Whiteout - Ken Follett [12]
He took his coffee into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. At one time he had been on the British team for the Winter Olympics, and he had spent every weekend either skiing or training. Then, he had been as lean and fit as a greyhound. Now he saw a little softness in his outline. “You’re putting on weight,” he said. But he still had thick brown hair that flopped adorably over his forehead. His face looked strained. He tried his Hugh Grant expression, head down bashfully, looking up out of the corners of his blue eyes with a winning smile. Yes, he could still do it. Toni Gallo might be immune, but Maureen had fallen for it only last night.
While shaving, he turned on the bathroom TV and got a local news program. The British Prime Minister had arrived in his Scottish constituency for Christmas. Glasgow Rangers had paid nine million pounds for a striker called Giovanni Santangelo. “There’s a good old Scots name,” Kit said to himself. The weather was going to continue cold but clear. A fierce blizzard in the Norwegian Sea was drifting south, but was expected to pass to the west of Scotland. Then came a local news story that froze Kit’s blood.
He heard the familiar voice of Carl Osborne, a Scottish television celebrity with a reputation for lurid reports. Glancing at the screen, Kit saw the very building he was planning to rob tonight. Osborne was broadcasting from outside the gates of Oxenford Medical. It was still dark, but powerful security lights illuminated the ornate Victorian architecture. “What the hell is this?” Kit said worriedly.
Osborne said, “Scientists experiment with some of the most dangerous viruses in the world right here in Scotland, in the building behind me, dubbed ‘Frankenstein’s Castle’ by local people.”
Kit had never heard anyone call it “Frankenstein’s Castle.” Osborne was making that up. Its nickname was the Kremlin.
“But today, in what seems to some observers to be Nature’s retribution for Mankind’s meddling, a young technician died of one of these viruses.”
Kit put down his razor. This would be woundingly bad publicity for Oxenford Medical, he realized immediately. Normally, he would have gloated at his father’s trouble, but today he was more worried about the effect of such publicity on his own plans.
“Michael Ross, thirty-one, was struck down by a virus called Ebola, after the African village where it germinated. This agonizing affliction causes painful, suppurating boils all over the victim’s body.”
Kit was pretty sure Osborne was getting the facts wrong, but his audience would not know. This was tabloid television. But would the death of Michael Ross jeopardize Kit’s planned robbery?
“Oxenford Medical has always claimed its research poses no threat to local people or the surrounding countryside, but the death of Michael Ross throws that claim into serious doubt.”
Osborne was wearing a bulky anorak and a woolly hat, and he looked as if he had not slept much last night. Someone had woken him up in the early hours of the morning with a tip-off, Kit guessed.
“Ross may have been bitten by an animal he stole from the laboratory here and took to his home a few miles away,” Osborne went on.
“Oh, no,” said Kit. This was getting worse and worse. Surely he was not going to be forced to abandon his grand scheme? It would be too much to bear.
“Did Michael Ross work alone, or was he part of a larger group that may attempt to free more plague-carrying animals from Oxenford Medical’s secret laboratories? Do we face the prospect of innocent-seeming dogs and rabbits roaming free over the Scottish landscape,