Whiteout (7 page)

Stanley looked sad. “Poor boy,” he said. “Poor, foolish boy.”

“Now you know everything I know,” Toni said. She watched him, waiting for the verdict. Was this phase of her life over? Would she be out of work for Christmas?

He gave her a level look. “There's one obvious security precaution we could have taken that would have prevented this.”

“I know,” she said. “A bag search for everyone entering and leaving BSL4.”

“Exactly.”

“I've instituted it from this morning.”

“Thereby closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. He wanted her to quit, she felt sure. “You pay me to stop this kind of thing happening. I've failed. I expect you'd like me to tender my resignation.”

He looked irritated. “If I want to fire you, you'll know soon enough.”

She stared at him. Had she been reprieved?

His expression softened. “All right, you're a conscientious person and you feel guilty, even though neither you nor anyone else could have anticipated what happened.”

“I could have instituted the bag check.”

“I probably would have vetoed it, on the grounds that it would upset staff.”

“Oh.”

“So I'll tell you this once. Since you came, our security has been tighter than ever before. You're damn good, and I aim to keep you. So, please, no more self-pity.”

She suddenly felt weak with relief. “Thank you,” she said.

“Now, we've got a busy day ahead—let's get on with it.” He went out.

She closed her eyes in relief. She had been forgiven. Thank you, she thought.

MIRANDA OXENFORD ordered a cappuccino Viennoise, with a pyramid of whipped cream on top. At the last moment she asked for a piece of carrot cake as well. She stuffed her change into the pocket of her skirt and carried her breakfast to the table where her thin sister Olga was seated with a double espresso and a cigarette. The place was bedecked with paper chains, and a Christmas tree twinkled over the
panini
toaster, but someone with a nice sense of irony had put the Beach Boys on the music system, and they were singing “Surfin' USA.”

Miranda often ran into Olga first thing in the morning at this coffee bar in Sauchiehall Street, in the center of Glasgow. They worked nearby: Miranda was managing director of a recruitment agency specializing in IT personnel, and Olga was an advocate. They both liked to take five minutes to gather their thoughts before going into their offices.

They did not look like sisters, Miranda thought, catching a glimpse of her reflection in a mirror. She was short, with curly blond hair, and her figure was, well, cuddly. Olga was tall like Daddy, but she had the same black eyebrows as their late mother, who had been Italian by birth and was always called Mamma Marta. Olga was dressed for work in a dark gray suit and sharply pointed shoes. She could have played the part of Cruella De Vil. She probably terrified juries.

Miranda took off her coat and scarf. She wore a pleated skirt and a
sweater embroidered with small flowers. She dressed to charm, not to intimidate. As she sat down, Olga said, “You're working on Christmas Eve?”

“Just for an hour,” Miranda replied. “To make sure nothing's left undone over the holiday.”

“Same here.”

“Have you heard the news? A technician at the Kremlin died of a virus.”

“Oh, God, that's going to blight our Christmas.”

Olga could seem heartless, but she was not really so, Miranda thought. “It was on the radio. I haven't spoken to Daddy yet, but it seems the poor boy became fond of a lab hamster and took it home.”

“What did he do, have sex with it?”

“It probably bit him. He lived alone, so nobody called for help. At least that means he probably didn't pass the virus to anyone else. All the same, it's awful for Daddy. He won't show it, but he's sure to feel responsible.”

“He should have gone in for a less hazardous branch of science—something like atomic weapons research.”

Miranda smiled. She was especially pleased to see Olga today. She was glad of the chance of a quiet word. The whole family was about to gather at Steepfall, their father's house, for Christmas. She was bringing her fiancé, Ned Hanley, and she wanted to make sure Olga would be nice to him. But she approached the subject in a roundabout way. “I hope this doesn't spoil the holiday. I've been looking forward to it so much. You know Kit's coming?”

“I'm deeply sensible of the honor our little brother is doing us.”

“He wasn't going to come, but I talked him round.”

“Daddy will be pleased.” Olga spoke with a touch of sarcasm.

“He will, actually,” Miranda said reproachfully. “You know it broke his heart to fire Kit.”

“I know I've never seen him so angry. I thought he would kill someone.”

“Then he cried.”

“I didn't see that.”

“Nor did I. Lori told me.” Lori was Stanley's housekeeper. “But now he wants to forgive and forget.”

Olga stubbed her cigarette. “I know. Daddy's magnanimity is boundless. Does Kit have a job yet?”

“No.”

“Can't you find him something? It's your field, and he's good.”

“Things are quiet—and people know he was sacked by his father.”

“Has he stopped gambling?”

“He must have. He promised Daddy he would. And he's got no money.”

“Daddy paid his debts, didn't he?”

“I don't think we're supposed to know.”

“Come on, Mandy.” Olga was using Miranda's childhood name. “How much?”

“You should ask Daddy—or Kit.”

“Was it ten thousand pounds?”

Miranda looked away.

“More than that? Twenty?”

Miranda whispered, “Fifty.”

“Good God! That little bastard pissed away fifty grand of our inheritance? Wait till I see him.”

“Anyway, enough of Kit. You're going to get to know Ned much better this Christmas. I want you to treat him as one of the family.”

“Ned should
be
one of the family by now. When are you getting married? You're too old for a long engagement. You've both been married before—it's not as if you have to save up for your trousseau.”

This was not the response Miranda was hoping for. She wanted Olga to feel warm toward Ned. “Oh, you know what Ned's like,” she said defensively. “He's lost in his own world.” Ned was editor of
The Glasgow Review of Books,
a respected cultural-political journal, but he was not practical.

“I don't know how you stand it. I can't abide vacillation.”

The conversation was not going the way Miranda wanted. “Believe me, it's a blessed relief after Jasper.” Miranda's first husband had been a
bully and a tyrant. Ned was the opposite, and that was one of the reasons she loved him. “Ned will never be organized enough to boss me around—half the time he can't remember what day it is.”

“Still, you managed perfectly well without a man for five years.”

“I did, and I was proud of myself, especially when the economy turned down and they stopped paying me those big bonuses.”

“So why do you want another man?”

“Well, you know . . .”

“Sex? Oh, please. Haven't you heard of vibrators?”

Miranda giggled. “It's not the same.”

“Indeed it's not. A vibrator is bigger and harder and more reliable and, when you're done with it, you can put it back in the bedside table and forget about it.”

Miranda began to feel attacked, as often happened when she talked to her sister. “Ned's very good with Tom,” she said. Tom was her eleven-year-old son. “Jasper hardly ever spoke to Tom, except to give him orders. Ned takes an interest in him—asks him questions and listens to the answers.”

“Speaking of stepchildren, how does Tom get along with Sophie?” Ned's daughter by his first marriage was fourteen.

“She's coming to Steepfall, too—I'm picking her up later this morning. Tom looks at Sophie the way the Greeks regarded the gods, as supernatural beings who are dangerous unless pacified by constant sacrifices. He's always trying to give her sweets. She'd rather have cigarettes. She's as thin as a stick and prepared to die to stay that way.” Miranda looked pointedly at Olga's pack of Marlboro Lights.

“We all have our weaknesses,” said Olga. “Have some more carrot cake.”

Miranda put down her fork and took a sip of coffee. “Sophie can be difficult, but it's not her fault. Her mother resents me, and the child is bound to pick up that attitude.”

“I bet Ned leaves you to deal with the problem.”

“I don't mind.”

“Now that he's living in your flat, does he pay you rent?”

“He can't afford it. That magazine pays peanuts. And he's still carrying
the mortgage on the house his ex lives in. He's not comfortable about being financially dependent, believe you me.”

“I can't think why he wouldn't be comfortable. He can have a bonk whenever he feels like it, he's got you to look after his difficult daughter, and he's living rent-free.”

Miranda was hurt. “That's a bit harsh.”

“You shouldn't have let him move in without committing to a date for the wedding.”

The same thought had occurred to Miranda, but she was not going to admit it. “He just thinks everyone needs more time to get used to the idea of his remarriage.”

“Who's ‘everyone,' then?”

“Well, Sophie, for a start.”

“And she reflects her mother's attitudes, you've already admitted. So what you're saying is that Ned won't marry you until his ex gives permission.”

“Olga, please take off your advocate's wig when you're talking to me.”

“Someone's got to tell you these things.”

“You oversimplify everything. I know it's your job, but I'm your sister, not a hostile witness.”

“I'm sorry I spoke.”

“I'm glad you spoke, because this is just the kind of thing I
don't
want you to say to Ned. He's the man I love, and I want to marry him, so I'm asking you to be nice to him over Christmas.”

“I'll do my best,” Olga said lightly.

Miranda wanted her sister to understand how important this was. “I need him to feel that he and I can build a new family together, for ourselves and the two children. I'm asking you to help me convince him we can do that.”

“All right. Okay.”

“If this holiday goes well, I think he'll agree to a date for the wedding.”

Olga touched Miranda's hand. “I get the message. I know how much it means to you. I'll be good.”

Miranda had made her point. Satisfied, she turned her mind to another area of friction. “I hope things go all right between Daddy and Kit.”

“So do I, but there's not much we can do about it.”

“Kit called me a few days ago. For some reason, he's dead keen to sleep in the guest cottage at Steepfall.”

Olga bridled. “Why should he have the cottage all to himself? That means you and Ned and Hugo and I will all have to squeeze into two poky bedrooms in the old house!”

Miranda had expected Olga to resist this. “I know it's unreasonable, but I said it was okay by me. It was difficult enough to persuade him to come—I didn't want to put an obstacle in the way.”

“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.”

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?”