by Ken Follett
He decided they could do without the usual surgical gloves. He used a roll of duct tape to attach the suit gauntlets to the rigid circular wrists of Nigel's suit, then got Nigel to do the same for him.
From the suit room they stepped into the decontamination shower, a cubicle with spray faucets on all sides as well as above. They felt a further drop in air pressure--twenty-five or fifty pascals from one room to the next, Kit recalled. From the shower they entered the lab proper.
Kit suffered a moment of pure fear. There was something in the air here that could kill him. All his glib talk about shortcutting safety precautions and driving at a hundred and thirty now seemed foolhardy. I could die, he thought. I could catch a disease and suffer a hemorrhage so bad the blood would come out of my ears and eyes and my penis. What am I doing here? How could I be so stupid?
He breathed slowly and made himself calm. You're not exposed to the atmosphere here in the lab; you'll be breathing pure air from outside, he told himself. No virus can penetrate this suit. You're a lot safer from infection than you would be in economy class on a packed 747 to Orlando. Get a grip.
Curly yellow air hoses dangled from the ceiling. Kit grabbed one and connected it to the inlet on Nigel's belt and saw Nigel's suit begin to inflate. He did the same for himself and heard the inward rush of air. His terror abated.
A row of rubber boots stood by the door, but Kit ignored them. Their main purpose was to protect the feet of the suits and prevent them wearing out.
He surveyed the lab, getting his bearings, trying to forget the danger and concentrate on what he had to do. The place had a shiny look due to the epoxy paint used to make the walls airtight. Microscopes and computer workstations stood on stainless-steel benches. There was a fax machine for sending your notes out--paper could not be taken into the showers or passed through the autoclaves. Kit noted fridges for storing samples, biosafety cabinets for handling hazardous materials, and a rack of rabbit cages under a clear plastic cover. The red light over the door would flash when the phone rang, as it was difficult to hear inside the suits. The blue light would warn of an emergency. Closed-circuit television cameras covered every corner of the room.
Kit pointed to a door. "I think the vault is through there." He crossed the room, his air hose extending as he moved. He opened the door on a room no bigger than a closet, containing an upright refrigerator with a keypad combination lock. The LED keys were scrambled, so that the order of numbers in the squares was different every time. This made it impossible to figure out the code by watching someone's fingers. But Kit had installed the lock, so he knew the combination--unless it had been changed.
He keyed the numbers and pulled the handle.
The door opened.
Nigel looked over his shoulder.
Measured doses of the precious antiviral drug were kept in disposable syringes, ready for use. The syringes were packaged in small cardboard boxes. Kit pointed to the shelf. He raised his voice so that Nigel could hear him through the suit. "This is the drug."
Nigel said, "I don't want the drug."
Kit wondered if he had misheard. "What?" he shouted.
"I don't want the drug."
Kit was astounded. "What are you talking about? Why are we here?"
Nigel did not respond.
On the second shelf were samples of various viruses ready to be used to infect laboratory animals. Nigel looked carefully at the labels, then selected a sample of Madoba-2.
Kit said, "What the hell do you want that for?"
Without answering, Nigel took all the remaining samples of the same virus from the shelf, twelve boxes altogether.
One was enough to kill someone. Twelve could start an epidemic. Kit would have been reluctant to touch the boxes, even wearing a biohazard suit. But what was Nigel up to?
Kit said, "I thought you were working for one of the pharmaceutical giants."
"I know."
Nigel could afford to pay Kit three hundred thousand pounds for tonight's work. Kit did not know what Elton and Daisy were getting but, even if it were a smaller fee, Nigel had to be spending something like half a million. To make that worth his while, he must be getting a million from the customer, maybe two. The drug was worth that, easily. But who would pay a million pounds for a sample of a deadly virus?
As soon as Kit asked himself the question, he knew the answer.
Nigel carried the sample boxes across the laboratory and placed them in a biosafety cabinet.
A biosafety cabinet was a glass case with a slot at the front through which the scientist could put his arms in order to perform experiments. A pump ensured that the flow of air ran from outside the cabinet to inside. A perfect seal was not considered necessary when the scientist was wearing a suit.
Next, Nigel opened the burgundy leather briefcase. The top was lined with blue plastic cooler packs. Virus samples needed to be kept at low temperatures, Kit knew. The bottom half of the briefcase was filled with white polystyrene chips of the kind used to package delicate objects. Lying on the chips, like a precious jewel, was an ordinary perfume spray bottle, empty. Kit recognized the bottle. It was a brand called Diablerie. His sister Olga used it.
Nigel put the bottle in the cabinet. It misted over with condensation. "They told me to turn on the air extractor," he said. "Where's the switch?"
"Wait!" Kit said. "What are you doing? You have to tell me!"
Nigel found the switch and turned it on. "The customer wants the product in deliverable form," he said with an air of indulgent patience. "I'm transferring the samples to the bottle here, in the cabinet, because it's dangerous to do it anywhere else." He took the top off the perfume bottle, then opened a sample box. Inside was a clear Pyrex vial with graduation marks printed in white on its side. Working awkwardly with his gauntleted hands, Nigel unscrewed the cap of the vial and poured the liquid into the Diablerie bottle. He recapped the vial and picked up another one.
Kit said, "The people you're selling this to--do you know what they want it for?"
"I can guess."
"It will kill people--hundreds, maybe thousands!"
"I know."
The perfume spray was the perfect delivery mechanism. It was a simple means of creating an aerosol. Filled with the colorless liquid that contained the virus, it looked completely innocent, and would pass unnoticed through all security checks. A woman could take it out of her handbag in any public place and look quite innocent as she filled the air with the vapor that would be fatal to everyone who inhaled it. She would kill herself, too--as terrorists often did. She would slaughter more people than any suicide bomber. Horrified, Kit said, "You're talking about mass murder!"
"Yes." Nigel turned to look at Kit. His blue eyes were intimidating even through two faceplates. "And you're in it, now, and as guilty as anyone, so shut your mouth and let me concentrate."
Kit groaned. Nigel was right. Kit had never thought to be involved in anything more than theft. He had been horrified when Daisy blackjacked Susan. This was a thousand times worse--and there was nothing Kit could do. If he tried to stop the heist now, Nigel would probably kill him--and if things went wrong, and the virus was not delivered to the customer, Harry McGarry would have him killed for not paying his debt. He had to follow it through to the end and pick up his payment. Otherwise he was dead.
He also had to make sure Nigel handled the virus properly; otherwise he was dead anyway.
With his arms inside the biosafety cabinet, Nigel emptied the contents of all the sample vials into the perfume bottle, then replaced the spray top. Kit knew that the outside of the bottle was now undoubtedly contaminated--but someone seemed to have told Nigel this, for he put the bottle into the pass-out tank, which was full of decontamination fluid, and removed it from the other side. He wiped the bottle dry then took two Ziploc food bags from the briefcase. He put the perfume bottle into one, sealed the bag, then put the bagged bottle into the second. Finally he put the double-bagged bottle back into the briefcase and clos
ed the lid.
"We're done," he said.
They left the lab, Nigel carrying the briefcase. They passed through the decontamination shower without using it--there was no time. In the suit room they climbed out of the cumbersome plastic space suits and put their shoes back on. Kit kept well away from Nigel's suit--the gloves were sure to be contaminated with minute traces of the virus.
They moved through the normal shower, again without using it, through the changing room, and into the lobby. The four security guards were tied up and propped against the wall.
Kit checked his watch. It was thirty minutes since he had eavesdropped on Toni Gallo's conversation with Steve. "I hope Toni isn't here."
"If she is, we'll neutralize her."
"She's an ex-cop--she won't be as easy to deal with as these guards. And she might recognize me, even in this disguise."
He pressed the green button that opened the door. He and Nigel ran down the corridor and into the Great Hall. To Kit's monumental relief, it was empty: Toni Gallo had not yet arrived. We made it, he thought. But she could get here at any second.
The van was outside the main door, its engine running. Elton was at the wheel, Daisy in the back. Nigel jumped in, and Kit followed him, shouting: "Go! Go! Go!"
Elton roared off before Kit got the door shut.
The snow lay thick on the ground. The van immediately skidded and slewed sideways, but Elton got it back under control. They stopped at the gate.
Willie Crawford leaned out. "All fixed?" he said.
Elton wound down the window. "Not quite," he said. "We need some parts. We'll be back."
"It's going to take you a while, in this weather," the guard said conversationally.
Kit muffled a grunt of impatience. From the back, Daisy said in a low voice, "Shall I shoot the bastard?"
Elton said calmly, "We'll be as quick as we can." Then he closed the window.
After a moment the barrier lifted, and they pulled out.
As they did so, headlights flashed. A car was approaching from the south. Kit made it out to be a light-colored Jaguar sedan.
Elton turned north and roared away from the Kremlin.
Kit looked in the mirror and watched the headlights of the car. It turned into the gates of the Kremlin.
Toni Gallo, Kit thought. A minute too late.
1:15 A.M.
TONI was in the passenger seat beside Carl Osborne when he braked to a halt alongside the gatehouse of the Kremlin. Her mother was in the back.
She handed Carl her pass and her mother's pension book. "Give these to the guard with your press card," she said. All visitors had to show identification.
Carl slid the window down and handed over the documents.
Looking across him, Toni saw Hamish McKinnon. "Hi, Hamish, it's me," she called. "I've got two visitors with me."
"Hello, Ms. Gallo," said the guard. "Is that lady in the back holding a dog?"
"Don't ask," she said.
Hamish copied the names and handed back the press card and the pension book. "You'll find Steve in reception."
"Are the phones working?"
"Not yet. The repair crew just left to fetch a spare part." He lifted the barrier, and Carl drove in.
Toni suppressed a wave of irritation at Hibernian Telecom. On a night such as this, they really should carry all the parts they might need. The weather was continuing to get worse, and the roads might soon be impassable. She doubted they would be back before morning.
This spoiled a little plan she had. She had been hoping to phone Stanley in the morning and tell him that there had been a minor problem at the Kremlin overnight but she had solved it--then make arrangements to meet him later in the day. Now it seemed her report might not be so satisfactory.
Carl pulled up at the main entrance. "Wait here," Toni said, and sprang out before he could argue. She did not want him in the building if she could avoid it. She ran up the steps between the stone lions and pushed through the door. She was surprised to see no one at the reception desk.
She hesitated. One of the guards might be on patrol, but they should not both have gone. They could be anywhere in the building--and the door was unguarded.
She headed for the control room. The monitors would show where the guards were.
She was astonished to find the control room empty.
Her heart seemed to go cold. This was very bad. Four guards missing--this was not just a divergence from procedure. Something was wrong.
She looked again at the monitors. They all showed empty rooms. If four guards were in the building, one of them should appear on a monitor within seconds. But there was no movement anywhere.
Then something caught her eye. She looked more closely at the feed from BSL4.
The dateline said December 24. She checked her watch. It was after one o'clock in the morning. Today was Christmas Day, December 25. She was looking at old pictures. Someone had tampered with the feed.
She sat at the workstation and accessed the program. In three minutes she established that all the monitors covering BSL4 were showing yesterday's footage. She corrected them and looked at the screens.
In the lobby outside the changing rooms, four people were sitting on the floor. She stared at the monitor, horrified. Please, God, she thought, don't let them be dead.
One moved.
She looked more closely. They were guards, all in dark uniforms; and their hands were behind their backs, as if they were tied up.
"No, no!" she said aloud.
But there was no escaping from the dismal conclusion that the Kremlin had been raided.
She felt doomed. First Michael Ross, now this. Where had she gone wrong? She had done all she could to make this place secure--and she had failed utterly. She had let Stanley down.
She turned for the door, her first instinct being to rush to BSL4 and untie the captives. Then her police training reasserted itself. Stop, assess the situation, plan the response. Whoever had done this could still be in the building, though her guess was that the villains were the Hibernian Telecom repairmen who had just left. What was her most important task? To make sure she was not the only person who knew about this.
She picked up the phone on the desk. It was dead, of course. The fault in the phone system was probably part of whatever was going on. She took her mobile from her pocket and called the police. "This is Toni Gallo, in charge of security at Oxenford Medical. There's been an incident here. Four of my security guards have been attacked."
"Are the perpetrators still on the premises?"
"I don't think so, but I can't be sure."
"Anyone injured?"
"I don't know. As soon as I get off the phone, I'll check--but I wanted to tell you first."
"We'll try to get a patrol car to you--though the roads are terrible." He sounded like an unsure young constable.
Toni tried to impress him with a sense of urgency. "This could be a biohazard incident. A young man died yesterday of a virus that escaped from here."
"We'll do our best."
"I believe Frank Hackett is on duty tonight. I don't suppose he's in the building?"
"He's on call."
"I strongly recommend you phone him at home and wake him up and tell him about this."
"I've made a note of your suggestion."
"We have a fault on the phones here, probably caused by the intruders. Please take my mobile number." She read it out. "Ask Frank to call right away."
"I've got the message."
"May I ask your name?"
"P.C. David Reid."
"Thank you, Constable Reid. We'll be waiting for your patrol car." Toni hung up. She felt sure the constable had not grasped the importance of her call, but he would surely pass the information to a superior. Anyway, she did not have time to argue. She hurried out of the control room and ran along the corridor to BSL4. She swiped her pass through the card reader, held her fingertip to the scanner, and went in.
There were Steve, Susan, Don, and
Stu, in a row against the wall, bound hand and foot. Susan looked as if she had walked into a tree: her nose was swollen and there was blood on her chin and chest. Don had a nasty abrasion on his forehead.
Toni knelt down and began to untie them. "What the hell happened here?" she said.
1:30 A.M.
THE Hibernian Telecom van was plowing through snow a foot deep. Elton drove at ten miles an hour in high gear to keep from skidding. Thick snowflakes bombarded the vehicle. They formed two wedges at the bottom of the windshield, and they grew steadily, so that the wipers described an ever smaller arc, until Elton could no longer see out and had to stop the van to clear the snow away.
Kit was distraught. He had thought himself involved in a heist that would do no real harm. His father would lose money, but on the other hand Kit would be enabled to repay Harry Mac, a debt that his father should have paid anyway, so there was no real injustice. But the reality was different. There could be only one reason for buying Madoba-2. Someone wanted to kill large numbers of people. Kit had never thought to be guilty of this.
He wondered who Nigel's customer represented: Japanese fanatics, Muslim fundamentalists, an IRA splinter group, suicidal Palestinians, or a group of paranoid Americans with high-powered rifles living in remote mountain cabins in Montana. It hardly mattered. Whoever got the virus would use it, and crowds of people would die bleeding from their eyes.
But what could he do? If he tried to abort the heist and take the virus samples back to the lab, Nigel would kill him, or let Daisy do it. He thought of opening the van door and jumping out. It was going slowly enough. He might disappear into the blizzard before they could catch him. But then they would still have the virus, and he would still owe Harry a quarter of a million pounds.
He had to see this through to the end. Maybe, when it was all over, he could send an anonymous message to the police, naming Nigel and Daisy, and hope that the virus could be traced before it was used. Or maybe he would be wiser to stick to his plan and vanish. No one would want to start a plague in Lucca.