Whiteout - Ken Follett [64]
Kit’s phone rang again almost immediately. Kit hoped the guards would now be calling the phone company, but once again he was disappointed. The screen said “Kremlin calls RPHQ.” The guards were ringing regional police headquarters at Inverburn. Kit was happy for the police to be informed. He redirected the call to the correct number and listened in.
“This is Steven Tremlett, security guard supervisor at Oxenford Medical, calling to report an unusual incident.”
“What’s the incident, Mr. Tremlett?”
“No big emergency, but we have a problem with our phone lines, and I’m not sure the alarms will work.”
“I’ll log it. Can you get your phones fixed?”
“I’ll call out a repair crew, but God knows when they’ll get here, being Christmas Eve.”
“Do you want a patrol to call?”
“It wouldn’t do any harm, if they’ve not much on.”
Kit hoped the police would pay a visit to the Kremlin. It would add conviction to his cover.
The policeman said, “They’ll be busy later, when the pubs chuck out, but it’s quiet the noo.”
“Right. Tell them I’ll give them a cup of tea.”
They hung up. Kit’s mobile rang a third time and the screen said: “Kremlin calls Hibernian.” At last, he thought with relief. This was the one he had been waiting for. He touched a button and said into his phone, “Hibernian Telecom, can I help you?”
Steve’s voice said, “This is Oxenford Medical, we have a problem with our phone system.”
Kit exaggerated his Scots accent to disguise his voice. “Would that be Greenmantle Road, Inverburn?”
“Aye.”
“What’s the problem?”
“All the phones are out except this one. The place is empty, of course, but the thing is, the alarm system uses the phone lines, and we need to be sure that’s working properly.”
At that point, Kit’s father walked into the room.
Kit froze, paralyzed with fear and terror, as if he were a child again. Stanley looked at the computer and the mobile phone and raised his eyebrows. Kit pulled himself together. He was no longer a kid frightened of a reprimand. Trying to make himself calm, he said into the phone, “Let me call you back in two minutes.” He touched the keyboard of his laptop, and the screen went dark.
“Working?” his father said.
“Something I have to finish.”
“At Christmas?”
“I said I would deliver this piece of software by December the twenty-fourth.”
“By now your customer will have gone home, like all sensible folk.”
“But his computer will show that I e-mailed the program to him before midnight on Christmas Eve, so he won’t be able to say I was late.”
Stanley smiled and nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re being conscientious.” He stood silent for several seconds, obviously having something else to say. A typical scientist, he thought nothing of long pauses in conversation. The important thing was precision.
Kit waited, trying to hide his frantic impatience. Then his mobile rang.
“Shit,” he said. “Sorry,” he said to his father. He checked his screen. This was not a diverted Kremlin call, but one directly to his mobile from Hamish McKinnon, the security guard. He could not ignore it. He pressed the phone hard to his ear, so that the voice of the caller would not leak out to be heard by his father. “Yes?”
Hamish said excitedly, “All the phones here have gone kaput!”
“Okay, that’s expected, it’s part of the program.”
“You said to tell you if anything unusual—”
“Yes, and you were right to ring me, but I have to hang up now. Thank you.” He ended the call.
His father spoke. “Is our quarrel really behind us now?”
Kit resented this kind of talk. It suggested that the two disputants must be equally guilty. But he was desperate to get back on the phone, so he said, “I think so, yes.”
“I know you think you’ve been unjustly treated,” his father said, reading his mind. “I don’t see your logic, but