Whiteout - Ken Follett [90]
But what could he do? If he tried to abort the heist and take the virus samples back to the lab, Nigel would kill him, or let Daisy do it. He thought of opening the van door and jumping out. It was going slowly enough. He might disappear into the blizzard before they could catch him. But then they would still have the virus, and he would still owe Harry a quarter of a million pounds.
He had to see this through to the end. Maybe, when it was all over, he could send an anonymous message to the police, naming Nigel and Daisy, and hope that the virus could be traced before it was used. Or maybe he would be wiser to stick to his plan and vanish. No one would want to start a plague in Lucca.
Maybe the virus would be released on his plane to Italy, and he would pay the penalty himself. There would be justice.
Peering ahead through the snowstorm, he saw an illuminated sign that read “Motel.” Elton turned off the road. There was a light over the door, and eight or nine cars in the car park. The place was open. Kit wondered who would spend Christmas at a motel. Hindus, perhaps, and stranded businessmen, and illicit lovers.
Elton pulled up next to a Vauxhall Astra station wagon. “The idea was to ditch the van here,” he said. “It’s too easily identifiable. We’re supposed to go back to the airstrip in that Astra. But I don’t know if we’re going to make it.”
From the back, Daisy said, “You stupid prick, why didn’t you bring a Land Rover?”
“Because the Astra is one of the most popular and least noticeable cars in Britain, and the forecast said no snow, you ugly cow.”
“Knock it off, you two,” Nigel said calmly. He pulled off his wig and glasses. “Take off your disguises. We don’t know how soon those guards will be giving descriptions to the police.”
The others followed suit.
Elton said, “We could stay here, take rooms, wait it out.”
“Dangerous,” Nigel replied. “We’re only a few miles from the lab.”
“If we can’t move, the police can’t either. As soon as the weather eases, we take off.”
“We have an appointment to meet our customer.”
“He’s not going to fly his helicopter in this muck.”
“True.”
Kit’s mobile rang. He checked his laptop. It was a regular call, not one diverted from the Kremlin system. He picked it up. “Yeah?”
“It’s me.” Kit recognized the voice of Hamish McKinnon. “I’m on my mobile, I’ve got to be quick, while Willie’s in the toilet.”
“What’s happening?”
“She arrived just after you left.”
“I saw the car.”
“She found the other guards tied up and called the police.”
“Can they get there, in this weather?”
“They said they’d try. She just came up to the gatehouse and told us to expect them. When they’ll get here—Sorry, gotta go.” He hung up.
Kit pocketed his phone. “Toni Gallo has found the guards,” he announced. “She’s called the police, and they’re on their way.”
“That settles it,” Nigel said. “Let’s get in the Astra.”
1:45 A.M.
AS Craig slipped his hand under the hem of Sophie’s sweater, he heard steps. He broke the clinch and looked around.
His sister was coming down from the hayloft in her nightdress. “I feel a bit strange,” she said, and crossed the room to the bathroom.
Thwarted, Craig turned his attention to the film on TV. The old witch, transformed into a beautiful girl, was seducing a handsome knight.
Caroline emerged, saying, “That bathroom smells of puke.” She climbed the ladder and went back to bed.
“No privacy here,” Sophie said in a low voice.
“Like trying to make love in Glasgow Central Station,” Craig said, but he kissed her again. This time, she opened her lips and her tongue met his. He was so pleased that he moaned with delight.
He put his hand all the way up inside her sweater and felt her breast. It was small and warm. She was wearing a thin cotton bra. He squeezed gently, and she gave an involuntary groan of pleasure.
Tom’s voice piped: “Will you two stop grunting? I can’t sleep!”
They stopped kissing. Craig took his hand out from under her sweater. He was ready to explode with frustration. “I’m sorry about this,” he murmured.
Sophie said, “Why don’t we go somewhere else?