Whiteout - Ken Follett [3]
Monica Ansari spoke with an Edinburgh accent and sounded as if she had been fast asleep. “Howard McAlpine called me earlier, you know.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you again.”
“Has something happened?”
“It’s about Michael Ross. We can’t track him down. I believe you were in BSL4 with him two weeks ago last Sunday.”
“Yes. Just a minute, let me put the light on.” There was a pause. “God, is that the time?”
Toni pressed on. “Michael went on holiday the next day.”
“He told me he was going to see his mother in Devon.”
That rang a bell. Toni recalled the reason she had gone to Michael Ross’s house. About six months ago she had mentioned, in a casual conversation in the canteen, how much she liked Rembrandt’s pictures of old women, with every crease and wrinkle lovingly detailed. You could tell, she had said, how much Rembrandt must have loved his mother. Michael had lit up with enthusiasm and revealed that he had copies of several Rembrandt etchings, cut out of magazines and auction house catalogues. She went home with him after work to see the pictures, all of old women, tastefully framed and covering one wall of his small living room. She worried that he was going to ask her for a date—she liked him, but not that way—but, to her relief, he genuinely wanted only to show off his collection. He was, she had concluded, a mother’s boy.
“That’s helpful,” Toni said to Monica. “Just hold on.” She turned to James Elliot. “Do we have his mother’s contact details on file?”
Elliot moved his mouse and clicked. “She’s listed as next of kin.” He picked up the phone.
Toni spoke to Monica again. “Did Michael seem his normal self that afternoon?”
“Totally.”
“Did you enter BSL4 together?”
“Yes. Then we went to separate changing rooms, of course.”
“When you entered the lab itself, was he already there?”
“Yes, he changed quicker than I did.”
“Did you work alongside him?”
“No. I was in a side lab, dealing with tissue cultures. He was checking on the animals.”
“Did you leave together?”
“He went a few minutes before I did.”
“It sounds to me as if he could have accessed the vault without your knowing about it.”
“Easily.”
“What’s your impression of Michael?”
“He’s all right . . . inoffensive, I suppose.”
“Yeah, that’s a good word for him. Do you know if he has a girlfriend?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you find him attractive?”
“Nice-looking, but not sexy.”
Toni smiled. “Exactly. Anything odd about him, in your experience?”
“No.”
Toni sensed a hesitation, and remained silent, giving the other woman time. Beside her, Elliot was speaking to someone, asking for Michael Ross or his mother.
After a moment, Monica said, “I mean, the fact that someone lives alone doesn’t make them a nutcase, does it?”
Beside Toni, Elliot was saying into the phone, “How very strange. I’m sorry to have troubled you so late at night.”
Toni’s curiosity was piqued by what she could hear of Elliot’s conversation. She ended her call, saying, “Thanks again, Monica. I hope you get back to sleep all right.”
“My husband’s a family doctor,” she said. “We’re used to phone calls in the middle of the night.”
Toni hung up. “Michael Ross had plenty of time to open the vault,” she said. “And he lives alone.” She looked at Elliot. “Did you reach his mother’s house?”
“It’s an old folks’ home,” Elliot said. He looked frightened. “And Mrs. Ross died last winter.”
“Oh, shit,” said Toni.
3 A.M.
POWERFUL security lights lit up the towers and gables of the Kremlin. The temperature was five below zero, but the sky was clear and there was no snow. The building faced a Victorian garden, with mature trees and shrubs. A three-quarter moon shed a gray light on naked nymphs sporting in dry fountains while stone dragons stood guard.
The silence was shattered by the roar of engines as two vans drove out of the garage. Both were marked with the international biohazard symbol, four broken black circles on a vivid yellow background. The guard at the gatehouse had the barrier up already. They drove out and turned south, going dangerously fast.
Toni Gallo was at