“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.”
“That would be beneficial,” said Bertels.
“Extremely,” said Emma. “I’ll know if you’ve alerted your cronies ahead of time. I have a very developed sixth sense.”
Pierre Bertels swore his secrecy, saying it would be his job if Électricité de France found out he’d provided her information about its personnel without prior authorization. He gave her his private number and told her to call a day before she arrived. Emma promised as much. “Au revoir.”
“À bientôt,” answered Bertels.
After exiting the building, she crossed the grand promenade of La Défense, stopping at the railing overlooking the Seine. Her face took on a gray pallor. The memory of Bertels’s lingering handshake sickened her. She turned her face to the sun, forcing herself to take long, slow breaths. All the while Papi’s words echoed in her mind: After all, it’s what you Nightingales do best.
Fixing her handbag over her shoulder, she set off toward the Étoile. And as she walked, her steps took on a marching rhythm. Her qualms passed. She slipped back into the protective shell of a trained government operative.
Emma hadn’t stolen the codes to interfere with the functioning of a nuclear power plant. It was virtually impossible to defeat the myriad safeguards that governed their safe operation. She had stolen the codes to break into the IAEA’s system and obtain a nuclear passport.
Slipping her hand into her pocket, she fingered the identification card.
Getting in was the easy part.
55
The Cinnamon Club on Great Smith Street was famed for its curry and its clientele. Located in the shell of the Old Westminster Library, the restaurant was an oasis of starched tablecloths and hushed conversations, a world far removed from the frenetic activities beyond its walls. Owing to its proximity to Whitehall, it had long been a favored haunt of MPs, civil servants with generous expense accounts, and visiting dignitaries.