by Ken Follett
The newscaster said, "At the height of the blizzard, thieves raided the laboratories of Oxenford Medical, near Inverburn."
The kitchen went silent. That's it, Kit thought; the truth is out.
"They got away with samples of a dangerous virus."
Stanley spoke through smashed lips. "So that's what's in the perfume bottle . . . Are you people mad?"
"Carl Osborne reports from the scene."
The screen showed a photo of Osborne with a phone to his ear, and his voice was heard over a phone line. "The deadly virus that killed laboratory technician Michael Ross only yesterday is now in the hands of gangsters."
Stanley was incredulous. "But why? Do you imagine you can sell the stuff?"
Nigel said, "I know I can."
On television, Osborne was saying, "In a meticulously planned Christmas caper, three men and a woman defeated the laboratory's state-of-the-art security and penetrated to BioSafety Level Four, where the company keeps stocks of incurable viruses in a locked refrigerator."
Stanley said, "But, Kit, you didn't help them do this, did you?"
Olga spoke up. "Of course he did," she said disgustedly.
"The armed gang overcame security guards, injuring two, one seriously. But many more will die if the Madoba-2 virus is released into the population."
Stanley rolled over with an effort and sat upright. His face was bruised, one eye was closing, and there was blood down the front of his pajamas; yet he still seemed the most authoritative person in the room. "Listen to that fellow on TV," he said.
Daisy moved toward Stanley, but Nigel stopped her with a raised hand.
"You're going to kill yourselves," Stanley said. "If you really have Madoba-2 in that bottle on the table, there's no antidote. If you drop it and the bottle smashes and the fluid leaks out, you're dead. Even if you sell it to someone else and they release it after you've left, it spreads so fast that you could easily catch it and die."
On the screen, Osborne said, "Madoba-2 is believed to be more dangerous than the Black Death that devastated Britain in . . . ancient times."
Stanley raised his voice over the commentary. "He's right, even if he doesn't know what century he's talking about. In Britain in 1348 the Black Death killed one person in three. This could be worse. Surely no amount of money is worth that risk?"
Nigel said, "I won't be in Britain when it's released."
Kit was shocked. Nigel had not previously mentioned this. Had Elton also made plans to go abroad? What about Daisy and Harry Mac? Kit himself intended to be in Italy--but now he wondered if that was far enough away.
Stanley turned to Kit. "You can't possibly think this makes sense."
He was right, Kit thought. The whole thing bordered on insane. But then, the world was crazy. "I'm going to be dead anyway if I don't pay my debts."
"Come on, they're not going to kill you for a debt."
Daisy said, "Oh, yes, we are."
"How much do you owe?"
"A quarter of a million pounds."
"Good God!"
"I told you I was desperate, three months ago, but you wouldn't listen, you bastard."
"How the hell did you manage to run up a debt--No, never mind, forget I asked."
"Gambling on credit. My system is good--I just had a very long run of bad luck."
Olga spoke up. "Luck? Kit, wake up--you've been had! These people lent you the money then made sure you lost, because they needed you to help them rob the laboratory!"
Kit did not believe that. He said scornfully, "How would you know a thing like that?"
"I'm a lawyer, I meet these people, I hear their pathetic excuses when they're caught. I know more about them than I care to."
Stanley spoke again. "Look, Kit, surely we can find a way out of this without killing innocent people?"
"Too late now. I made my decision, and I've got to see this through."
"But think about it, lad. How many people are you going to kill? Dozens? Thousands? Millions?"
"I see you're willing for me to be killed. You'd protect a crowd of strangers, but you wouldn't rescue me."
Stanley groaned. "God knows I love you, and I don't want you to die, but are you sure you want to save your own life at that price?"
As Kit opened his mouth to reply, his phone rang.
Taking it out of his pocket, he wondered whether Nigel would trust him to answer it. But no one moved, and he held the phone to his ear. He heard the voice of Hamish McKinnon. "Toni's following the snowplow, and she's persuaded them to divert to your place. She'll be there any minute. And there are two police officers in the cab."
Kit ended the call and looked at Nigel. "The police are coming here--now."
7:15 A.M.
CRAIG opened the side door of the garage and peeped out. Three windows were lit in the gable end of the house, but the curtains were drawn, so no casual observer could see him.
He glanced back to where Sophie sat. He had turned out the lights in the garage, but he knew she was in the front passenger seat of Luke's Ford, her pink anorak pulled close around her against the cold. He waved in her direction, then stepped outside.
Moving as quickly as he could, lifting his feet high as he stepped in the deep snow, he went along the blind wall of the garage until he came level with the front of the house.
He was going to get the Ferrari keys. He would have to sneak into the lobby at the back of the kitchen and take them from the key box. Sophie had wanted to go with him, but he had persuaded her that it was more dangerous for two people than for one.
He was more frightened without her. For her sake, he had to pretend to be brave, and that had made him braver. But now he had a bad attack of nerves. As he hesitated at the corner of the house, his hands were shaking and his legs felt strangely weak. He could easily be caught by the strangers, and then he did not know what he would do. He had never been in a real fight, not since he was about eight years old. He knew boys of his own age who fought--outside a pub, usually, on a Saturday night--and all of them, without exception, were stupid. The three strangers in the kitchen were none of them much bigger than Craig, but all the same he was frightened of them. It seemed to him that they would know what to do in a fight, and he had no idea. Anyway, they had guns. They might shoot him. How much would that hurt?
He looked along the front of the house. He was going to have to pass the windows of the living room and the dining room, where the curtains were not drawn. The snowfall was not as thick as before, and he could easily be seen by someone glancing out.
He forced himself to move forward.
He stopped at the first window and looked into the living room. Fairy lights flashed on the Christmas tree, dimly outlining the familiar couches and tables, the television set, and four oversize children's stockings on the floor in front of the fireplace, stuffed with boxes and packages.
There was no one in the room.
He walked on. The snow seemed deeper here, blown into a drift by the wind off the sea. Wading through it was surprisingly tiring. He almost felt like lying down. He realized he had been without sleep for twenty-four hours. He shook himself and pressed on. Passing the front door, he half-expected that it would suddenly fly open, and the Londoner in the pink sweater would leap out and grab him. But nothing happened.
As he drew level with the dark dining-room windows, he was startled by a soft bark. For a moment his heart seemed to bang against his chest, then he realized it was only Nellie. They must have shut her in there. The dog recognized Craig's silhouette and gave a low let-me-out-of-here whine. "Quiet, Nellie, for God's sake," he murmured. He doubted whether the dog could hear him, but she fell silent anyway.
He passed the parked cars, Miranda's Toyota Previa and Hugo's Mercedes-Benz station wagon. Their sides as well as their tops were all white, so that they looked as if they might be snow all the way through, snow cars for snowmen. He rounded the corner of the house. There was a light in the window of the boot lobby. Cautiously, he peeped aro
und the edge of the window frame. He could see the big walk-in cupboard where anoraks and boots were kept. There was a watercolor of Steepfall that must have been painted by Aunt Miranda, a yard brush leaning in a corner--and the steel key box, screwed to the wall.
The door from the lobby to the kitchen was closed. That was lucky.
He listened, but he could not hear anything from inside the house.
What happened when you punched someone? In the cinema they just fell down, but he was pretty sure that would not happen in real life. More important, what happened when someone punched you? How much did it hurt? What if they did it again and again? And what was it like to be shot? He had heard somewhere that the most painful thing in the world was a bullet in the stomach. He was absolutely terrified, but he forced himself to move.
He grasped the handle of the back door, turned it as gently as he could, and pushed. The door swung open and he stepped inside. The lobby was a small room, six feet long, narrowed by the brickwork of the massive old chimney and the deep cupboard beside it. The key box hung on the chimney wall. Craig reached to open it. There were twenty numbered hooks, some with single keys and some with bunches, but he instantly recognized the Ferrari keys. He grasped them and lifted, but the fob snagged on the hook. He jiggled it, fighting down panic. Then someone rattled the handle of the kitchen door.
Craig's heart leaped in his chest. The person was trying to open the door between the kitchen and the lobby. He or she had turned the handle, but was obviously unfamiliar with the house and was pushing instead of pulling. In the moment of delay, Craig stepped into the coat cupboard and closed the door behind him.
He had done it without thought, abandoning the keys. As soon as he was inside, he realized it would have been almost as quick to go out of the back door into the garden. He tried to remember whether he had closed the back door. He thought not. And had fresh snow fallen from his boots onto the floor? That would reveal that someone had been there in the last minute or so, for otherwise it would have melted. And he had left the key box open.
An observant person would see the clues and guess the truth in an instant.
He held his breath and listened.
***
NIGEL rattled the handle until he realized that the door opened inward, not out. He pulled it wide and looked into the boot lobby. "No good," he said. "Door and a window." He crossed the kitchen and flung open the door to the pantry. "This will do. No other doors and only one window, overlooking the courtyard. Elton, put them in here."
"It's cold in there," Olga protested. There was an air-conditioning unit in the pantry.
"Oh, stop it, you'll make me cry," Nigel said sarcastically.
"My husband needs a doctor."
"After punching me, he's lucky he doesn't need a fucking undertaker." Nigel turned back to Elton. "Stuff something in their mouths so they can't make a noise. Quick, we may not have much time!"
Elton found a drawer full of clean tea towels. He gagged Stanley, Olga, and Hugo, who was now conscious, though dazed. Then he got the bound prisoners to their feet and pushed them into the pantry.
"Listen to me," Nigel said to Kit. Nigel was superficially calm, planning ahead and giving orders, but he was pale, and the expression on his narrow, cynical face was grim. Beneath the surface, Kit saw, he was wound as tight as a guitar string. "When the police get here, you're going to the door," Nigel went on. "Speak to them nicely, look relaxed, the law-abiding citizen. Say that nothing's wrong here, and everyone in the house is still asleep except you."
Kit did not know how he was going to appear relaxed when he felt as if he were facing a firing squad. He gripped the back of a kitchen chair to stop himself shaking. "What if they want to come in?"
"Discourage them. If they insist, bring them into the kitchen. We'll be in that little back room." He pointed to the boot lobby. "Just get rid of them as fast as you can."
"Toni Gallo is coming along with the police," Kit said. "She's head of security at the lab."
"Well, tell her to go away."
"She'll want to see my father."
"Say she can't."
"She may not take no for an answer--"
Nigel raised his voice. "For crying out loud, what is she going to do--knock you down and walk in over your unconscious body? Just tell her to fuck off."
"All right," Kit said. "But we need to keep my sister Miranda quiet. She's hiding in the attic."
"Attic? Where?"
"Directly above this room. Look inside the first cupboard in the dressing room. Behind the suits is a low door leading into the roof space."
Nigel did not ask how Kit knew Miranda was there. He looked at Daisy. "Take care of it."
***
MIRANDA saw her brother speaking to Nigel and heard his words as he betrayed her.
She crossed the attic in a moment and crawled through the door into Daddy's suit cupboard. She was panting hard, her heart was racing, and she felt flushed, but she was not in a panic, not yet. She jumped out of the cupboard into the dressing room.
She had heard Kit say the police were coming and, for a joyful moment, she had thought they were saved. All she had to do was sit tight until men in blue uniforms walked in through the front door and arrested the thieves. Then she had listened with horror as Nigel rapidly devised a way of getting rid of the police. What was she to do if the police seemed about to leave without arresting anyone? She had decided she would open a bedroom window and start screaming.
Now Kit had spoiled that plan.
She was terrified of meeting Daisy again, but she held on to her reason, just.
She could hide in Kit's bedroom, on the other side of the landing, while Daisy searched the attic. That would not fool Daisy for more than a few seconds, but it might give Miranda just long enough to open a window and yell for help.
She ran through the bedroom. As she put her hand on the doorknob, she heard heavy boots on the stairs. She was too late.
The door flew open. Miranda hid behind it. Daisy stormed through the bedroom and into the dressing room without looking back.
Miranda slipped out of the door. She crossed the landing and stepped into Kit's room. She ran to the window and pulled back the curtains, hoping to see police cars with flashing lights.
There was no one outside.
She peered in the direction of the lane. It was getting light, and she could see the trees laden with snow at the edge of the wood, but no cars. She almost despaired. Daisy would take only a few seconds to look around the attic and make sure no one was there. Then she would check the rest of the upstairs rooms. Miranda needed more time. How far away could the police be?
Was there any way she could shut Daisy in the attic?
She did not give herself a second to worry about risks. She ran back to her father's room. She could see the door of the suit cupboard standing open. Daisy must be in the attic right now, staring around with those bruised-looking eyes, wondering if there were any hiding places big enough to conceal a grown woman, somewhat overweight.
Without forethought, Miranda closed the cupboard door.
There was no lock, but it was made of solid wood. If she could jam it shut, Daisy would have trouble busting it open, especially as she would have little room to maneuver inside the cupboard.
There was a narrow gap at the bottom of the door. If she could wedge something into it, the door would stick, at least for a few seconds. What could she use? She needed a piece of wood, or cardboard, or even a sheaf of paper. She pulled open her father's bedside drawer and found a volume of Proust.
She started ripping pages out.
***
KIT heard the dog bark in the next room.
It was a loud, aggressive bark, the kind she gave when a stranger was at the door. Someone was coming. Kit pushed through the swing door that led to the dining room. The dog was standing with her forepaws on the windowsill.
Kit went to the window. The snow had eased to a light scatter of flakes. He looked toward
the woods and saw, emerging from the trees, a big truck with a flashing orange light on top and a snowplow blade in front.
"They're here!" he called out.
Nigel came in. The dog growled, and Kit said, "Shut up." Nellie retreated to a corner. Nigel flattened himself against the wall beside the window and peered out.
The snowplow cleared a path eight or ten feet wide. It passed the front door and came as close as it could to the parked cars. At the last moment it turned, sweeping away the snow in front of Hugo's Mercedes and Miranda's Previa. Then it reversed to the garage block, turned off the drive, and cleared a swath of the concrete apron in front of the garage doors. As it did so, a light-colored Jaguar S-type came past it, using the track it had made in the snow, and pulled up at the front door.
A figure got out of the car: a tall, slim woman with bobbed hair, wearing a leather flying jacket with a sheepskin lining. In the reflected light from the headlamps, Kit recognized Toni Gallo.
"Get rid of her," said Nigel.
"What's happened to Daisy? She's taking a long time--"
"She'll deal with your sister."
"She'd better."
"I trust Daisy more than I trust you. Now go to the door." Nigel retreated into the boot lobby with Elton.
Kit went to the front door and opened it.
Toni was helping someone out of the back of the car. Kit frowned. It was an old lady in a long wool coat and a fur hat. He said aloud, "What the hell . . . ?"
Toni took the old lady's arm and they turned around. Toni's face darkened with disappointment when she saw who had come to the door. "Hello, Kit," she said. She walked the old woman toward the house.
Kit said, "What do you want?"
"I've come to see your father. There's an emergency at the laboratory."
"Daddy's asleep."
"He'll want to wake up for this, trust me."
"Who's the old woman?"
"This lady is my mother, Mrs. Kathleen Gallo."
"And I'm not an old woman," said the old woman. "I'm seventy-one, and as fit as a butcher's dog, so mind your manners."
"All right, Mother, he didn't mean to be rude."
Kit ignored that. "What's she doing here?"