Whiteout - Ken Follett [86]
Curly yellow air hoses dangled from the ceiling. Kit grabbed one and connected it to the inlet on Nigel’s belt and saw Nigel’s suit begin to inflate. He did the same for himself and heard the inward rush of air. His terror abated.
A row of rubber boots stood by the door, but Kit ignored them. Their main purpose was to protect the feet of the suits and prevent them wearing out.
He surveyed the lab, getting his bearings, trying to forget the danger and concentrate on what he had to do. The place had a shiny look due to the epoxy paint used to make the walls airtight. Microscopes and computer workstations stood on stainless-steel benches. There was a fax machine for sending your notes out—paper could not be taken into the showers or passed through the autoclaves. Kit noted fridges for storing samples, biosafety cabinets for handling hazardous materials, and a rack of rabbit cages under a clear plastic cover. The red light over the door would flash when the phone rang, as it was difficult to hear inside the suits. The blue light would warn of an emergency. Closed-circuit television cameras covered every corner of the room.
Kit pointed to a door. “I think the vault is through there.” He crossed the room, his air hose extending as he moved. He opened the door on a room no bigger than a closet, containing an upright refrigerator with a keypad combination lock. The LED keys were scrambled, so that the order of numbers in the squares was different every time. This made it impossible to figure out the code by watching someone’s fingers. But Kit had installed the lock, so he knew the combination—unless it had been changed.
He keyed the numbers and pulled the handle.
The door opened.
Nigel looked over his shoulder.
Measured doses of the precious antiviral drug were kept in disposable syringes, ready for use. The syringes were packaged in small cardboard boxes. Kit pointed to the shelf. He raised his voice so that Nigel could hear him through the suit. “This is the drug.”
Nigel said, “I don’t want the drug.”
Kit wondered if he had misheard. “What?” he shouted.
“I don’t want the drug.”
Kit was astounded. “What are you talking about? Why are we here?”
Nigel did not respond.
On the second shelf were samples of various viruses ready to be used to infect laboratory animals. Nigel looked carefully at the labels, then selected a sample of Madoba-2.
Kit said, “What the hell do you want that for?”
Without answering, Nigel took all the remaining samples of the same virus from the shelf, twelve boxes altogether.
One was enough to kill someone. Twelve could start an epidemic. Kit would have been reluctant to touch the boxes, even wearing a biohazard suit. But what was Nigel up to?
Kit said, “I thought you were working for one of the pharmaceutical giants.”
“I know.”
Nigel could afford to pay Kit three hundred thousand pounds for tonight’s work. Kit did not know what Elton and Daisy were getting but, even if it were a smaller fee, Nigel had to be spending something like half a million. To make that worth his while, he must be getting a million from the customer, maybe two. The drug was worth that, easily. But who would pay a million pounds for a sample of a deadly virus?
As soon as Kit asked himself the question, he knew the answer.
Nigel carried the sample boxes across the laboratory and placed them in a biosafety cabinet.
A biosafety cabinet was a glass case with a slot at the front through which the scientist could put his arms in order to perform experiments. A pump ensured that the flow of air ran from outside the cabinet to inside. A perfect seal was not considered necessary when the scientist was wearing a suit.
Next, Nigel opened the burgundy leather briefcase. The top was lined with blue plastic cooler packs. Virus samples needed to be kept at low temperatures, Kit knew. The bottom half of the briefcase was filled with white polystyrene chips of the kind used to package delicate objects. Lying on the chips, like a precious jewel, was an ordinary perfume spray bottle, empty. Kit recognized the bottle. It was