by Peter Beck
‘Where are we going?’ Fatima asked.
‘We’ll be there in a quarter of an hour. I’m going to show you one of our investment projects. We’re financing the extension of a nuclear power plant.’
During the flight, Farmer pointed out local sights. The settlements vanished. Woods, small lakes and the White Mountains drifted past. The helicopter descended and the three cooling towers of a nuclear power station emerged from behind a hill. A fourth was under construction and surrounded by yellow cranes and construction machinery. Overhead cables led from the power station towards the sea.
‘This is one of the least seismically active areas in the United States,’ Farmer explained. ‘Ideal for nuclear energy production.’
On the access roads the toy cars grew to the size of real vehicles again as the Robinson Raven landed on a helicopter pad near the large car park. The professor gallantly offered Fatima his hand and helped her out. They got into a white people-carrier waiting there, bearing the logo of an energy firm. It headed for the steaming cooling towers.
They passed the staff canteen and a visitors’ pavilion, with a large, flashing board illustrating various cycles, and stopped outside a two-storey administrative building with a flat roof.
Farmer knew his way around. In the glazed reception area they filled out visitor forms, showed their passports and smiled into a digital camera. In return they were given a plastic card to hang around their necks.
Winter watched the security procedures with curiosity. He knew that every process was only as good as the staff implementing it. An elderly woman with peroxide-blonde hair checked their passports. She seemed to know Farmer. Winter doubted that she’d be able to spot a professionally forged passport. Every ID could be forged. Passports were stolen. Embassy personnel lost blank ones.
Farmer said. ‘We’ll start with a little tour.’
A young guide in a cap appeared and greeted them as if they were a school outing allowed to visit a nuclear power station as the climax of a science project week. Winter politely brought up the rear, listening with one ear only. ‘Three-quarters of energy production in Vermont comes from this plant.’ The guide took them to the visitor pavilion, cheerfully explained the workings of the power plant, realized that his mini group looked only vaguely interested and so quickly returned to the entrance area.
They came to a security gate. One of the three uniformed guards checked their IDs, then they had to pass through a metal detector and were air-sprayed in an explosives sniffer. Once they’d passed all three tests in silence they were let through a hydraulically controlled sliding door into the next zone. The guide, Farmer, Fatima and Winter were in the inner courtyard.
Winter glanced behind him. The entire plant was protected by a tall, concrete wall. Along its edge ran a thick pipe that jutted out a considerable way from the wall, making it difficult for a climbing intruder to get a grip. The wall had probably been erected by the same firm that put up the one between Israel and Palestine. Unimpeded by the barrier, black crows landed on the flat roof of a warehouse.
They passed a turbine hall, transformers and buzzing, high-tension lines.
The area was dominated by the cooling towers. The enormous cylinders towered almost one hundred metres into the air, overshadowing the plant. In parts the concrete was dirty. Weather debris or algae.
Winter felt small and at the mercy of the plant. Although he knew that the concrete shell could withstand an attack by an aeroplane packed with explosives or a rocket strike, an uneasy feeling came over him, a cold shiver running down his spine. What can happen, will happen, sooner or later. Fukushima was everywhere. His house, too, stood less than twenty kilometres to the east of Mühleberg nuclear power station, one of the oldest in Europe. The westerly wind would quickly blow leaking radioactive material over to him. As a sop to the population within a radius of thirty kilometres, the government had prophylactically handed out iodine tablets. With an effort Winter banished his gloomy thoughts.
They marched through the building with the control rooms, the decarbonisation plant, and from the pump house they peered down at the river, whose water acted as a coolant. No swans. Not even a black one.
The word the guide used most was security. He explained the inherent security, the security principles, the reactor protection system and accident management. Statistical calculations had predicted, apparently, that no major accident was to be expected in the next thousand years. Winter didn’t think this was the time for a discussion about risks and probabilities.
After all the fire service was right here.
And Fukushima was a long way away.
Out of sight, out of mind.
But Fatima was impressed and Winter could virtually see a nuclear power station like this, to supply Cairo with energy, taking shape in her mind.
In five or ten years’ time the Egyptian president would cut through a red ribbon at the opening ceremony, announcing that power cuts in Cairo were now a thing of the past. The nuclear plant would be a magnificent supplement to the combined cycle power stations. Thanks to this new plant, the Egyptian people and Egyptian industry would in the future enjoy cheaper and more reliable electricity. The president would declare that a new age had dawned for the Egyptian people.
The finance minister would be in attendance too, but he wouldn’t say anything, he’d merely be pleased that finally he’d be able to cut the subsidies in the budget to make energy cheaper.
Politicians!
And Fatima would stand proudly beside the energy minister, applauding.
Winter focused back on the present. The embattled guide was seeking to return to the entrance and conclude the tour.
It had served its purpose. Professor Farmer had impressed Fatima. The physical dominance, the complexity of the plant and the electrical tension in the buzzing, high-voltage lines in the air had made an impact. He’d set the scene perfectly for the next stage of negotiations.
They went back through the hydraulic door, the guide gave them a warm goodbye and they entered the administrative building. When Farmer took them into a meeting room with a varnished table, surrounded by black-leather chairs, Fatima took the reins. ‘Mr Winter, thanks very much for escorting us. Now if you wouldn’t mind we need to speak in private. Why don’t you go and have a coffee in the canteen? I’ll call you when we’re done.’ She gave Winter an enchanting smile but then firmly closed the door.
Winter didn’t have the opportunity to take a closer look at the fat man in the suit who approached her from the other end of the table. The administrative director of the nuclear power plant? Or an on-site consultant from Pyramid Investment Partners?
Winter walked slowly along the corridor, reading the signs next to the closed office doors. At the end of the corridor he got himself a coffee from the machine and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
An employee coming the other way wasn’t fazed by his presence. The moment an administration reached a certain size the individual no longer counted and could move around anonymously, so long as they wore a plastic card around their neck like a dog collar.
On the second floor, Winter slowly went back. At the end of the corridor he came to a sign informing him that this was the office of the power plant’s head of security. The door was open and Winter stopped. In the middle of the room stood a metal desk, sitting at it a man in a short-sleeved shirt, who looked up when he realized someone was standing in the doorway.
With a grin, Winter knocked sheepishly at the open door. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘my name is Winter. Tom Winter. I’m responsible for the security of a Swiss Bank and thanks to Professor Farmer I’ve just had a tour around your impressive plant.’ He pointed to the cooling towers. Compliments had never hurt.
The man behind the metal desk stood up, peered at Winter’s visitor’s pass, and then waved him in.
The head of security was a small but powerful man. Winter crossed the office and they shook hands. To the right was a wall with document files. The left-h
and wall was full of diplomas, certificates, photographs of important people and trophies from shooting competitions. Behind the desk, a glass wall gave a view of the cooling towers. The security chief had the light at his back.
‘I’m Jeff. So what brings you from beautiful Switzerland to Vermont?’
‘Tom. I’m accompanying a client I advise on security matters.’
‘Oh yes, the chief said that the professor would be coming by with guests. Please take a seat.’
The fat man he’d seen in the meeting room must be the head of the plant. Winter sat in the chair by the desk, gave Jeff his business card, and fielded questions about his home country. He’d visited Switzerland on a trip through Europe, Jeff said. The whole of Europe in ten days, probably, Winter thought.
‘What’s that town called again – the one by the lake that has the magnificent, wooden bridge?’
‘Lucerne.’
With a grin the head of security added that he’d loved the Jungfrau mountain most of all. Winter told him that Lucerne and the Jungfrau were excellent choices.
Jeff had time on his hands and, after an animated discussion about how small Switzerland was in comparison to the expanses of America, and Winter throwing out some non-contentious titbits to do with problems in banking contingency planning, designed to win Jeff’s confidence, Winter tried to steer the conversation to the subject of the power station’s security. He might as well take advantage of being here and learn something.
When Winter probed a little deeper, the head of security said, ‘We’re a PPP, a Public–Private Partnership. Which means everyone wants to have their say, but nobody’s keen on taking responsibility.’
Judging by Jeff’s tone, Winter had evidently stirred up a hornet’s nest. ‘Sounds familiar,’ he said encouragingly.
‘The whole thing is very tricky politically. The state of Vermont is looking to save money and so it sold the power station to private investors years ago. We were public property. Then, a year ago, Farmer bought into the power station. He’s got three clear priorities: profit, profit, profit.’ The man laughed scornfully. ‘Security shouldn’t cost anything. Farmer very neatly outsourced the entire risk to an insurance company, which in turn outsourced it to a reinsurer, which sold it on again, using structured products from banks. Nobody understands the real risks.’
Winter gave an understanding look.
Weapons of mass destruction.
‘Because of the shareholders’ agreement with Farmer and the nuclear energy law, the governing board is a political committee that just nods its head and hasn’t got a clue. The Republicans want a slimmed-down state, and to make savings wherever they can. The Democrats and darned eco-terrorists don’t want any nuclear power stations at all. And the unions forbid me from running detailed checks on staff here, pleading data protection and privacy rights.’ Jeff had talked himself into a rage.
Winter nodded his agreement. ‘Which means there’s no way of guaranteeing comprehensive security in the long term.’
Then Jeff told a story which made the hair on the back of Winter’s neck stand on end.
‘A few weeks back we caught a sleeper. In conjunction with the NSA we were testing the beta version of a new face-recognition software on the photos of our employees. And bang!’ Jeff fired a shot with his fingers. ‘Our candidate was an innocent American citizen with family roots in the Middle East. He studied here at our best universities and has a wonderful family. But he also has a brother who looks like him, who’s assumed a new name and is a religious fundamentalist prepared to use violence. Although he’s got a beard, the matches on the facial features were clear. And the engineer, who’s been working in the highly sensitive zone, kept it quiet of course.’
‘Christ. It makes those high walls redundant.’
The black sheep of successor generation immigrants are difficult to identify. Third generation, 3-G terror. The melting pot has its advantages and disadvantages.
‘The authorities searched his workplace, house and car. His lawyers gave us hell. They scoffed at the family liability stuff. But luckily they detained him and after three days someone remembered that he also had a hunting cabin. Bang!’ With his index finger Jeff fired a shot at his desk lamp. ‘They found it all there.’
Recalling Ben’s computer programme, Winter said, ‘Motive?’
‘Unclear. Some massacre in the family during the Iraq–Iran War twenty years ago. Apparently the CIA was operating in the Kurdish area and was a bit too rough when interrogating some members of our engineer’s family. Because of oil they’re filthy rich and do business throughout the world. Apparently the entire Baktar clan swore revenge. But that’s just hearsay, and of course you have heard nothing from me.’
It struck Winter that he knew very little about Al-Bader’s background. Discretion also meant asking no questions. Rummaging around in clients’ backgrounds was taboo. Could the bank have been abused and made an accomplice?
His phone rang: Fatima. Flying in five minutes.
AUGUST 2 – 13:10
Half an hour later Farmer, Winter and Fatima landed on Nantucket Island. The professor had invited them to lunch at his second home by the sea. On the flight back Winter had seen the suburbs of Boston and the characteristic outlines of Cape Cod.
The helicopter spat them out behind some dunes and took off again promptly. The landing might not have been entirely legal, but the authorities probably turned a blind eye. The professor apologized that they had to go the last three hundred metres on foot.
A wooden walkway with railings led across the dunes to the sea. Tall grasses clung to the sand and trembled in the wind. Wobbly fences sought to keep the drifts of sand in check. Winter could see sailing boats and motorboats cruising off the coast.
The professor stopped abruptly and pointed at the sand. ‘Look, late plover eggs.’
Winter couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t until he bent down that he spotted three eggs in the sand. No nest for protection. In shape, colour and size they were identical to the stones around them.
‘Perfect camouflage, wouldn’t you say?’ The professor had admiration in his voice. ‘They lie there, before our very eyes and we can’t see them. There’s so much we can learn from nature.’
Winter and Fatima nodded their agreement. Like a sleeper, Winter thought. Then another thought shot through his head: for Tiger the eggs would be easy prey.
The Victorian house emerged from behind the dunes. Wooden and freshly painted, it had grey walls, a white door and window frames and a gable roof of black Eternit tiles. A stone chimney rose from the side of the house, puffing out smoke. From a mast a large American flag fluttered proudly.
Between the house and the sea lay a beach of fine sand, shining yellow with the odd brownish tuft of grass. Along the coast stood more houses in the same style. All wooden, in different, subtle shades, and almost all with an American flag. Winter looked back and saw a concrete road that led from a pine forest, accumulated drifts of sand as it crossed the dunes and ended up in a double garage behind the house. Soaking up the fresh sea air, Winter wondered what this property cost.
They went onto a large wooden deck with elaborate garden furniture and light-brown cushions. Three broad steps led down to the sandy beach. The deck didn’t have any railings, but was defined by a good dozen dark-brown, rusty, iron stands with half burned torches.
‘Please take a seat. What can I offer you to drink?’
Fatima asked for an orange juice, Winter a beer. ‘I much prefer to cater for my guests here in my modest second home,’ the professor said, ‘than in a packed restaurant. For these special occasions I have a chef fly in. Please excuse me for a moment. I’m going to see that we get a bite to eat.’
Fatima and Winter made themselves comfortable in the armchairs.
‘Didn’t the Clintons sometimes spend their holidays on this island?’
‘No idea, I don’t read the American gossip mags.’
‘Did your conversation with the di
rector and Farmer go alright?’
‘I think so. Kaddour – may Allah show him mercy – had prepared the ground well. We signed the letter of intent and now can embark on the next phase. But we’re still in the early stages. The planning’s going to take time. From the broad brushstrokes to the fine detail. Everyone wants to cover their back. I’m going to send specialists from Orafin, reinforced by staff from the ministry. And the director of the nuclear power plant is keen to sell us his consulting services via a private firm.’ Laughing, Fatima made the shape of the director’s fat belly with her hands.
For a while they gazed out at the sea in silence. The water and the infinity of the ocean were relaxing.
Winter thought of his terrace at home, the unused loungers and Anne. He felt sad and wondered how the loss of Anne was influencing his relationship with Fatima. The expanse of the sea reminded Winter how insignificant he was. It was comforting somehow.
A young waiter dressed in white wrenched him from his thoughts, served the drinks and set the table for three. After a few minutes Farmer came back. He’d swapped his windcheater for a V-neck jumper and was holding a tomato juice.
‘Food’s on its way.’
Although they’d spent the morning together this was Winter’s first quiet moment with the professor and, after loosening up with some compliments about the beautiful house and its wonderful position, he said, ‘Please excuse me for sounding intrusive, but what exactly is Pyramid Investment Partners’ speciality?’
Leaning back, the professor began a lecture. ‘Mr Winter, it’s all quite simple in theory. You must have heard that Harvard University has invested its money very successfully. We’re reliant on monies from our benefactors and donors being utilized as effectively and securely as possible, to guarantee the university’s survival. We realized early on that it’s dangerous to put all your eggs in one basket.’