Whiteout - Ken Follett [95]
“Yes—but I haven’t been able to persuade the local police of the urgency.”
“Leave that to me. Terrorism comes under the Cabinet Office. Your hometown boys are about to get a phone call from Number Ten Downing Street. What do you need—helicopters? HMS Gannet is an hour away from you.”
“Put them on standby. I don’t think helicopters can fly in this blizzard and, if they could, the crew wouldn’t be able to see what’s on the ground. What I need is a snowplow. They should clear the road from Inverburn to here, and the police should make this their base. Then they can start looking for the fugitives.”
“I’ll make sure it happens. Keep calling me, okay?”
“Thanks, Odette.” Toni hung up.
She turned around. Carl Osborne stood immediately behind her, making notes.
2:30 A.M.
ELTON drove the Vauxhall Astra station wagon slowly, plowing through more than a foot of soft, fresh snow. Nigel sat beside him, clutching the burgundy leather briefcase with its deadly contents. Kit was in the back with Daisy. He kept glancing over Nigel’s shoulder at the briefcase, imagining a car crash in which the briefcase was crushed and the bottle smashed, and the liquid was sprayed into the air like poisoned champagne to kill them all.
He was maddened with impatience as their speed dropped to bicycle pace. He wanted to get to the airfield as fast as possible and put the briefcase in a safe place. Every minute they spent on the open road was dangerous.
But he was not sure they would get there. After leaving the car park of the Dew Drop Inn, they had not seen another moving vehicle. Every mile or so, they passed an abandoned car or truck, some at the side of the road and some right in the middle. One was a police Range Rover on its side.
Suddenly a man stepped into the headlights, waving frantically. He wore a business suit and tie, and had no coat or hat. Elton glanced at Nigel, who murmured, “Don’t even dream of stopping.” Elton drove straight at the man, who dived out of the way at the last moment. As they swept by, Kit glimpsed a woman in a cocktail dress, hugging a thin shawl around her shoulders, standing beside a big Bentley, looking desperate.
They passed the turning for Steepfall, and Kit wished he were a boy again, lying in bed at his father’s house, knowing nothing about viruses or computers or the odds at blackjack.
The snow became so heavy that little was visible through the windshield but whiteness. Elton was almost blind, steering by guesswork, optimism, and glances out of the side windows. Their speed dropped to the pace of a run, then a brisk walk. Kit longed for a more suitable car. In his father’s Toyota Land Cruiser Amazon, parked only a tantalizing couple of miles from where they were right now, they would have had a better chance.
On a hill, the tires began to slip in the snow. The car gradually lost forward momentum. It came to a stop and then, to Kit’s horror, began to slide back. Elton tried braking, but that only made the skid faster. He turned the steering wheel. The back swerved left. Elton spun the wheel in the opposite direction, and the car came to rest slewed at an angle across the road.
Nigel cursed.
Daisy leaned forward and said to Elton, “What did you do that for, you pillock?”
Elton said, “Get out and push, Daisy.”
“Screw you.”
“I mean it,” he said. “The brow of the hill is only a few yards away. I could make it, if someone would give the car a push.”
Nigel said, “We’ll all push.”
Nigel, Daisy, and Kit got out. The cold was bitter, and the snowflakes stung Kit’s eyes. They got behind the car and leaned on it. Only Daisy had gloves. The metal was bitingly cold on Kit’s bare hands. Elton let the clutch out slowly, and they took the strain. Kit’s feet were soaking wet in seconds. But the tires bit. Elton pulled away from them and drove to the top of the hill.
They trudged up the slope, slipping in the snow, panting with the effort, shivering. Were they going to do this on every hill for the next ten miles?
The same thought had occurred to Nigel.