Whiteout (5 page)

“Yes, and perhaps infected others. So the company's statement that no one else is affected seems more like a pious hope than a scientific prediction.”

“A very worrying story,” the anchor said to camera. “Carl Osborne with that report. And now football.”

In a fury, Kit stabbed at the remote control, trying to turn off the
television, but he was too agitated, and kept pressing the wrong buttons. In the end he grabbed the TV cable and yanked the plug out of its socket. He was tempted to throw the set through the window. This was a catastrophe.

Osborne's doomsday forecast about the virus spreading might not be true, but the one sure consequence was that security at the Kremlin would be watertight. Tonight was the worst possible time to try to rob the place. Kit would have to call it off. He was a gambler: if he had a good hand, he was willing to bet the farm, but he knew that when the cards were against him it was best to fold.

At least I won't have to spend Christmas with my father, he thought sourly.

Maybe they could do the job some other time, when the excitement had died down and security had returned to its normal level. Perhaps the customer could be persuaded to postpone his deadline. Kit shuddered when he thought of his enormous debt remaining unpaid. But there was no point in going ahead when failure was so likely.

He left the bathroom. The clock on the hi-fi said 07:28. It was early to telephone, but this was urgent. He picked up the handset and dialed.

The call was answered immediately. A man's voice said simply, “Yes?”

“This is Kit. Is he in?”

“What do you want?”

“I need to speak to him. It's important.”

“He's not up yet.”

“Shit.” Kit did not want to leave a message. And, on reflection, he did not want Maureen to hear what he had to say. “Tell him I'm coming round,” he said. He hung up without waiting for a reply.

TONI GALLO thought she would be out of work by lunchtime.

She looked around her office. She had not been here long. She had only just begun to make the place her own. On the desk was a photograph of her with her mother and her sister, Bella, taken a few years ago when Mother was in good health. Beside it was her battered old dictionary—she had never been able to spell. Just last week she had hung on the wall a picture of herself in her police constable's uniform, taken seventeen years ago, looking young and eager.

She could hardly believe she had already lost this job.

She now knew what Michael Ross had done. He had devised a clever and elaborate way of getting around all her security precautions. He had found the weaknesses and exploited them. There was no one to blame but herself.

She had not known this two hours ago, when she had phoned Stanley Oxenford, chairman and majority shareholder in Oxenford Medical.

She had been dreading the call. She had to give him the worst possible news, and take the blame. She steeled herself for his disappointment, indignation, or perhaps rage.

He had said, “Are you all right?”

She almost cried. She had not anticipated that his first thought would be for her welfare. She did not deserve such kindness. “I'm fine,” she said. “We all put on bunny suits before we went into the house.”

“But you must be exhausted.”

“I snatched an hour's sleep at around five.”

“Good,” Stanley said, and briskly moved on. “I know Michael Ross. Quiet chap, about thirty, been with us for a few years—an experienced technician. How the hell did this happen?”

“I found a dead rabbit in his garden shed. I think he brought home a laboratory animal and it bit him.”

“I doubt it,” Stanley said crisply. “More likely he cut himself with a contaminated knife. Even experienced people may get careless. The rabbit is probably a normal pet that starved after Michael fell ill.”

Toni wished she could pretend to believe that, but she had to give her boss the facts. “The rabbit was in an improvised biosafety cabinet,” she argued.

“I still doubt it. Michael can't have been working alone, in BSL4. Even if his buddy wasn't looking, there are television cameras in every room—he couldn't have stolen a rabbit without being seen on the monitors. Then he had to pass several security guards on the way out—they would have noticed if he were carrying a rabbit. Finally, the scientists working in the lab the following morning would have realized immediately that an animal was missing. They might not be able to tell the difference between one rabbit and another, but they certainly know how many there are in the experiment.”

Early though it was, his brain had fired up like the V12 engine in his Ferrari, Toni thought. But he was wrong. “I put all those security barriers in place,” she said. “And I'm telling you that no system is perfect.”

“You're right, of course.” If you gave him good arguments, he could back down alarmingly fast. “I presume we have video footage of the last time Michael was in BSL4?”

“Next thing on my checklist.”

“I'll be there at about eight. Have some answers for me then, please.”

“One more thing. As soon as the staff begin arriving, rumors will spread. May I tell people that you'll be making an announcement?”

“Good point. I'll speak to everyone in the Great Hall at, say, nine-thirty.” The grand entrance hall of the old house was the biggest room in the building, always used for large meetings.

Toni had then summoned Susan Mackintosh, one of the security guards, a pretty girl in her twenties with a boyish haircut and a pierced eyebrow. Susan immediately noticed the picture on the wall. “You look good in a uniform,” she said.

“Thanks. I realize you're due to go off duty, but I need a woman for this job.”

Susan raised an eyebrow flirtatiously. “I know the feeling.”

Toni recalled the company Christmas party, last Friday. Susan had dressed like John Travolta in the movie
Grease,
with slicked hair, drainpipe jeans, and the kind of crepe-soled shoes known in Glasgow as brothel creepers. She had asked Toni to dance. Toni had smiled warmly and said, “I don't think so.” A little later, after a few more drinks, Susan had asked her if she slept with men. “Not as much as I'd like,” Toni had said.

Toni was flattered that someone so young and pretty was attracted to her, but she pretended not to notice. “I need you to stop all employees as they arrive. Set up a desk in the Great Hall, and don't let them go to their offices or labs until you've spoken to them.”

“What should I say?”

“Tell them there's been a virus security breach, and Professor Oxenford is going to give them a full briefing this morning. Be calm and reassuring, but don't go into detail—best leave that to Stanley.”

“Okay.”

“Then ask them when they last saw Michael Ross. Some will have been asked that question over the phone last night, but only those certified for BSL4, and it does no harm to double-check. If anyone has seen him since he left here on Sunday two weeks ago, tell me immediately.”

“Okay.”

Toni had a delicate question to ask, and she hesitated, then just came out with it. “Do you think Michael was gay?”

“Not actively.”

“Are you sure?”

“Inverburn is a small town. There are two gay pubs, a club, a couple of restaurants, a church . . . I know all those places and I've never seen him in any of them.”

“Okay. I hope you don't mind my assuming you'd know, just because . . .”

“It's all right.” Susan smiled and gave Toni a direct look. “You'll have to work harder than that to offend me.”

“Thanks.”

That was almost two hours ago. Toni had spent most of the time since then viewing video footage of Michael Ross on his last visit to BSL4. She now had the answers Stanley wanted. She was going to tell him what had happened, and then he would probably ask for her resignation.

She recalled her first meeting with Stanley. She had been at the lowest point of her entire life. She was pretending to be a freelance security consultant, but she had no clients. Her partner of eight years, Frank, had left her. And her mother was becoming senile. Toni had felt like Job after he was forsaken by God.

Stanley had summoned her to his office and offered her a short-term contract. He had invented a drug so valuable that he feared he might be the target of industrial espionage. He wanted her to check. She had not told him it was her first real assignment.

After combing the premises for listening devices, she had looked for signs that key employees were living above their means. No one was spying on Oxenford Medical, as it turned out—but, to her dismay, she discovered that Stanley's son, Kit, was stealing from the company.

She was shocked. Kit had struck her as charming and untrustworthy; but what kind of man robs his own father? “The old bugger can afford it, he's got plenty,” Kit said carelessly; and Toni knew, from her years with the police, that there was nothing profound about wickedness—criminals were just shallow, greedy people with inadequate excuses.

Kit had tried to persuade her to hush it up. He promised never to do it again if Toni would keep quiet this time. She was tempted: she did not want to tell a recently bereaved man that his son was no good. But to keep quiet would have been dishonest.

So, in the end, and with great trepidation, she had told Stanley everything.

She would never forget the look on his face. He went pale, grimaced, and said, “Aah,” as if feeling a sudden internal pain. In that moment, as he struggled to master his profound emotion, she saw both his strength and his sensitivity, and she felt strongly drawn to him.

Telling him the truth had been the right decision. Her integrity had been rewarded. Stanley fired Kit and gave Toni a full-time job. For that, she would always owe him her iron loyalty. She was fiercely determined to repay his trust.

And life had improved. Stanley quickly promoted her from head of security to facilities manager and gave her a raise. She bought a red Porsche.

When she mentioned one day that she had played squash for the national police team, Stanley challenged her to a game on the company court. She beat him, but only just, and they began to play every week. He was very fit, and had a longer reach, but she was twenty years younger, with hair-trigger reflexes. He took a game from her now and again, when her concentration slipped, but in the end she usually won.

And she got to know him better. He played a shrewd game, taking risks that often paid off. He was competitive, but good-humored about losing. Her quick mind was a match for his brain, and she enjoyed the cut-and-thrust. The more she got to know him, the better she liked him. Until, one day, she realized that she did not just like him. It was more than that.

Now she felt that the worst part of losing this job would be not seeing him any longer.

She was about to head down to the Great Hall, to meet him on his way in, when her phone rang.

A woman's voice with a southern English accent said, “This is Odette.”

“Hi!” Toni was pleased. Odette Cressy was a detective with the Metropolitan Police in London. They had met on a course at Hendon five years ago. They were the same age. Odette was single and, since Toni had split up with Frank, they had been on holiday together twice. Had they not lived so far apart, they would have been best friends. As it was, they spoke on the phone every couple of weeks.

Odette said, “It's about your virus victim.”

“Why would you be interested?” Odette was on the antiterrorist team, Toni knew. “I suppose I shouldn't ask.”

“Correct. I'll just say that the name Madoba-2 rang an alarm bell here, and leave you to work it out.”

Toni frowned. As a former cop, she could guess what was going on. Odette had intelligence indicating that some group was interested in Madoba-2. A suspect might have mentioned it under interrogation, or the virus had come up in a bugged conversation, or someone whose phone lines were being monitored had typed the name into a computer search engine. Now, anytime a quantity of the virus went astray, the antiterrorist unit would suspect that it had been stolen by fanatics. “I don't think Michael Ross was a terrorist,” Toni said. “I think he just became attached to a particular laboratory animal.”

“What about his friends?”

“I found his address book, and the Inverburn police are checking the names right now.”

“Did you keep a copy?”

It was on her desk. “I can fax it to you right away.”

“Thanks—it will save me time.” Odette recited a number and Toni wrote it down. “How are you getting on with your handsome boss?”

Toni had not told anyone how she felt about Stanley, but Odette was telepathic. “I don't believe in sex at work, you know that. Anyway, his wife died recently—”

“Eighteen months ago, as I recall.”

“Which is not long, after nearly forty years of marriage. And he's devoted to his children and grandchildren, who would probably hate anyone who tried to replace his late wife.”

“You know the good thing about sex with an older man? He's so worried about not being young and vigorous that he works twice as hard to please you.”

“I'm going to have to take your word for that.”

“And what else? Oh, yes, I almost forgot, ha ha, he's rich. Listen, all
I'm going to say is this: if you decide you don't want him, I'll have him. Meanwhile, let me know personally if you find out anything new about Michael Ross.”

“Of course.” Toni hung up and glanced out of the window. Stanley Oxenford's dark blue Ferrari F50 was pulling into the chairman's parking space. She put the copy of Michael's address book into the fax machine and dialed Odette's number.

Then, feeling like a criminal about to be sentenced, she went to meet her boss.