Alex forced his eyes away from the screen and looked at the desk, wondering what other secrets the director of Greenfields might have left scattered around. But there was nothing out of the ordinary: a diary with a few scribbled entries, some letters waiting to be signed. He glanced at them, but they were brief and uninteresting.
He slid open one of the drawers. It held stationery—envelopes and headed notepaper, business cards, and a telephone directory. Two notebooks, both of them empty. He turned back to the screen. Only twenty gigabytes to go, but infuriatingly, the compuer seemed to have slowed down as whatever worms were hidden on the memory stick burrowed their way through the various firewalls. Even so, he wouldn’t have time to go through the files. Most of them would make no sense to him anyway, and it would be impossible to tell which were important and which were simply routine.
Alex knew that he was running out of time, that someone could arrive at any moment. Part of him was listening for footsteps in the corridor.
The memory stick had almost done its work. But now someone really was approaching! Alex could hear two men talking, getting closer all the time.
On the screen, the horizontal bar came to the end of its journey.
The memory stick had finished its work. The computer screen went blank. There was a faint bleep as the lock was activated. Alex snatched the memory stick and dived forward, making for the one hiding place he had seen inside the office. Already he was wondering what he would do if Straik decided to spend the whole day in his office. How would he get back to the school group? He would be trapped.
Alex had just managed to conceal himself when the door opened.
Two men came in.
From where Alex was crouching, he could see Leonard Straik as he approached the desk. The Greenfields director was reflected in the mirror, and with a sense of total shock, Alex realized that he recognized him. Silver hair rising up as if it had just been blown dry. Heavy lips and jowels. Small, watery eyes. The two of them had met recently. But where . . . ?
Then he remembered. Scotland. New Year’s Eve. The man he had thought of as an accountant, playing cards with Desmond McCain. What had McCain called him? Leo. Of course! That was it. Leo was Leonard . . . Leonard Straik.
“Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? We actually develop it ourselves, you know. But it still tastes disgusting.”
“No. Not for me, thank you.”
The other man came in, closing the door behind him. And that was an even bigger shock for Alex.
The second man was Desmond McCain.
11
CONDITION RED
“ S O, IS IT READY FOR SHIPMENT?”
Alex remembered McCain’s voice so well: not loud but deep and powerful, brimming with self- confidence. And yet he had difficulty pronouncing his words. His smashed jaw wasn’t quite able to form them perfectly. He had taken one of the designer chairs and was sitting with his back to Alex, the silver crucifix in his ear just visible above his right shoulder. Meanwhile, Straik had taken his place on the other side of the desk. The two men had no idea that anyone else was in the room.
It was fortunate that Straik liked big paintings. Whatever it was that he had bought for his office had provided Alex with his hiding place. He was squashed up behind it, in the awkward, triangular space between the picture and the wall. There certainly wouldn’t have been room for a full-grown adult here, and even he was cramped, the muscles in his thighs and shoulders already urging him to straighten up.
He could make out a little of Straik and McCain reflected in the antique mirror, but he didn’t dare lean too far forward. If he could see them, they would be able to see him.
“Of course it’s ready,” Straik replied. He sounded irritated. “I gave you my word, didn’t I?”
“So where is it now?”
“The bulk of it is at Gatwick Airport. It’s being carried out in a commercial Boeing 757. Completely routine. But I thought it might amuse you to have a look at it, so I’ve kept a sample for you here.” Straik slid open one of the drawers of his desk and took something out. Alex craned forward, but he couldn’t see what it was. “It took a little while longer than expected. We had problems with mass production.”
“How much were you able to produce?” McCain asked.
“A thousand gallons. It should be more than enough. The main thing is to make sure that the temperature is kept constant when it’s in the air. You have to remember, this stuff is alive. But that said, it’s also fairly durable.”
“How quickly will it work?”
“Almost immediately. You need to apply it in the morning. The process will begin at once, and within thirty-six hours it’ll be unstoppable. There won’t be anything to see, of course—not to begin with—but in about three weeks you’ll have the attention of the entire world.” Straik paused. “What about the shooting? All done?”
“I’m sending Myra to Elm’s Cross tomorrow. We’re closing it down.”
“Getting rid of the evidence.”
“Exactly.”
