“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 amusement.
“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 Embassy 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 Sûreté 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 Sûreté officers, obviously asking for clarification. None was coming. They’d lapsed into embarrassed 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 spacious 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.”