Whiteout - Ken Follett [125]
Nigel shrugged and handed over the phone.
“How can you do this, Kit?” Olga said, as Daisy knelt on their father’s back. “How can you watch your family being treated this way?”
“It’s not my fault!” he rejoined angrily. “If you’d behaved decently to me, none of this would have happened.”
“Not your fault?” his father said in bewilderment.
“First you fired me, then you refused to help me financially, so I ended up owing money to gangsters.”
“I fired you because you stole!”
“I’m your son—you should have forgiven me!”
“I did forgive you.”
“Too late.”
“Oh, God.”
“I was forced into this!”
Stanley spoke in a voice of authoritative contempt that was familiar to Kit from childhood: “No one is forced into something like this.”
Kit hated that tone: it used to be a sign that he had done something particularly stupid. “You don’t understand.”
“I fear I understand all too well.”
That was just typical of him, Kit thought. He always thought he knew best. Well, he looked pretty stupid now, with Daisy tying his hands behind his back.
“What is this about, anyway?” Stanley said.
“Shut your gob,” Daisy said.
He ignored her. “What in God’s name are you up to with these people, Kit? And what’s in the perfume bottle?”
“I said shut up!” Daisy kicked Stanley in the face.
He grunted with pain, and blood came out of his mouth.
That will teach you, Kit thought with savage satisfaction.
Nigel said, “Turn on the TV, Kit. Let’s see when this bloody snow is going to stop.”
They watched advertisements: January sales, summer holidays, cheap loans. Elton took Nellie by the collar and shut her in the dining room. Hugo stirred and appeared to be coming round, and Olga spoke to him in a low voice. A newscaster appeared wearing a Santa hat. Kit thought bitterly of other families waking up to normal Christmas celebrations. “A freak blizzard hit Scotland last night, bringing a surprise white Christmas to most of the country this morning,” the newscaster said.
“Shit,” Nigel said with feeling. “How long are we going to be stuck here?”
“The storm, which left dozens of drivers stranded overnight, is expected to ease around daybreak, and the thaw should set in by mid-morning.”
Kit was cheered. They could still make it to the rendezvous.
Nigel had the same thought. “How far away is that four-wheel drive, Kit?”
“A mile.”
“We’ll leave here at first light. Have you got yesterday’s paper?”
“There must be one somewhere—why?”
“Check what time sunrise is.”
Kit went into his father’s study and found The Scotsman in a magazine rack. He brought it into the kitchen. “Four minutes past eight,” he said.
Nigel checked his watch. “Less than an hour.” He looked worried. “But then we have to walk a mile in the snow, and drive another ten. We’re going to be cutting it fine.” He took a phone out of his pocket. He began to dial, then stopped. “Dead battery,” he said. “Elton, give me your phone.” He took Elton’s phone and dialed. “Yeah, it’s me, what about this weather, then?” Kit guessed he was speaking to the customer’s pilot. “Yeah, should ease up in an hour or so . . . I can get there, but can you?” Nigel was pretending to be more confident than he really felt. Once the snow stopped, a helicopter could take off and go anywhere, but it was not so easy for the gang, traveling by road. “Good. So I’ll see you at the appointed time.” He pocketed the phone.
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