July 26, 1986
They tried to bury us.
They didn’t know we were seeds.
—Mexican Proverb
7
Martin Queller’s children were spoiled in that quintessential American way. Too much money. Too much education. Too much travel. Too much too much, so that the abundance of things had left them empty.
Laura Juneau found the girl in particular painful to watch. Her eyes furtively darting around the room. The nervous way she kept twitching her fingers as if they were floating across invisible keys. Her need to connect was reminiscent of an octopus blindly extending its tendrils in search of nourishment.
As for the boy—well, he had charm, and a lot could be forgiven of a charming man.
“Excuse me, madam?” The politi was lean and tall. The rifle hanging from his neck reminded Laura of her youngest son’s favorite toy. “Have you misplaced your conference badge?”
Laura gave him an apologetic look as she leaned into her walking cane. “I had planned to check in before my panel.”
“Shall I escort you?”
She had no choice but to follow. The additional security was neither unexpected nor without cause. Protestors were picketing outside the Oslo conference center—the usual mix of anarchists, anti-fascists, skinheads and trouble-makers alongside some of Norway’s Pakistani immigrants, who were angry about recent immigration policy. The unrest had found its way inside, where there were lingering suspicions around Arne Treholt’s trial the previous year. The former labor party politician was serving a twenty-year term for high treason. There were those who believed the Russians had more spies planted within the Norwegian government. There were still more who feared that the KGB was spreading Hydra-like into the rest of Scandinavia.
The politi turned to ensure Laura was following. The cane was a hindrance, but she was forty-three, not ninety-three. Still, he cut a channel for her through the crowd of stodgy old men in boxy suits, all wearing badges that identified them by name, nationality, and field of expertise. There were the expected scions from top universities—MIT, Harvard, Princeton, Cal Tech, Stanford—alongside the usual suspects: Exxon, Tenneco, Eastman Kodak, Raytheon, DuPont and, in a nod to keynote speaker Lee Iacocca, a healthy smattering of senior executives from the Chrysler Motor Company.
The check-in table was beneath a large banner reading WELCOME TO G-FAB. As with everything else at the Global Finance and Business Consortium, the words were written in English, French, German and, in deference to the conference hosts, Norwegian.
“Thank you,” Laura told the officer, but the man would not be dismissed. She smiled at the woman sitting behind the table, and delivered the well-practiced lie: “I’m Dr. Alex Maplecroft with the University of California at Berkeley.”
The woman thumbed through a card catalog and pulled the appropriate credentials. Laura had a moment of relief when she thought that the woman would simply hand over the badge, but she said, “Your identification, please, madam.”
Laura rested her cane against the table. She unzipped her purse. She reached for her wallet. She willed the tremble out of her fingers.
She had practiced for this, too; not formally, but in her mind, Laura had walked herself through the steps of approaching the check-in table, pulling out her wallet and showing the fake ID that identified her as Alexandra Maplecroft, Professor of Economics.
I’m very sorry but could you hurry? My panel starts in a few minutes.
“Madam.” The woman behind the table looked not at Laura’s eyes, but at her hair. “Could you kindly remove your identification from your wallet?”
Another layer of scrutiny Laura had not anticipated. She again found her hands trembling as she tried to work the card from beneath the plastic sleeve. According to the forger in Toronto, the ID was perfect, but then the man’s vocation was deception. What if the girl behind the table found a flaw? What if a photo of the real Alex Maplecroft had somehow been scrounged? Would the politi drag Laura away in handcuffs? Would the last six months of careful planning fall apart for want of a simple plastic card?
“Dr. Maplecroft!”
They all turned to locate the source of the yelling.
“Andrew, come meet Dr. Maplecroft!”
Laura had always known Nicholas Harp to be breathtakingly handsome. In fact, the woman behind the table inhaled sharply as he approached.
“Dr. Maplecroft, how lovely to see you again.” Nick shook her hand with both of his. The wink he offered was clearly meant to reassure her, but Laura would find no reassurance from this point forward. He said, “I was in your econ 401 at Berkeley. Racial and Gender Disparities in Western Economies. I can’t believe I finally remembered.”
“Yes.” Laura was always taken aback by the ease with which Nick lied. “How lovely to see you again, Mister—”
“Harp. Nicholas Harp. Andrew!” He waved over another young man, handsome but less so, similarly dressed in chinos and a button-down, light blue polo. Future captains of industry, these young men. Their sun-bleached hair just so. Skin tanned a healthy bronze. Stiff collars upturned. No socks. Pennies stuck into the slots on the top of their loafers.
Nick said, “Andy, be quick. Dr. Maplecroft doesn’t have all day.”
Andrew Queller seemed flustered. Laura could understand why. The plan had dictated that they all stay anonymous and separate from one another. Andrew glanced at the girl behind the table, and in that moment, seemed to understand why Nick had risked breaking cover. “Dr. Maplecroft, you’re on Father’s two p.m. panel, I believe? ‘Socio-Political Ramifications of the Queller Correction.’”