Whiteout - Ken Follett [72]
Nigel spoke into the phone in his soft London voice. “It’s snowing quite heavily here, but the forecast says the worst of the storm will pass us by . . . Yeah, you will be able to fly tomorrow morning, no problem . . . We’ll be here well before ten . . . I’ll be in the control tower, I’ll talk to you as you come in . . . There won’t be any trouble, so long as you’ve got the money, all of it, in fifties, as agreed.”
The talk of money gave Kit a shiver of excitement. Three hundred thousand pounds, in his hands, in twelve hours and a few minutes. True, he would have to give most of it to Daisy immediately, but he would keep fifty thousand. He wondered how much room fifty grand in fifty-pound notes would take up. Could he keep it in his pockets? He should have brought a briefcase . . .
“Thank you,” Nigel was saying. “Goodbye.” He turned around. “What-ho, Kit. You’re bang on time.”
Kit said, “Who was on the phone—our buyer?”
“His pilot. He’ll be arriving by helicopter.”
Kit frowned. “What will his flight plan say?”
“That he’s taking off from Aberdeen and landing in London. No one will know that he made an unscheduled stop at the Inverburn Flying School.”
“Good.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Nigel said with a touch of sarcasm. Kit constantly questioned him about his areas of responsibility, worried that Nigel, though experienced, was not as educated or as intelligent as he. Nigel answered his questions with an affectation of amusement, obviously feeling that Kit, as an amateur, ought to trust him.
Elton said, “Let’s get dragged up, shall we?” He took from his bag four sets of overalls with “Hibernian Telecom” printed on the back. They all climbed into them.
Kit said to Daisy, “The gloves look odd with the overalls.”
“Too bad,” she said.
Kit stared at her for a few moments, then dropped his gaze. She was trouble, and he wished she were not coming tonight. He was scared of her, but he also hated her, and he was determined to put her down, both to establish his authority and by way of revenge for what she had done to him that morning. There was going to be a clash before long, and he both feared it and longed for it.
Next, Elton handed out faked identity cards that said “Hibernian Telecom Field Maintenance Team.” Kit’s card bore a photograph of an older man who looked nothing like him. The man in the picture had black hair that grew halfway over his ears in a style that had never been fashionable in Kit’s lifetime, plus a heavy Zapata mustache and glasses.
Elton reached into his bag yet again and handed Kit a black wig, a black mustache, and a pair of heavy-framed glasses with tinted lenses. He also gave him a hand mirror and a small tube of glue. Kit glued the mustache to his upper lip and put on the wig. His own hair was mid-brown and cut fashionably short. Looking in the mirror, he was satisfied that the disguise altered his appearance radically. Elton had done a good job.
Kit trusted Elton. His humor covered a ruthless efficiency. He would do whatever was necessary to finish the job, Kit thought.
Tonight Kit planned to avoid anyone among the guards who had been employed at the Kremlin when he was there. However, if he had to speak to any of them, he felt confident they would not recognize him. He had taken off his distinctive jewelry, and he would change his voice.
Elton also had disguises for Nigel, Daisy, and himself. They were not known to anyone at the Kremlin, so they were in no danger of being recognized immediately; but later the security guards would describe the intruders to the police, and the disguises would ensure that those descriptions bore no relation to their actual faces.
Nigel also had a wig, Kit saw. Nigel’s own hair was sandy-colored and short, but his wig was mid-gray and chin-length, making the casually elegant Londoner look like an aging Beatle. He also had glasses with unfashionably large frames.
Daisy had a long blond wig over her shaved head. Tinted contact lenses turned her eyes from brown to bright blue. She was even more hideous than usual. Kit had often wondered about her