By now sirens were wailing. In front of him. Behind him. He was breathing too hard to make sense of where anything was except the heart pounding madly in his chest. He caught a shadow behind him, a flicker of movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a policeman running close behind. A blue uniform where no blue uniform should be. It was a younger man, thinner, fitter—a sprinter, judging by his hollow cheeks and perfect stride. Jonathan pushed harder, and for a few strides he was able to lengthen the distance between them, but that was no answer. Sooner or later the faster man would catch him.
Sooner was better.
Jonathan faltered and the officer was at his shoulder, an arm stretched to grab his collar. Jonathan leaned forward as if to get away, but the next instant he arched his back and threw an elbow behind him. The elbow caught the Italian squarely in the throat. The policeman flailed to a halt, clutching his neck before falling headlong to the asphalt.
Far ahead, two police cars mounted the curb and drove directly onto the embarcadero. The cars stopped, effectively barring his passage. Officers stood at the doors, guns drawn. Jonathan dodged left, legs and arms pumping, threading his way through the busy walkway and onto the broad quai that separated two cruise ships. As if in the eye of a storm, he’d reached a barren patch of dock, meaning that there were few people. Behind him was a mass of a hundred or so. Ahead were even more. But for once there were no blue uniforms anywhere.
Walk and no one looks twice at you, Emma had told him. Run and you’re a target.
Against every instinct, Jonathan slowed to a walk. To his left, a gangway descended from a boat, and men and women were streaming onto the landing. To his right, stevedores pulled bags from the hold and arranged them in a neat row. A forklift honked and trundled past, carrying a large crate.
Jonathan headed to the edge of the quai. As he’d expected, a second landing about two meters down ran its length, accessed at intervals by ladders. This landing, he knew, was used by longshoremen and dock-workers to service the boats. Putting a hand to the dock, he hopped onto the landing and ducked his head beneath the foundations. A latticework of wood supported the quai. Water lapped at the barnacle-encrusted beams. Somewhere in the darkness, a rat stared at him. He started to run again, constantly checking behind him.
Then he saw it, and he knew it was what he needed.
Acting as cushions to protect the ocean liners’ hulls when they docked were great man-sized buoys made from the same heavy black rubber as automobile tires. The buoys were 6 meters long, 3 meters tall, perfectly round, and hollow in the center. Jonathan grabbed hold of one end of the nearest buoy and swung inside it. Step by awkward step, he advanced until he had reached the middle. And there he sat for the next hour, listening as the sirens came and went and the voices of frustrated policemen echoed into his hiding place, until all of a sudden it grew quiet.
He still didn’t dare to show his face on the dock.
Instead, he slipped out of the buoy and lowered himself into the sea.
The water was warm and filthy.
He took a breath and went under.
Kate Ford stood on the quai, hands on her hips, arms akimbo. Thirty minutes had passed since Ransom had made his mad dash across the highway and onto the embarcadero. Despite the efforts of over fifty policemen, no trace of him had been found. Even now searches of all the moored cruise ships were taking place. Patrol boats crisscrossed the harbor. She didn’t have much hope.
“He’s gone,” she said.
The lieutenant colonel from the carabinieri shook his head. “It’s not possible,” he said. “We have him penned in.”
“He swam,” said Kate.
“But the ships,” said the policeman, gazing up at the four-story superstructures to either side of him. “It is too dangerous.”
Not when you don’t have any other choice, thought Kate.
She turned and headed back to the main street. “Come,” she said. “Ransom was here before us. He was looking for his wife. Someone must have seen him. Maybe someone spoke with him.”
“Where do we start?”
Kate unfolded the hospital admittance sheet, running her finger to the entry that listed where the ambulance had picked up the injured woman who had given her name only as Lara.
“The Hotel Rondo,” she said.
54
The offices of the International Nuclear Security Corporation were located on the twenty-seventh floor of a skyscraper in La Défense, Paris’s bustling business district bordering the Seine. The company billed itself as a one-stop shop, capable of providing private businesses, government installations, and military bases with the “entire spectrum of security solutions.” But as its name suggested, the company specialized in one area: the safeguarding and protection of nuclear installations.
With regard to a nuclear power plant, the company worked from concept through final construction, designing and implementing security measures governing everything from physical entry to and exit from a plant (alarms, cameras, biometric checkpoints), cybersecurity, in-plant employee location, force protection, and, last, the monitoring of all critical operations systems, including the storage of spent fuel. It was no exaggeration to say that nearly every major producer of power in the Western world relied on INSC to guarantee the safe and accident-free operation of its nuclear installations. To date, their trust was justified. No INSC-certified plant had ever experienced an outage, shutdown, or accident of any kind.
Emma Ransom was mulling this over as she crossed the broad plaza in front of the building. Nearing the entrance, she straightened her jacket and smoothed her skirt. The black suit was cut high on the leg and low in the chest, and the label graded it a cheap knockoff of Dior. It was Papi’s taste. He had never favored the subtle approach; then again, he didn’t come from a subtle country.
Her hair had been straightened, cut bluntly at the shoulder, and dyed a raven’s black. She wore brown contact lenses and four-inch heels, because Anna Scholl had brown eyes and stood five foot ten in her stockings. As Emma opened the glass doors and walked into the air-conditioned mezzanine, she wasn’t afraid of being spotted as a fraud. Rather, she was terrified of tripping on her stratospheric heels and falling on her inexpensively dressed ass.
“Anna Scholl,” she said, slipping out the forged identification card that showed her to be a member of the safeguards and inspections staff of the International Atomic Energy Agency. “To see Pierre Bertels.”
The guard examined her breasts long enough to see if they matched her identification, then noted her name on his register and called upstairs. “One minute. He’ll be right down. In the meantime, wear this badge.”
Emma slipped the lanyard and attached badge over her head, then stepped aside. The specified minute passed, and then another, until ten minutes had gone by. Finally a tall, barrel-chested man passed through the turnstile. “Fräulein Scholl, I’m Pierre Bertels. How are you?”
Emma sized him up in a glance. Expensive navy suit. Contrasting brown shoes, polished to a mirrorlike sheen. Gold bracelet hanging from a French cuff. A little too much gel for the fashionably short hair. Carrying an extra twenty pounds on a once-formidable frame, but God forbid you tell him. A slight limp he was trying to camouflage, probably from falling on the squash court, but which he’d try to pass off as an old war wound. And then there was the fresh indentation around the base of his left-hand ring finger, from which she was sure he’d removed his wedding band after admiring the photograph of Anna Scholl forwarded as part of her file. It all added up to a horny bull ten years past his prime and looking to prove that he still had the goods. All this she saw in the time it takes to blink.
“In a hurry,” she answered, pouring ice water over his calculated warmth. “I’m due at Charles de Gaulle in two hours. May we?”
Bertels’s smile vanished. “If you’ll follow me.”
Inside the elevator, he made a second attempt at conversation. “I understand you’ll be spending some time in France. Any part
of the country in particular?”
“That’s confidential, as I’m sure you know. We don’t advertise our snap inspections. Especially after the incident in London two days ago.”
“In London?”
Emma coughed and looked away. She had her confirmation that word about the stolen codes had not yet spread. As expected, the theft was treated as an internal matter to be settled between the IAEA and the power providers themselves—in France’s case, Électricité de France. No outside firms were to be made privy. It was too big a secret.
“What happened in London?” Bertels persisted. “Was it the car bomb aimed at Ivanov? I had calls all day about it.”
“I can’t comment on that. Should they concern you, you’ll be made aware of any developments sooner rather than later.”
The elevator opened. Smoked-glass doors governed entry to the offices. Bertels placed his palm on a biometric scanner. The pinlight flashed from red to green. He stated his name. A second pinlight glowed green. There was an audible click as the lock disengaged. Bertels opened the door. “This way.”
Emma took note of the enhanced security measures. A palm scanner coupled with voice-print analysis was new, and anything new was problematic. She followed Bertels down a busy hallway. The executive’s office was large and neatly furnished, with a view of the Eiffel Tower and, beyond it, the Champ de Mars, Les Invalides, and Notre Dame.
“I’ve received your vitals from Vienna,” said Bertels, taking a seat behind his chrome-and-glass desk. “I took the liberty of filling out the paperwork in advance. If you’d just read it over and double-check everything to make sure I haven’t made any errors.”
Emma slipped on a pair of reading glasses and brought the folder onto her lap. The form carried the logo of Électricité de France, the corporation that managed France’s nuclear plants, and was labeled “Application for General Worker Identification Card.” Within the industry, the card was known as a nuclear passport. With it, one was able to enter any facility without prior notification or escort. The nuclear industry was highly specialized. Engineers often traveled between facilities to practice their particular specialties. An engineer trained to power up and power down a plant could expect to visit ten plants in one year. A software engineer in charge of IT, more than that. It was too costly in terms of time and money for each individual facility to conduct its own background checks on each of its workers. Hence, anyone desiring to work in the French nuclear industry was vetted by INSC and issued a blanket clearance that allowed him or her admittance into any of the country’s nuclear plants. Hence the term “passport.”
A finger rose to her temple and tapped the arm of her glasses. With each tap, a miniaturized camera masquerading as a screw snapped a photograph that was wirelessly transmitted to a server at a destination that even she did not know. Her eyes skipped down the page, past her name, past her home address, phone, social insurance number, and details of her physical appearance.
“We are missing one piece of information,” said Bertels. “It’s something we’ve recently added.”
“Oh?” Emma asked, not looking up as her heart skipped a beat. “The names of your parents and their current address.”
“They’re deceased,” she answered. “I’m certain that’s part of my record.”
Bertels consulted his papers. “Paul and Petra … am I correct?” Emma glanced up sharply. “My parents’ names are Alice and Jan.” Bertels met her gaze. “So they are, Fraulein Scholl.” Emma had been run through the interview by her controller ad infinitum. She recognized the question as impromptu and not a formal part of her background check. It was merely Bertels wanting to throw his weight around. She finished reading through the papers, then gathered them up and laid them neatly on his desk. “May we proceed? As I mentioned, my schedule is pressing.”
“Just your signature.”
“Of course.” Emma signed, then stood up, glancing impatiently about the office.
Bertels led her first to have her photograph taken, then to have her hand contour mapped. Finally, a full set of fingerprints was taken. Emma inquired about the vocal print and was told that the system had only recently been installed at INSC’s offices and that all plants relied primarily on palm scans.
Afterward, they returned to Bertels’s office. “It will take a few minutes for the identification to be completed. May I offer you some coffee? Something to tide you over until you reach the airport.”
“No.”
Emma turned her back to Bertels and busied herself with a tour of the photographs displayed on his credenza. Several showed Bertels in camouflage uniform, a machine gun held at his side, in various tropical locales. Suddenly Emma gasped. “You were in Katanga?”
“Why, yes,” said Bertels.
“My brother, Jan, was there, too. With the Légion Étrangère. Sergeant Jan Scholl. He served under Colonel Dupré.”
Bertels rushed to her side and scooped up the photograph. “Really? I was there in ’91 and ’92 with the paras. Jan Scholl? I’m sorry, but I didn’t know him. Of course I know Colonel Dupré. Your brother must be proud to have fought under his command.”
“Jan’s dead.”
“In the Congo?”
She nodded and let her head fall, but only a little.
“I’m very sorry.” Bertels placed a hand on her shoulder, and she allowed him to leave it there.
“Maybe a coffee would be nice,” said Emma. “And perhaps some fresh fruit.”
Bertels relayed the order to his secretary. The coffee and fruit arrived soon afterward. They ate companionably. Bertels went on at length about his real work at the firm, which consisted of directing force-on-force attack simulations at nuclear plants in France, Germany, and Spain. Another of INSC’s primary tasks was to train the paramilitary troops stationed at plants to resist all manner of assault. To this end, Bertels supplied the weapons, the training, and the tactics.
Emma listened approvingly, but kept her interest strictly professional. When Bertels touched her arm to make a point, Emma drew it closer to her, making clear he was to desist. Her aloofness would only amplify a man like Bertels’s attentions. She knew this from experience. “I don’t suppose your job will be any easier with what happened,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Can I count on you to be discreet?”
“As the Sphinx.”
Emma weighed his pledge. “All right, then,” she continued. “After the car bomb exploded in London, all British government buildings in the vicinity were evacuated. At the time, some of our people were holding a meeting with British officials. While they were outside the building, someone stole several of our laptops. We’re not sure if anything’s been compromised, but we can’t afford to take chances. The laptops held key emergency command override codes.”
“Override codes … you’re not serious?”
Emma nodded, growing very serious indeed. “I’m telling you because I respect your work.” And here, for the first time, she stared directly into his eyes. “I believe that you’re a man who can be trusted.”
Bertels said nothing for a few seconds, but Emma observed how he had raised his chin a degree or two and pushed his shoulders back, as if tasked with a queen’s errand. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“It’s a disaster,” Emma confided. “But it’s something we’re going to take care of swiftly.”
“You’ll need to change all the codes.”
“And reprogram all security systems. Thankfully, we won’t have to power down any plants.”
“So that’s the reason for the sudden trip,” said Bertels. “You’re checking to see if there have been any incursions.”
“I can’t comment on that, Mr. Bertels,” said Emma, her tone now addressing him as a colleague and, therefore, an equal. “I can say, however, that the trip was sudden enough that I wasn’t able to contact Électricité de France for the names of their security chiefs at the plants I’ll be visiting.”
It
was protocol to inform security chiefs beforehand of an inspection. Security operated as an independent agency, one of the many checks and balances to guard against complacency and ensure that plants were run to the letter of the law.
“A surprise inspection, then? They’ll be horrified.”
Emma held his eyes, but said nothing.
Bertels took his cue. “A list of the plant security chiefs? That shouldn’t be a problem.” He was up on his feet in an instant. “Which ones do you need?”
“Without an okay from Électricité de France, you could get into trouble.”
“Give me the names.”
Emma rattled off the names of five nuclear facilities around the country. “And also La Reine. But if anyone finds out…”
“A flash inspection is the only way,” said Bertels, brooking no criticism. “I can promise that your visits will be totally unexpected. It will do them good. Proactive is the only way to keep them on their toes.”
“I’m glad we agree,” said Emma.
Ten minutes later the names of all the heads of plant security, their business phones, e-mail addresses, and home and private information arrived in the form of a freshly burned CD. “Is there anything else?” asked Pierre Bertels.
“My identification would be nice,” she said crisply.
“Of course.” Bertels stepped outside his office and returned with an identification card attached to a red lanyard embroidered with the initials INSC. “Now you’re official.”
“This turned out to be more efficient than I’d imagined,” said Emma. She made a show of checking her watch and being perturbed. “I must run. I will, however, be back in Paris in seven days. I may even have an evening free. I’d like to share the results of my inspections with you.”
Rules of Vengeance Page 30
