“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.”