Whiteout - Ken Follett [20]
She stared at him. Had she been reprieved?
His expression softened. “All right, you’re a conscientious person and you feel guilty, even though neither you nor anyone else could have anticipated what happened.”
“I could have instituted the bag check.”
“I probably would have vetoed it, on the grounds that it would upset staff.”
“Oh.”
“So I’ll tell you this once. Since you came, our security has been tighter than ever before. You’re damn good, and I aim to keep you. So, please, no more self-pity.”
She suddenly felt weak with relief. “Thank you,” she said.
“Now, we’ve got a busy day ahead—let’s get on with it.” He went out.
She closed her eyes in relief. She had been forgiven. Thank you, she thought.
8:30 A.M.
MIRANDA OXENFORD ordered a cappuccino Viennoise, with a pyramid of whipped cream on top. At the last moment she asked for a piece of carrot cake as well. She stuffed her change into the pocket of her skirt and carried her breakfast to the table where her thin sister Olga was seated with a double espresso and a cigarette. The place was bedecked with paper chains, and a Christmas tree twinkled over the panini toaster, but someone with a nice sense of irony had put the Beach Boys on the music system, and they were singing “Surfin’ USA.”
Miranda often ran into Olga first thing in the morning at this coffee bar in Sauchiehall Street, in the center of Glasgow. They worked nearby: Miranda was managing director of a recruitment agency specializing in IT personnel, and Olga was an advocate. They both liked to take five minutes to gather their thoughts before going into their offices.
They did not look like sisters, Miranda thought, catching a glimpse of her reflection in a mirror. She was short, with curly blond hair, and her figure was, well, cuddly. Olga was tall like Daddy, but she had the same black eyebrows as their late mother, who had been Italian by birth and was always called Mamma Marta. Olga was dressed for work in a dark gray suit and sharply pointed shoes. She could have played the part of Cruella De Vil. She probably terrified juries.
Miranda took off her coat and scarf. She wore a pleated skirt and a sweater embroidered with small flowers. She dressed to charm, not to intimidate. As she sat down, Olga said, “You’re working on Christmas Eve?”
“Just for an hour,” Miranda replied. “To make sure nothing’s left undone over the holiday.”
“Same here.”
“Have you heard the news? A technician at the Kremlin died of a virus.”
“Oh, God, that’s going to blight our Christmas.”
Olga could seem heartless, but she was not really so, Miranda thought. “It was on the radio. I haven’t spoken to Daddy yet, but it seems the poor boy became fond of a lab hamster and took it home.”
“What did he do, have sex with it?”
“It probably bit him. He lived alone, so nobody called for help. At least that means he probably didn’t pass the virus to anyone else. All the same, it’s awful for Daddy. He won’t show it, but he’s sure to feel responsible.”
“He should have gone in for a less hazardous branch of science—something like atomic weapons research.”
Miranda smiled. She was especially pleased to see Olga today. She was glad of the chance of a quiet word. The whole family was about to gather at Steepfall, their father’s house, for Christmas. She was bringing her fiancé, Ned Hanley, and she wanted to make sure Olga would be nice to him. But she approached the subject in a roundabout way. “I hope this doesn’t spoil the holiday. I’ve been looking forward to it so much. You know Kit’s coming?”
“I’m deeply sensible of the honor our little brother is doing us.”
“He wasn’t going to come, but I talked him round.”
“Daddy will be pleased.” Olga spoke with a touch of sarcasm.
“He will, actually,” Miranda said reproachfully. “You know it broke his heart to fire Kit.”
“I know I’ve never seen him so angry. I thought he would kill someone.”
“Then he cried.”
“I didn’t see that.”
“Nor did I. Lori told me.” Lori was Stanley’s housekeeper. “But now he wants to forgive and forget.”
Olga