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is this?" Kit said worriedly.

Osborne said, "Scientists experiment with some of the most dangerous viruses in the world right here in Scotland, in the building behind me, dubbed 'Frankenstein's Castle' by local people."

Kit had never heard anyone call it "Frankenstein's Castle." Osborne was making that up. Its nickname was the Kremlin.

"But today, in what seems to some observers to be Nature's retribution for Mankind's meddling, a young technician died of one of these viruses."

Kit put down his razor. This would be woundingly bad publicity for Oxenford Medical, he realized immediately. Normally, he would have gloated at his father's trouble, but today he was more worried about the effect of such publicity on his own plans.

"Michael Ross, thirty-one, was struck down by a virus called Ebola, after the African village where it germinated. This agonizing affliction causes painful, suppurating boils all over the victim's body."

Kit was pretty sure Osborne was getting the facts wrong, but his audience would not know. This was tabloid television. But would the death of Michael Ross jeopardize Kit's planned robbery?

"Oxenford Medical has always claimed its research poses no threat to local people or the surrounding countryside, but the death of Michael Ross throws that claim into serious doubt."

Osborne was wearing a bulky anorak and a woolly hat, and he looked as if he had not slept much last night. Someone had woken him up in the early hours of the morning with a tip-off, Kit guessed.

"Ross may have been bitten by an animal he stole from the laboratory here and took to his home a few miles away," Osborne went on.

"Oh, no," said Kit. This was getting worse and worse. Surely he was not going to be forced to abandon his grand scheme? It would be too much to bear.

"Did Michael Ross work alone, or was he part of a larger group that may attempt to free more plague-carrying animals from Oxenford Medical's secret laboratories? Do we face the prospect of innocent-seeming dogs and rabbits roaming free over the Scottish landscape, spreading the lethal virus wherever they go? No one here is prepared to say."

Whatever they might or might not say, Kit knew what the people at the Kremlin were doing: upgrading their security as fast as they could. Toni Gallo would be there already, tightening up procedures, checking alarms and cameras, briefing the security guards. It was the worst possible news for Kit. He was enraged. "Why do I have such bad luck?" he said aloud.

"Be that as it may," said Carl Osborne, "Michael Ross appears to have died for love of a hamster named Fluffy." His tone was so tragic that Kit half expected the reporter to wipe a tear from his eye, but Osborne stopped short of that.

The studio anchor, an attractive blonde with carved hair, now said, "Carl, has Oxenford Medical made any comment at all on this extraordinary incident?"

"Yes." Carl looked at a notebook. "They say they are saddened and distressed by the death of Michael Ross, but the indications are that nobody else will be affected by the virus. Nevertheless, they would like to speak to anyone who has seen Ross in the past sixteen days."

"Presumably, people who have been in contact with him may have picked up the virus."

"Yes, and perhaps infected others. So the company's statement that no one else is affected seems more like a pious hope than a scientific prediction."

"A very worrying story," the anchor said to camera. "Carl Osborne with that report. And now football."

In a fury, Kit stabbed at the remote control, trying to turn oil the television, but he was too agitated, and kept pressing the wrong buttons. In the end he grabbed the TV cable and yanked the plug out of its socket. He was tempted to throw the set through the window. This was a catastrophe.

Osborne's doomsday forecast about the virus spreading might not be true, but the one sure consequence was that security at the Kremlin would be watertight. Tonight was the worst possible time to try to rob the place. Kit would have to call it off. He was a gambler: if he had a good hand, he was willing to bet the farm, but he knew that when the cards were against him it was best to fold.

At least I won't have to spend Christmas with my father, he thought sourly.

Maybe they could do the job some other time, when the excitement had died down and security had returned to its normal level. Perhaps the customer could be