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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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Whiteout
by Ken Follett |
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Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Stormy Ken Follett’s latest thriller, Whiteout,
brings bio-terrorism to Here’s an excerpt, all of the chapter
titled, “12 Noon,” pp. 87-94: The snow became heavier as
Miranda drove north. Big white flakes swooped onto the windshield of the
Toyota Previa, to be swept aside by the long
wipers. She had to slow down as visibility diminished. The snow seemed to
soundproof the car, and there was no more than a background swish of tires to
compete with the classical music from the radio. The atmosphere inside was
subdued. In the back, Sophie was listening to her own music on headphones,
while Tom was lost in the beeping world of Game Boy. Ned was quiet,
occasionally conducting the orchestra with one waving forefinger. As he gazed
into the snow and listened to Elgar’s cello
concerto, Miranda watched his tranquil, bearded face, and realized that he
had no idea how badly he had let her down. He sensed her discontent.
“I’m sorry about Jennifer’s outburst,” he said. Miranda looked in the
rearview mirror and saw that Sophie was nodding her head in time to the music
from her iPod. Satisfied that the girl could not
hear her, Miranda said, “Jennifer was bloody rude.” I’m sorry,” he said again.
He obviously felt no need to explain or apologize for his own role. She had to destroy his
comfortable illusion. “It’s not Jennifer’s behavior that bothers me,” she
said. “It’s yours.” “I realize it was a
mistake to invite you in without warning her.” “It’s not that. We all
make mistakes.” He looked puzzled and annoyed. “What,
then?” “Oh, Ned! You didn’t defend me!” “I thought you were well able to defend
yourself.” “That’s not the point! Of course I can
look after myself. I don’t need mothering. But you should be my champion.” “A knight in shining armor.” “Yes!” “I thought it was more important to get
things calmed down.” “Well, you thought wrong. When the
world turns hostile, I don’t want you to take a judicious view of the
situation—I want you to be on my side.” “I’m afraid I’m not the combative
type.” “I know,” she said, and they both fell
silent. They were on a narrow road that
followed the shore of a sea loch. They passed small farms with a few horses
in winter blankets cropping the grass, and drove through villages with
white-painted churches and rows of houses along the waterfront. Miranda felt
depressed. Even if her family embraced Ned as she had asked them to, did she
want to marry such a
passive man? She had longed for someone gentle and cultured and bright, but
she now realized that she also wanted him to be strong. Was it too much to
expect? She thought of her father. He was always kind, rarely angry, never quarrelsome—but no one had ever thought him weak. Her mood lifted as they approached Steepfall. The house was reached by a long lane that
wound through woods. Emerging from the trees, drive swept around a headland
with a sheer drop to the sea. The garage came into view first.
Standing sideways-on to the drive, I was an old cowshed that had been
renovated and given three up-and-over doors. Miranda drove past it and along
the front of the house. Seeing the old farmhouse overlooking
the beach, its thick stone walls with their small windows and the steep slate
roof, she was overwhelmed by a sense of her childhood. She had first come
here at the age of five, and every time she returned she became, for a few
moments, a little girl in white socks, sitting on the granite doorstep in the
sun, playing teacher to a class of three dolls, two guinea pigs in a cage,
and a sleepy old dog. The sensation was intense, but fleeting: suddenly she
remembered exactly how it had felt to be herself at five, but trying to hold
on to the memory was like grabbing at smoke. Her father’s dark blue
Ferrari was at the front of the house, where he always left it for Luke, the
handyman, to put away. The car was dangerously fast, obscenely curvaceous,
and ludicrously expensive for his daily five-mile commute to the laboratory.
Parked here on a bleak Scottish cliff top, it was as out of place as a
high-heeled courtesan in a muddy farmyard. But he had no yacht, no wine
cellar, no racehorse; he did not go skiing in Gstaad
or gambling in Miranda parked the They entered, as always,
by the kitchen door at the side of the house. There was a lobby, where A full-size black standard
poodle called Nellie wagged her whole body with joy and licked everyone.
Miranda greeted Luke and Lori, the Filipino couple who were preparing lunch.
Lori said, “Your father just got home, he’s washing.” Miranda told Tom and
Sophie to lay the table. She did not want the children to put down roots in
front of the TV and stay there all afternoon. Tom, you can show Sophie where
everything is.” And having a job to do would help Sophie feel part of the
family. There were several bottles
of Miranda’s favorite white wine in the fridge. Daddy did not drink much, but
Mamma had always had wines, and Daddy made sure there was plenty in the
house. Miranda opened a bottle and poured a glass for Ned. This was a good start, Miranda thought:
Sophie happily helping Tom put out knives and forks, and Ned contentedly
sipping Sancerre. Perhaps this, rather than the scene with Jennifer, would
set the tone for the holiday. If Ned was going to be part of
Miranda’s life, he had to love this house and the family that had grown up in
it. He had been here before, but he had never brought Sophie and he had never
stayed overnight, so this was his first major visit. She so wanted him to
have a good time and get on well with everyone. Miranda’s husband, Jasper, had never
liked Steepfall. At first he had gone out of his
way to charm everyone, but on later visits he had been withdrawn while there
and angry after they left. He seemed to dislike The phone rang. Miranda picked up the
extension on the wall by the big fridge. “Hello?” “Miranda, it’s
Kit.” She was pleased. “Hello, little
brother! How are you?” “A bit shattered, actually.” “How come?” “I fell in a swimming pool. Long story.
How are things at Steepfall?” “We’re just sitting around drinking
Daddy’s wine, wishing you were with us.” “Well, I’m coming after all.” “Good!” She decided not to ask what had
changed his mind. He would probably just say long story again. “I’ll be there in an hour or so. But, listen, can I still have the cottage?” “I’m sure you can. It’s up to Daddy,
but I’ll talk to him.” As Miranda cradled the handset, her
father came in. He wore the waistcoat and trousers of his suit, but he had
rolled the cuffs of his shirt. He shook hands with Ned and kissed Miranda and
the children. He was looking very trim, Miranda thought. ‘Are you losing
weight?” she asked. “I’ve been playing squash. Who was on
the phone?” “That was Kit. He’s coming, after all.”
She watched her father’s face, anxious to see his reaction. “I’ll believe it when I see him.” “Oh, Daddy! You might sound more
enthusiastic.” He patted her hand. “We all love Kit,
but we know what he’s like. I hope he shows up, but I’m not counting on it.” His
tone was light, but Miranda could tell that he was trying to hide an inner
hurt. “He really wants to sleep in the
cottage.” “Did he say why?” “No.” Tom piped up: “He’s probably bringing a
girl, and doesn’t want us all to hear her squeals of delight.” The kitchen went quiet. Miranda was
astonished. Where had that come from? Tom was eleven, and never talked about
sex. After a moment, they all burst out laughing. Tom looked bashful, and
said, “I read that in a book.” He was probably trying to seem grown-up in
front of Sophie, Miranda decided. He was still a little boy, but not for much
longer. Miranda said, “I’m sorry about the
technician who died. What made him do it?” “We all get weird ideas into our heads,
but a lonely person has no One to tell him not to be crazy.” The door opened and Olga came in. As
always, she entered speaking. “This weather is a nightmare! People are
skidding all over the place. Is that wine you’re drinking? Let me have some
before I explode. Nellie, please don’t sniff me there, it’s considered vulgar
in human society. Hello, Daddy, how are you?” “Nella merde, “he
said. Miranda recognized one of her mother’s
expressions. It meant “in the shit.” Mamma Marta had fondly imagined that if
she swore in Italian the children would not understand. Olga said, “I heard about the guy who
died. Is it so bad for you?” “We’ll see when we watch the news.” Olga was followed in by her husband,
Hugo, a small man with impish charm. When he kissed Miranda, his lips
lingered on her cheek a second too long. Olga said, “Where shall
Hugo put the bags?” “Upstairs,” said Miranda. “I suppose you’ve staked your claim to
the cottage.” “No, Kit’s having it.” “Oh, please!” Olga protested. “That big
double bed and a nice bathroom and kitchenette, all for one person while the
four of us share the poky old bathroom upstairs?” “He particularly asked for it.” “Well, I’m particularly asking for it.” Miranda felt irritated with her sister.
“For God’s sake, Olga, think of someone other than yourself
for a change. You know Kit hasn’t been here since. . . that whole mess. I just want to make
sure he has a good time.” “So he’s getting the best bedroom
because he stole from Daddy—is that your logic?” “You’re talking like an advocate again.
Save it for your learned friends.” “All right, you two,” their father
said, sounding just as he had when they were small. “In this case, I think
Olga’s right. It’s selfish of Kit to demand the cottage all to himself. Miranda and Ned can sleep there.” Olga said, “So no one gets what they
want.” Miranda sighed. Why was Olga arguing?
They all knew their father. Most of the time he would give you anything you
wanted, but when he said no it was final. He might be indulgent, but he could
not be bullied. Now he said, “It will teach you not to
quarrel.” “No, it won’t. You’ve been imposing
these judgments of Solomon for thirty years, and we still haven’t learned.” “Too late.” “Thank God for that.” Miranda just hoped Kit would not be
offended enough to turn right around and drive away. The argument was ended
by the entrance of Caroline and Craig, the children of Hugo and Olga. Caroline, seventeen,
was carrying a cage containing several white rats. Nellie sniffed it
excitedly. Caroline related to animals as a way of avoiding people. It was a
phase many girls went through but, Miranda thought, at seventeen she should
have got over it. Craig, fifteen, carried two plastic
garbage bags crammed with wrapped gifts. He had Hugo’s wicked grin, though he
was tall like Olga. He put the bags down, greeted the family perfunctorily,
and made a beeline for Sophie. They had met once before, Miranda recalled, at
Olga’s birthday party. “You got your belly button pierced!” Craig said to
Sophie. “Cool! Did it hurt?” Miranda became aware that there was a
stranger in the room. The newcomer, a woman, stood by the door to the hall,
so she must have come in by the front entrance. She was tall, with striking
good looks: high cheekbones and a curved nose, lush red-blond hair and
marvelous green eyes. She wore a brown chalk-stripe suit that was a bit
rumpled, and her expert makeup did not quite hide signs of tiredness under
her eyes. She was gazing with amusement at the animated scene in the crowded
kitchen. Miranda wondered how long she had been watching in silence. The others began to notice her, and
slowly the room fell silent. At last, The woman smiled as if she thought
there was nothing more delightful than a big quarrelsome family. She had a
wide, generous smile and full lips. This was the ex-cop who had caught Kit
stealing from the company, Miranda realized. Despite that, Toni said, “I’m very glad
to meet you all.” She sounded as if she meant it, but at the same time she
seemed to be under strain. Miranda said, “You must be
having a difficult day. I’m so sorry about the technician who died.” “Oh, God!” Toni nodded. “We’re pretty
sure he didn’t infect anyone else, thank heaven. Now we’re just hoping the
media won’t crucify us.” The children started to
chatter again, and Hugo said something to Ned about the Scottish rugby team.
Miranda turned to Olga. Their quarrel was forgotten. ‘Attractive woman,” she
said musingly. “Yes,” Olga said. ‘About,
what, my age?” “Thirty-seven,
thirty-eight, yes. And Daddy’s lost weight.” “I noticed that.” ‘A shared crisis brings
people together.” “Doesn’t it just?” “So what do you think?” “I think what you think.” Miranda drained her glass
of wine. “I thought so.” Follett presents the story
chronologically, and as the hours pass, we come to know the characters well,
and are prepared for aspects of their personalities to emerge more fully over
hundreds of pages. Follett fans will love Whiteout.
Bio-terror and thriller readers will enjoy the story and the villains. Steve Hopkins,
April 23, 2005 |
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Buy Whiteout
@ amazon.com |
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ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the May 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Whiteout.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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