Whiteout

  "He's a selfish little bastard. What reason did he give you?"

  "I didn't question him."

  "Well, I will." Olga took her mobile phone from her briefcase and pressed a number.

  "Don't make an issue of this," Miranda pleaded.

  "I just want to ask him the question." Speaking into the phone, she said: "Kit--what's this about you sleeping in the cottage? Don't you think it's a bit--" She paused. "Oh. Why not?. . . I see. . . but why don't you--" She stopped abruptly, as if he had hung up on her.

  Miranda thought, sadly, that she knew what Kit had said. "What is it?"

  Olga put the phone back into her bag. "We don't need to argue about the cottage. He's changed his mind. He's not coming to Steepfall after all."

  9 A.M.

  OXENFORD MEDICAL was under siege. Reporters, photographers, and television crews massed outside the entrance gates, harassing employees as they arrived for work, crowding around their cars and bicycles, shoving cameras and microphones in their faces, shouting questions. The security guards were trying desperately to separate the media people from the normal traffic, to prevent accidents, but were getting no cooperation from the journalists. To make matters worse, a group of animal-rights protesters had seized the opportunity for some publicity, and were holding a demonstration at the gates, waving banners and singing protest songs. The cameramen were filming the demonstration, having little else to shoot. Toni Gallo watched, feeling angry and helpless.

  She was in Stanley Oxenford's office, a large corner room that had been the master bedroom of the house. Stanley worked with the old and the new mingled around him: his computer workstation stood on a scratched wooden table he had had for thirty years, and on a side table was an optical microscope from the sixties that he still liked to use from time to time. The microscope was now surrounded by Christmas cards, one of them from Toni. On the wall, a Victorian engraving of the periodic table of the elements hung beside a photograph of a striking black-haired girl in a wedding dress--his late wife, Marta.

  Stanley mentioned his wife often. "As cold as a church, Marta used to say. . . When Marta was alive we went to Italy every other year. . . Marta loved irises." But he had spoken of his feelings about her only once. Toni had said how beautiful Marta looked in the photograph. "The pain fades, but it doesn't go away," Stanley said. "I believe I'll grieve for her every day for the rest of my life." It had made Toni wonder whether anyone would ever love her the way Stanley had loved Marta.

  Now Stanley stood beside Toni at the window, their shoulders not quite touching. They watched with dismay as more Volvos and Subarus parked on the grass verge, and the crowd became noisier and more aggressive.

  "I'm so sorry about this," Toni said miserably.

  "Not your fault."

  "I know you said no more self-pity, but I let a rabbit get through my security cordon, then my bastard ex-partner leaked the story to Carl Osborne, the television reporter."

  "I gather you don't get on with your ex."

  She had never talked candidly to Stanley about this, but Frank had now intruded into her working life, and she welcomed the chance to explain. "I honestly don't know why Frank hates me. I never rejected him. He left me--and he did it at a moment when I really needed help and support. You'd think he'd punished me enough for whatever I did wrong. But now this."

  "I can understand it. You're a standing reproach to him. Every time he sees you, he's reminded of how weak and cowardly he was when you needed him."

  Toni had never thought about Frank in quite that way, and now his behavior made a kind of sense. She felt a warm surge of gratitude. Careful not to show too much emotion, she said, "That's perceptive."

  He shrugged. "We never forgive those we've wronged."

  Toni smiled at the paradox. Stanley was clever about people as well as viruses.

  He put a hand on her shoulder lightly, a gesture of reassurance--or was it something more? He rarely made physical contact with his employees. She had felt his touch exactly three times in the year she had known him. He had shaken her hand when he gave her the initial contract, when he took her on the staff, and when he promoted her. At the Christmas party, he had danced with his secretary, Dorothy, a heavy woman with a maternally efficient manner, like an attentive mother duck. He had not danced with anyone else. Toni had wanted to ask him, but she was afraid of making her feelings obvious. Afterward she had wished she were more brash, like Susan Mackintosh.

  "Frank may not have leaked the story merely to spite you," Stanley said. "I suspect he would have done it anyway. I imagine Osborne will show his gratitude by reporting favorably on the Inverburn police in general and Superintendent Frank Hackett in particular."

  His hand warmed her skin through the silk of her blouse. Was this a casual gesture, made without thought? She suffered the familiar frustration of not knowing what was in his mind. She wondered if he could feel her bra strap. She hoped he could not tell how much she enjoyed being touched by him.

  She was not sure he was right about Frank and Carl Osborne. "It's generous of you to look at it that way," she said. All the same, she resolved that somehow she would make sure the company did not suffer from what Frank had done.

  There was a knock at the door and Cynthia Creighton, the company's public-relations officer, came in. Stanley took his hand off Toni's shoulder quickly.

  Cynthia was a thin woman of fifty in a tweed skirt and knitted stockings. She was a sincere do-gooder. Toni had once made Stanley laugh by saying Cynthia was the kind of person who made her own granola. Normally hesitant in manner, she was now on the edge of hysteria. Her hair was disheveled, she was breathing hard, and she talked too fast. "Those people shoved me," she said. "They're animals! Where are the police?"

  "A patrol car is on its way," Toni said. "They should be here in ten or fifteen minutes."

  "They should arrest the lot of them."

  Toni realized, with a sinking feeling, that Cynthia was not capable of dealing with this crisis. Her main job was to dispense a small charity budget, giving grants to school football teams and sponsored walkers, ensuring that the name of Oxenford Medical appeared frequently in the Inverburn Courier, in stories that had nothing to do with viruses or experiments on animals. It was important work, Toni knew, for readers believed the local press, whereas they were skeptical of national newspapers. Consequently, Cynthia's low-key publicity immunized the company against the virulent Fleet Street scare stories that could blight any scientific enterprise. But Cynthia had never dealt with the jackal pack that was the British press in full cry, and she was too distressed to make good decisions.

  Stanley was thinking the same thing. "Cynthia, I want you to work with Toni on this," he said. "She has experience of the media from her time with the police."

  Cynthia looked relieved and grateful. "Have you?"

  "I did a year in the press office--although I never dealt with anything this bad."

  "What do you think we should do?"

  "Well." Toni did not feel she was qualified to take charge, but this was an emergency, and it seemed she was the best candidate available. She went back to first principles. "There's a simple rule for dealing with the media." It might be too simple for this situation, she thought, but she did not say so. "One, decide what your message is. Two, make sure it's true, so that you'll never have to go back on it. Three, keep saying it over and over again."

  "Hmm." Stanley looked skeptical, but he did not seem to have a better suggestion.

  Cynthia said, "Don't you think we should apologize?"

  "No," Toni said quickly. "It will be interpreted as confirmation that we've been careless. That's not true. Nobody's perfect, but our security is top-notch."

  Stanley said, "Is that our message?"

  "I don't think so. Too defensive." Toni thought for a moment. "We should start by saying that we're doing work here which is vital for the future of the human race. No, that's too apocalyptic. We're doing medical research that will save lives--that's better
. And it has its hazards, but our security is as tight as mortal beings can make it. One thing certain is that many people will die unnecessarily if we stop."

  "I like that," said Stanley.

  "Is it true?" Toni asked.

  "No question. Every year a new virus comes out of China and kills thousands. Our drug will save their lives."

  Toni nodded. "That's perfect. Simple and telling."

  Stanley was still worried. "How will we get the message across?"

  "I think you should call a press conference in a couple of hours' time. By midday the news desks will be looking for a fresh angle on the story, so they'll be glad to get something more from us. And most of these people outside will leave once that's happened. They'll know that further developments are unlikely, and they want to go home for Christmas like everyone else."

  "I hope you're right," Stanley said. "Cynthia, will you make the arrangements, please?"

  Cynthia had not yet recovered her composure. "But what should I do?"

  Toni took over. "We'll hold the press conference in the Great Hall. It's the only room big enough, and the chairs are already being set out for Professor Oxenford's address to the staff at half past nine. The first thing you should do is alert the people outside. It will give them something to tell their editors, and might calm them down a bit. Then phone the Press Association and Reuters and ask them to put it on the wire, to inform any of the media who aren't already here."

  "Right," Cynthia said uncertainly. "Right." She turned to go. Toni made a mental note to check on her as soon as possible.

  As Cynthia left, Dorothy buzzed Stanley and said, "Laurence Mahoney from the United States embassy in London is on line one."

  "I remember him," Toni said. "He was here a few months ago. I showed him around." The U.S. military was financing much of Oxenford Medical's research. The Department of Defense was keenly interested in Stanley's new antiviral drug, which promised to be a powerful counter to biological warfare. Stanley had needed to raise money for the prolonged testing process, and the American government had been eager to invest. Mahoney kept an eye on things on behalf of the Defense Department.

  "Just a minute, Dorothy." Stanley did not pick up the phone. He said to Toni, "Mahoney is more important to us than all the British media put together. I don't want to talk to him cold. I need to know what line he's taking, so that I can think about how to handle him."

  "Do you want me to stall him?"

  "Feel him out."

  Toni picked up the handset and touched a button. "Hello, Larry, this is Toni Gallo, we met in September. How are you?"

  Mahoney was a peevish press officer with a whiny voice that made Toni think of Donald Duck. "I'm worried," he said.

  "Tell me why."

  "I was hoping to speak to Professor Oxenford," he answered with an edge to his voice.

  "And he's keen to talk to you at the first opportunity," Toni said as sincerely as she could manage. "Right now he's with the laboratory director." In fact he was sitting on the edge of his desk, watching her, with an expression on his face that might have been either fond or merely interested. She caught his eye and he looked away. "He'll call you as soon as he has the complete picture--which will certainly be before midday."

  "How the hell did you let something like this happen?"

  "The young man sneaked a rabbit out of the laboratory in his duffel bag. We've already instituted a compulsory bag search at the entrance to BSL4 to make sure it can't happen again."

  "My concern is bad publicity for the American government. We don't want to be blamed for unleashing deadly viruses on the population of Scotland."

  "There's no danger of that," Toni said with her fingers crossed.

  "Have any of the local reports played up the fact that this research is American-financed?"

  "No."

  "They'll pick it up sooner or later."

  "We should certainly be prepared to answer questions about that."

  "The most damaging angle for us--and therefore for you--is the one that says the research is done here because Americans think it's too dangerous to be done in the United States."

  "Thanks for the warning. I think we have a very convincing response to that. After all, the drug was invented right here in Scotland by Professor Oxenford, so it's natural it should be tested here."

  "I just don't want to get into a situation where the only way to prove our goodwill is to transfer the research to Fort Detrick."

  Toni was shocked into silence. Fort Detrick, in the town of Frederick, Maryland, housed the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. How could the research be transferred there? It would mean the end of the Kremlin. After a long pause, she said, "We're not in that situation, not by a million miles." She wished she could think of a more devastating put-down.

  "I sure hope not. Have Stanley call me."

  "Thank you, Larry." She hung up and said to Stanley, "They can't transfer your research to Fort Detrick, can they?"

  He went pale. "There's certainly no provision in the contract to that effect," he said. "But they are the government of the most powerful country in the world, and they can do anything they want. What would I do--sue them? I'd be in court for the rest of my life, even if I could afford it."

  Toni was rocked by seeing Stanley appear vulnerable. He was always the calm, reassuring one who knew how to solve the problem. Now he just looked daunted. She would have liked to give him a comforting hug. "Would they do it?"

  "I'm sure the microbiologists at Fort Detrick would prefer to be doing this research themselves, if they had the choice."

  "Where would that leave you?"

  "Bankrupt."

  "What?" Toni was appalled.

  "I've invested everything in the new laboratory," Stanley said grimly. "I have a personal overdraft of a million pounds. Our contract with the Department of Defense would cover the cost of the lab over four years. But if they pull the rug now, I've got no way of paying the debts--either the company's or my own."

  Toni could hardly take it in. How could Stanley's entire future--and her own--be threatened so suddenly? "But the new drug is worth millions."

  "It will be, eventually. I'm sure of the science--that's why I was happy to borrow so much money. But I didn't foresee that the project might be destroyed by mere publicity."

  She touched his arm. "And all because a stupid television personality needs a scare story," she said. "I can hardly believe it."

  Stanley patted the hand she had rested on his arm, then removed it and stood up. "No point in whining. We've just got to manage our way out of this."

  "Yes. You're due to speak to the staff. Are you ready?"

  "Yes." They walked out of his office together. "It will be good practice for the press later."

  As they passed Dorothy's desk, she held up a hand to stop them. "One moment, please," she said into the phone. She touched a button and spoke to Stanley. "It's the First Minister of Scotland," she said. "Personally," she added, evidently impressed. "He wants a word."

  Stanley said to Toni, "Go down to the hall and hold them. I'll be as quick as I can." He went back into his office.

  9:30 A.M.

  KIT OXENFORD waited more than an hour for Harry McGarry.

  McGarry, known as Harry Mac, had been born in Govan, a working-class district of Glasgow. He was raised in a tenement near Ibrox Park, the home of the city's Protestant football team, Rangers. With his profits from drugs, illegal gambling, theft, and prostitution, he had moved--only a mile geographically, but a long way socially--across the Paisley Road to Dumbreck. Now he lived in a large new-built house with a pool.

  The place was decorated like an expensive hotel, with reproduction furniture and framed prints on the wall, but no personal touches: no family photographs, no ornaments, no flowers, no pets. Kit waited nervously in the spacious hall, staring at the striped yellow wallpaper and the spindly legs of the occasional tables, watched by a fat bodyguard in a cheap black suit.

>   Harry Mac's empire covered Scotland and the north of England. He worked with his daughter, Diana, always called Daisy. The nickname was ironic: she was a violent, sadistic thug.

  Harry owned the illegal casino where Kit played. Licensed casinos in Britain suffered under all kinds of petty laws that limited their profits: no house percentage, no table fee, no tipping, no drinking at the tables, and you had to be a member for twenty-four hours before you could play. Harry ignored the laws. Kit liked the louche atmosphere of an illegitimate game.

  Most gamblers were stupid, Kit believed; and the people who ran casinos were not much brighter. An intelligent player should always win. In blackjack there was a correct way to play every possible hand--a system called Basic--and he knew it backwards. Then, he improved his chances by keeping track of the cards that were dealt from the six-pack deck. Starting with zero, he added one point for every low card--twos, threes, fours, fives, and sixes--and took away one point for every high card--tens, jacks, queens, kings, and aces. (He ignored sevens, eights, and nines.) When the number in his head was positive, the remaining deck contained more high cards than low, so he had a better-than-average chance of drawing a ten. A negative number gave a high probability of drawing a low card. Knowing the odds told him when to bet heavily.

  But Kit had suffered a run of bad luck and, when the debt reached fifty thousand pounds, Harry asked for his money.

  Kit had gone to his father and begged to be rescued. It was humiliating, of course. When Stanley had fired him, Kit had accused his father bitterly of not caring about him. Now he was admitting the truth: his father did love him, and would do almost anything for him, and Kit knew that perfectly well. His pretense had collapsed ignominiously. But it was worth it. Stanley had paid.

  Kit had promised he would never gamble again, and meant it, but the temptation had been too strong. It was madness; it was a disease; it was shameful and humiliating; but it was the most exciting thing in the world, and he could not resist.

  Next time his debt reached fifty thousand, he went back to his father, but this time Stanley put his foot down. "I haven't got the money," he said. "I could borrow it, perhaps, but what's the point? You'd lose it and come back for more until we both were broke." Kit had accused him of heartlessness and greed, called him Shylock and Scrooge and fucking Fagin, and sworn never to speak to him again. The words had hurt--he could always hurt his father, he knew that--but Stanley had not changed his mind.