Rules of Vengeance

“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 sca

Emma took note of the enhanced security measures. A palm sca

“I’ve received your vitals from Vie

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 ma

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.”