Whiteout by Ken Follett

personal overdraft of a million pounds. Our contract with theDepartment 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.”
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œYes. You’re due to speak to the staff. Are you ready?”
    â€œYes.” 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