Rules of Vengeance (33 page)

“I said, ‘Excuse me.’” Emma stepped around him, but he slid over to block her once more. She straightened up, sensing a tension that had not been there a minute before. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“It’s late. I need to get home.”

“Why don’t you come to my crib?” said the leader, moving in, getting into her space. “Just you and me. Don’t worry, I’ll have you home in time for morning prayer.”

“That won’t be necessary. You kids run along now.” She was baiting them and couldn’t stop herself. She had the black on. Tonight, no one gave her shit.

The others were moving in, too. She checked over her shoulder. The street was empty. No falafel joints or tattoo parlors here. Just dark storefronts. In the distance she heard the crash of a bottle breaking and a woman’s hysterical laughter, giving way to a scream. Something clicked inside her.

“Don’t be a hard case,” said the leader. “Why don’t you hang with us?”

“And you can give us your bag while you’re at it,” said another. “We’ll deliver it to your room for you.”

A hand reached for the bag and she yanked it away. “The bag stays with me.”

“I’ll decide that,” said the leader. He stood inches away, his eyes close enough for her to see that one was half green and half brown. Then he made his mistake. He reached out and took her arm. Not forcefully but firmly and with no mistaking his intent.

It was all the provocation Emma needed.

She hit him on the bridge of the nose, her knuckles extended. The blow was so quick that he didn’t see it coming. It landed solidly and she felt the cartilage collapse, heard the septum break. He stumbled back a step, falling to his knees as the force of the blow registered, his nose broken, blood running copiously from his nostrils. She threw a kick into the chest of the man behind her, the one she’d sensed was the most violent of the group. It landed squarely on his sternum. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, winded, eyes looking as if they were about to pop out of his skull.

That’s all it took. The others backed off.

Disgusted with herself, Emma crossed the street and entered her building.

   It was a monument to anonymity, a ten-story HLM
—habitation à loyer modéré
—built forty years ago and untouched since. The lobby was stifling and reeked of hashish. Emma walked to the elevator and waited five minutes for it to come. The stairwell was across the foyer, but she knew better than to walk up five flights. She didn’t care about the doped-up residents she might find. It was the stink of stale piss she hated. It reminded her of home and the past. And the past was the only thing that still frightened her.

The elevator arrived. She rode to the fifth floor. Apartment 5F was at the end of the hall. She had the key in one hand. The other was buried inside her bag, clutching a compact Sig Sauer P238.

Inside, she locked the door, taking care that the double bolt was secured. She dropped the bag on the kitchen floor, then knelt and dug out her pistol, checking that a bullet was chambered, safety on, before setting it on the counter. The place was a dump, just like the place she’d stayed in the night before, in Rouen.
Welcome back to the other side
, she muttered. Division would never have allowed a place like this. It wasn’t the money. It was a question of security. To put an operation at risk because of a bunch of neighborhood hoodlums was beyond reckless.

And what about her own behavior? Picking a fight when she should have walked away. Reckless was just the beginning.

She opened the refrigerator. A stuttering bulb threw light on a plate of cheese speckled with mold and a quart of rancid milk she could smell from where she stood. She closed the door, swearing under her breath. The least they could do was put a little something in the fridge for her. Some yogurt, maybe a jar of pickles, even some mineral water. Even, God forbid, a bottle of wine. This was France, after all.

Her stomach groaned and she felt her muscles clench with hunger.

The memory hit her like a hammer.

A gangly girl in a torn woolen dress. Auburn hair cut short, uncombed and hopelessly tangled. Rebellious green eyes peering out from a face ragged with eczema. She was standing in the school kitchen, her hands held out for punishment. At her feet lay a fractured porcelain bowl and the fistful of gruel she’d scraped from the bottom of the pot. The black belt lashed her palms, and then it lashed other parts of her. And though her body cried out, it was her pinched, complaining stomach that hurt most.

Emma laughed at her mawkish sentiment. Others had had it worse. But somewhere inside her, she heard the name Lara, and she rushed to lock away the memory.

She made a tour of the flat, stopping in each room to listen at the walls. It was a formality. She could hear the voices of her neighbors without putting an ear to the chipped and barren concrete. Noise was good. Quiet was bad. Quiet meant fear. And fear meant the police.

She returned to the kitchen and searched through her purse for something to eat. She found a stick of gum and some allsorts she’d bought in London on the way to meet Jonathan. She emptied the licorice into her hand and ate it, piece by piece. She had to admit it. She’d picked a glamorous profession.

Just then there came a knock at the door. Emma passed through the kitchen, picking up the pistol. Three knocks followed. She put her eye to the spy hole and recognized the sullen disheveled figure on the other side. She opened the door. “Nice place you’ve got here, Papi.”

“The flat isn’t ours,” he said, brushing past her. “It belongs to our friends from Tehran. Complain to them.”

“I don’t care who it belongs to. It’s a risk to place a safe house in such a squalid
quartier.”

“A
risk, is it?” Papi straightened up, suddenly looking a little more like the career officer he was. “Seen any police cars around? Any prying eyes? I didn’t think so. We couldn’t be in a safer place, even if you did have to teach the local welcoming committee a lesson.”

“You saw?”

“Of course I saw. You think I stay here?” He swung the large leather bag he was carrying onto the counter and rolled his neck, as if loosening his muscles. “What did you expect? A shiny ops center with analysts at their desks and a three-meter screen on the wall? You’re part of my team now. We operate under the radar. Not too different from your former employers, though I dare say we’re more ambitious.”

“And the laptops?” asked Emma. “Did you decrypt the hard drives before they hit the kill switch?”

A smile twisted Papi’s pale lips. Using both hands, he withdrew a sheaf of papers thick as a phone book from his bag. “Behold the Queen as only her intimates may see her.” The papers landed with a thud. “Final construction drawings signed by the managing engineer himself. Downloaded directly from their innermost sanctum. Every hallway, every window, and every door. One hundred percent accurate.”

Emma ran a hand over the detailed schemas, recognizing the outlines of the nuclear power plant she’d visited earlier that same night. “You’re welcome,” she said.

“Up yours, too,” Papi mumbled.

For two hours they pored over the drawings, rehearsing the operation. They studied the security building Emma must pass through to enter the complex, her path to the reactor containment building, and, most important, the ways to get into and out of the spent-fuel building. They brought up the photographs Emma had taken earlier that night and studied them on Papi’s own laptop, a sleek MacBook Pro. Like everyone else at home, he coveted American products.

Finally he talked about the placement of the explosives.

“You’ll set two devices,” said Papi. “The first carries a charge of two kilos of RDX with a dash of nitro to add a little oomph. Put it in the right place and it will blow a hole three meters in diameter out of the wall. That’s more than enough to suit our purposes. The second is bigger. Three kilos of HMX. It’s the latest and greatest. Ten times as powerful per cubic centimeter as Semtex. A bit unstable, though, so don’t bang it about. When you set the timers, make sure that there is a differential of at least six minutes between the first and second blasts. We need that time for the water to drain.” Papi turned over the drawings of the spent-fuel building and regarded Emma. “Give yourself adequate time to leave the premises. Once the water escapes the cooling tank, those rods will be shooting off more gamma rays than the face of the sun. When the HMX goes off, you don’t want to be anywhere near the place. Any questions?”

“What about the inspector’s credentials?”

“Right here.” Reaching into the bag, he withdrew a packet and spilled its contents on the countertop. “Your name is Anna Scholl,” he said, sorting through the identification cards and selecting an Austrian passport and driver’s license. “Born Salzburg, 1975. Graduate of the Hochschule St. Gallen in Switzerland. You’ve worked for the IAEA for two years. You started in the administration department and were transferred nine months ago to Safety and Security, Inspections Directorate.”

Emma studied the photograph inside the passport. It was her executive look. Short hair. Rimless glasses. Plenty of makeup.

“INSC’s offices are located in La Défense. They’ll check you at the entrance against her picture in the IAEA database. A man named Pierre Bertels will meet you at ten a.m. He runs their credentials department.”

Emma studied the piece of paper. It read, “International Nuclear Security Corporation, 14 Avenue de l’Arche, La Défense 6, Paris.”

“What about the real Anna Scholl?”

Papi’s gray eyes flashed a warning. “She won’t be a problem,” he said stonily.

“Good,” responded Emma, with equal dispassion. “And you’re sure this Bertels won’t call Vienna to double-check?”

“As sure as I can be. His company doesn’t work for the IAEA directly. Their clients are the power companies, not the regulatory bodies. The whole procedure shouldn’t take more than an hour. I’ve brought you something to wear.”

Papi took a garment from his bag and laid it on the kitchen table. It was a svelte black two-piece wrapped in protective plastic from the dry cleaner.

Emma picked it up and held it at arm’s length. “If I cross my legs, you’ll see my privates.”

Papi stepped closer and put his hand on her waist. “I picked it out myself. Try it on.”

“Later.”

“I want to make sure it fits.”

“Is that an order, colonel?”

“It’s general now.” Papi circled her, running a hand across her waist, letting it slide lower to caress her bottom. “I thought you might wish to oblige a superior officer.”

“That was over a long time ago.”

“It’s over when I say it’s over.”

Emma spun and grasped his hand, folding it into a wrist lock. But Papi was strong and, despite his size, agile. He stepped clear of the lock, grasping her wrist instead, and slapped her across the face with his left hand.

“You’ve gotten stronger,” he said, releasing her.

Emma’s wrist ached, but she refused to touch it. “Don’t do that again.”

Papi snorted. “There is one more thing. Upon arriving at the plant, you will be issued a guest pass equipped with an RFID chip.” RFID, for radio frequency identification device. “Sensors will track every step you take. The only person who can access your whereabouts without permission from the head office is the plant’s chief of security. He’ll have to be neutralized before you go in.”

“What’s his name?”

Papi frowned. “We don’t know yet. All plant personnel are employees of Électricité de France, the utility that operates the nuclear grid. He’ll have been vetted, just like you. Bertels should have his information on file. It’s up to you to find a way of getting it.” Papi walked lazily to the door. “I’m sure it won’t pose too much of a problem. That’s what we trained you Nightingales for, isn’t it?”

He left the apartment smiling.

“Bastard,” she said.

   “I’m not going to Italy. I’m staying here. There’s work to be done.”

Charles Graves strode across the pale carpeting of his office on the first floor of Thames House and slipped behind his desk. Kate Ford followed steps behind, closing the door and pressing her back against it.

“I don’t think Sir Tony will appreciate that,” she said.

“Sir Tony wants results.”

“Even if that means disobeying him?”

“Especially if that’s what it means.”

Kate took a seat opposite him. “What do you have in mind?”

“Those nuclear facilities aren’t as safe as the IAEA would have us believe. Otherwise they wouldn’t be in such a tizzy about the laptops.” He opened his drawer and searched until he found a Met directory. “Remind me,” he said, with a shake of his blond head, “wasn’t Russell’s home security system fail-safe, too?”

“You’re saying the IAEA doesn’t know what it’s talking about?”

Graves stopped leafing through the directory. “I’m saying that if Emma Ransom went to all that trouble to get those laptops, it was for a reason. Something’s up. Robert Russell knew it, and now we know it, too.”

“And so?”

“I’m going to do what you suggested earlier. I’m going to find out just who Lord Russell’s source is.”

“The one who told him about the car bomb?”

“Is there another?”

“Have you gotten anything back from communications about his phone or Internet records?”

“Russell was better than any terrorist at keeping his trail clean. The only phone number we’ve got for him was used by friends and family. All strictly aboveboard. The devil probably kept a bag of SIM cards he interchanged for his private calls. Until we find one of them, we’re out of luck. Same thing goes for his e-mails. Ah, there it is!” Graves located the page listing the Automobile Visual Surveillance Bureau, picked up the phone, and dialed an internal number.

“Graves. G Branch. I need everything you’ve got from Sloane Square three nights ago, between twenty-three thirty and one-fifteen. Target a four-square-block search area. Send the results to my personal in-box. How long? Make it an hour and a case of Guinness is yours.”