Whiteout by Ken Follett Page B

and suspected nothing.”
    Stanley sat back in his seat. “Well, I’m damned,” he said. “I would have sworn it was impossible.”
    â€œHe took the rabbit home. I think it may have bitten him when he injected it with the drug. He injected himself and thought he was safe. But he was wrong.”
    Stanley looked sad. “Poor boy,” he said. “Poor, foolish boy.”
    â€œNow 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.”
    â€œI know,” she said. “A bag search for everyone entering and leaving BSL4.”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œI’ve instituted it from this morning.”
    â€œThereby closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI could have instituted the bag check.”
    â€œI probably would have vetoed it, on the grounds that it would upset staff.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œNow, 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.
8:30 A.M.
    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 asweater embroidered with small flowers. She dressed to charm, not to intimidate. As she sat down, Olga said, “You’re working on Christmas Eve?”
    â€œJust for an hour,” Miranda replied. “To make sure nothing’s left undone over the holiday.”
    â€œSame here.”
    â€œHave you heard the news? A technician at the Kremlin died of a virus.”
    â€œOh, God, that’s going to blight our Christmas.”
    Olga could seem