“Even when you were in the military?”

“Even then.”

Kate racked a round and thumbed the safety off. “Beat you there. I’ve taken down two bad guys.”

“Killed?”

“Wounded.”

Graves looked at her with a newfound admiration.

The police captain summoned his troops. “Everyone ready?”

68

Emma Ransom left the house on Rue Saint-Martin precisely at 5:45 a.m. She drove slowly down the country lane, her windows open, the air freighted with the smell of fertile earth and cut grass. She had dressed conservatively for the day’s work, choosing charcoal slacks, a black blazer, and a white T. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore little makeup. She did not carry a weapon. The only concessions to the job that lay ahead were the needle-nose pliers, Philips screwdrivers, and box of alligator clips that lay inside her purse. None of these items would be considered out of the ordinary for a trained inspector from the International Atomic Energy Agency.

After five minutes, she joined the D23 and headed in the direction of Flamanville. It was another sunny day, and she quickly put on a pair of sunglasses. She turned on the radio and listened to a patch of rock music, then switched it off.

She exited the highway at D4/Rue de Valmanoir, turning onto a feeder road that paralleled the highway. To her right, a vast wheat field swayed in the morning breeze. She continued for 10 kilometers, until she saw a sign that read, “ La Reine 1 & 2. Restricted Entry. Authorized Personnel Only.” She followed the sign onto a narrow two-lane road that ran straight toward the coast. Her eyes lifted to the hillside where she’d left her car two nights earlier and retraced the steps she had taken. Ahead she saw the line of the outer perimeter fence cutting the horizon in two and the guard post in the center of the road. Immediately she noted that something was amiss and her foot lifted from the accelerator. Parked on either side of the road was an armored personnel carrier with a 50-caliber machine gun mounted on its turret. Soldiers sat inside the hatches, watching the road like hawks.

With a hard-earned discipline, she laid out possible reasons for the elevated security presence. Pierre Bertels at the International Nuclear Safety Corporation had discovered she was not Anna Scholl but an impostor. The British police had tracked down Russell’s source. Papi’s plan had been uncovered inside the Kremlin and he had admitted everything. They all came down to the same thing: the operation was blown.

Applying the same cold logic, she parsed each possibility and discarded it in turn. Given Pierre Bertels’s desire to bed her, it was doubtful that he had questioned her identity even for a second. Anna Scholl was safe. Second, even if the British police had tracked down Russell’s source, they would have obtained no more information than Russell had. An attack was imminent, but the location was unknown. It could be anywhere in the world. And even if Papi’s enemies in Moscow had discovered the plan, they would be unsure how to act, effectively paralyzed.

Emma studied the military vehicles and realized that they were there simply as a precaution because of the stolen laptops. If anything, the presence of armored vehicles with no supporting troops was proof that the plan was intact. If anyone had known, or even suspected, for that matter, that La Reine was the target, there would have been twenty armored personnel carriers at the guard post, not two, and an entire brigade of soldiers armed to the teeth.

Emma pressed her foot on the accelerator, harder this time.

She passed the armored vehicles and stopped at the guard post. “Anna Scholl,” she said, handing over her credentials. “IAEA.”

“Who are you here to see?”

“Flash inspection. Phone M. Grégoire, your chief of security.”

“Wait here,” said the guard, with more hostility than she would have liked. He took the identification card issued the day before by the International Nuclear Safety Corporation into his shed and phoned the main security building. Emma glanced to her left. The turret gunner was staring at her through a pair of reflective sunglasses. Emma nodded, but did not smile. The gunner’s gaze never left her.

Several minutes passed. Emma lifted her hand an inch off the stick shift and held it steady. Her fingers hovered without the slightest tremor.

Finally the guard returned. “Continue three hundred meters and park in the visitor lot on your left. Go into the central processing facility. M. Grégoire hasn’t come in yet, but there will be someone else to look after you.”

“I do hope so.” Emma returned her identification to her purse, waited for the gate to open, then drove at a leisurely pace to the parking lot. On the way she glimpsed the paramilitary barracks to her left. Besides the jeeps and the trucks, there was a single police car belonging to the local gendarmerie. More proof that they had no idea La Reine was her target.

She parked and walked briskly to the central processing facility. Once inside, she showed her INSC “passport,” and placed her hand on a biometric scanner to confirm her identity. The scanner confirmed her identity as Anna Scholl and she was directed to a metal detector, while her purse was placed on a conveyor belt and X-rayed. When the purse emerged, a guard sifted through its contents, examining the pliers and screwdriver and clips, along with her iPod, cell phone, lipstick, and other makeup.

“You’re an engineer?” he asked, holding up the pliers.

“Inspector,” replied Emma.

The guard replaced the pliers, handed her the purse, and wished her a good day.

An intense-looking middle-aged man wearing rimless glasses and sporting a 1950s brush cut waited on the other side of the barrier.

“Good morning, Miss Scholl. My name is Alain Royale, and I am M. Grégoire’s assistant. He hasn’t arrived yet, but I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. He’s never late. You can wait in his office while I have your site badge and key card made.”

Emma followed the man upstairs into Grégoire’s office. There were a large desk, some chairs for visitors, and a couch. Behind the desk was a bank of monitors showing two dozen locations inside the power plant. Emma recognized the main entrance, the control room, the reactor vessel, the outdoor loading docks, and, of particular interest, the spent-fuel pond.

“I’d like to get started right away,” she said. “I’m sure you know why.”

Royale nodded. “We received the alert at three this morning. Have you heard anything more?”

“Nothing. Naturally, you’ll be the first to know when we do,” replied Emma briskly. “Our security team is on top of the matter. What’s important is that the individual plants take appropriate measures. I have some paperwork to do before I begin my physical inspection. Would you mind if I use M. Grégoire’s office?”

“Be my guest.”

Emma set down her purse on Grégoire’s desk. “To get started, I’d like a delivery manifest of all fuel assemblies entering the plant and spent-fuel assemblies shipped out during the last powering-down cycle. I’ll also need a list of where the spent fuel was sent and signed proof of its receipt.”

Royale nodded again, his suspicious eyes never leaving her. “Coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Again the hard stare. “It will be ten minutes.”

Emma nodded and Royale left the office. She sat down in the visitor’s chair facing the desk and took out her phone. She counted to thirty seconds. On the dot, Royale opened the door and popped his brush-cut head into the office. “If the spent fuel was sent overseas, do you need customs forms?”

“That won’t be necessary. Just the receipt showing time and date the delivery was made. Thank you, M. Royale.”