Алистер Маклин: Death Train

‘True, but we need a second Geiger counter and there isn’t time to wait for them to send us another one.’

‘You take it; I shouldn’t find it too difficult to buy another.’

‘Well, we’re wasting time sitting here,’ he said and stood up. ‘And as the boss keeps reminding us, it’s a Code Red. The proverbial race against time.’

The hoarding at the entrance to the sliproad leading off the A643 five miles out of Mainz warned of the penalties which could be imposed on any unauthorized personnel attempting to gain illegal entry into the Nuclear Fuel Reprocessing Plant a mile further down the road.

Whitlock swung the Golf Corbio on to the sliproad, past the hoarding, and as he reached the crest of the first rise he saw the plant laid out before him, hemmed in behind ten-feet-high fencing crowned with layers of barbed wire, all of which he later discovered could be electrified at the flick of a switch. Towering above the numerous box-shaped buildings were three unsightly cooling towers, each belching out plumes of thick, grey smoke which drifted up into the low, threatening rainclouds overhead. As he drew to a halt in front of the boomgate he thought about the unacceptable quantities of low-level toxic waste being expelled daily into the atmosphere by avaricious chemical companies with scant regard for the safety and welfare of future generations. They treated little embarrassments such as their role in the gradual destruction of the ozone layer in the same way that the Vatican dealt with internal corruption: by brushing it under the carpet and pretending it never existed. It had always distressed him that the West and the Eastern bloc could both budget so generously for what he considered to be the evils of the nuclear industry while millions in the Third World were left wanting for food.

Whatever the questions he really wanted to ask at the reprocessing plant, though, he would never allow his personal feelings to interfere with an assignment.

A guard emerged from the hut behind the boomgate and approached the Golf. Whitlock noticed the holster affixed to the guard’s belt, then glanced down at the leashed Doberman sitting obediently beside him. He wound his window down and thought momentarily of his brother-in-law, Eddie Kruger, who had taught him all the conversational German he knew. It wasn’t much, but enough to get by on.

‘Morning. The name’s Whitlock. New York Times . I’ve got an appointment with–’ he paused to look at the name at the foot of the letter which had been included in his holdall at the station ‘–K. Schendel. Nine o’clock.’

The guard traced his finger down the typed list of names attached to his clipboard, found the name, then asked Whitlock for some kind of identification. Satisfied with Whitlock’s passport, the guard returned to the hut to telephone through to reception. He opened the boomgate and Whitlock gave him a friendly wave as he drove past on his way to the visitors’ car park.

The reception area had obviously been designed to impress, with its mushroom-coloured Anton Plus carpet imported from America, its three-tiered Czechoslovakian glass crystal lights, its brown leather armchairs and its crushed velour curtains draped ornately on either side of the plate glass window facing directly out on to the car park.

He approached the oak-panelled reception desk and returned the receptionist’s smile. ‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Schendel at nine.’

‘Miss, actually. Karen,’ a female voice said in English behind him.

When he turned his first thought was that she too had been designed to impress.

Contradicting and yet somehow enhancing the pinstriped jacket and skirt she was wearing, her sable-coloured hair was coiled up on her head, accentuating her fine features and her perfect neck. Her movements were graceful and elegant and her handshake firm without losing any of its femininity.

‘My apologies,’ Whitlock said, deciding to stick to English.

Her English seemed infinitely better than his beleaguered German.

‘What for?’ she asked with a frown.

‘For assuming you’d be a man.’

‘It’s a natural assumption for a man to make. Come through to my office. I was about to order myself some coffee.’

Her office, situated off the corridor leading directly out of the reception area, was spacious and subtly feminine. Pastel, walls formed a tasteful background to a selection of mounted Sara Moon prints, fresh flowers were arranged in a crystal vase, and there was a pink shade on the small desk lamp. She indicated the white leather armchair in front of her desk, then sat down in her swivel chair and reached for the telephone.

‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’

‘Why are men always so evasive? It’s not a difficult choice. Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee,’ he replied, then, as she gave the order, leaned forward to look more closely at a framed photograph of a freckle-faced boy on her desk. ‘He’s pretty cute.’

‘My son, Rudi,’ she said, replacing the receiver. ‘He and his father were drowned off the Costa Brava four years ago.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Whitlock said.

‘Thank you.’

‘How long had you been married?’

‘Oh, we weren’t married. Childhood sweethearts. I met Erich when I was fifteen. We would have been together nineteen years this year.’

‘I can honestly say you don’t look a day over twenty-five.’

She laughed. ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re going to get along just fine, Mr Whitlock.’

‘C.W., please.’

‘What do the initials stand for?’

‘Nothing, they’re just initials.’

He had never forgiven his parents for naming him Clarence Wilkins.

Karen poured the coffee when it arrived and let Whitlock help himself to milk and sugar.

‘What sort of article do you want to write?’ she asked.

‘I was hoping to get an insight into the people who work here. So much has already been written about the operational side of the industry that the public tend to take for granted the workforce whose expertise makes it all possible.’

‘The human angle, in other words?’

Whitlock nodded. ‘Also, with Chernobyl still fresh in everyone’s mind I thought it might be a good idea to show that workers in the nuclear industry are just like the rest of us. They have families and mortgages and are just as worried about the possibility of a radiation leak as the next person.’

‘More worried. Not only would our livelihood be at stake if there was a shutdown but we’d also be the first to be irradiated.’ She paused to take a sip of coffee. ‘So why come to Mainz?’

‘We’ve been deluged with stories about the American nuclear industry over the past few years. People want to read about something different and with Mainz central to the rest of Europe this is both an important and controversial plant site. Fallout from here could contaminate the whole continent.’

‘The melodrama of journalism,’ she said with a smile. ‘How long are you planning on being here?’

‘Two, three days,’ he replied.

‘Good, then I’ll be able to show you personally just how stringent our safety regulations are. Unfortunately I’m going to be busy for most of today lecturing to a group of Japanese businessmen, so I’ll have to leave you in the hands of my assistant. He’ll give you a general tour and you can decide who you’d like to interview after that. I’ll set up the interviews for you.’

‘Sounds fine,’ Whitlock replied.

‘I’ll organize a dosemeter badge for you,’ she said, reaching for the telephone.

‘A what?’ Whitlock asked, affecting ignorance.

‘It’s a badge containing a strip of masked photographic film worn by all personnel working within the plant itself. When the film’s subsequently developed the degree of darkening reveals the radiation dose received.’ She replaced the receiver and gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about having to rush off like this but I promise I’ll be free tomorrow.’