand Gamache.

“You obviously spent some time in the night thinking about the gun,” said Gamache. “The CSIS agents have their strengths but they’re not scientists. I’d like to hear what you make of Gerald Bull’s creation.”

Professor Rosenblatt shook his head and exhaled. “As a scientist? It’s even bigger than I imagined possible. Incredible. Powerful, but also elegant.”

“Elegant?” said Gamache. “An odd word for something destined to become a weapon of mass destruction.”

“It’s not a moral judgment, it’s just a description of the mechanics. Mostly what we mean by elegant is that it’s simple. Easy to use.”

“It’s simple?”

“Oh, yes. The best designs are. That’s its genius. It looks complex because it’s so big. But there aren’t all that many moving parts, so it would be fairly easy to manufacture and assemble. And fewer things to break down. Like a slingshot is elegant, or a bow and arrow. Or the gun you wore.”

“I rarely wore a gun,” said Gamache. “Hate the things. They’re very dangerous, you know.”

“You don’t believe in the theory of the balance of terror?” asked Rosenblatt.

“Prime Minister Pearson’s phrase to describe the Cold War?” said Gamache. “I think he used it as a condemnation and warning, not as a goal.”

“Maybe,” said Rosenblatt. “But it has worked, hasn’t it? When both sides can destroy each other, neither side is willing to pull the trigger.”

“Until you give that weapon to a madman,” said Gamache.

Rosenblatt’s face grew grim and he nodded. “That’s the flaw in the argument.”

“So Gerald Bull’s gun is elegant,” said Gamache. “But is it still relevant, or have time and technology passed it by?”

“A slingshot will still kill,” said Rosenblatt.

“And so will a bow and arrow. But it’s not an advantage when faced with a nuclear bomb.”

Rosenblatt thought for a moment. “I feel I should agree that the ICBMs of today are more dangerous than what Bull designed thirty years ago, but the fact is, they aren’t. What Gerald Bull built might be less sexy, but it gets the job done.”