Christopher Reich - Rules of Vengeance

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.”

“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.