the Third Twin (1996)

by Ken Follett

  Jeannie realized she was safe. But relief was followed immediately by anger. She stared at Dennis, outraged. Was he going to pretend that nothing had happened?

  Robinson said: “Well, you can get a bucket of water and clean this place up, anyway.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “That is, if Dr. Ferrami is finished with you.”

  Jeannie tried to say, “While you were killing the rat, Dennis stole my panties,” but the words would not come out. They seemed so foolish. And she could imagine the consequences of saying them. She would be stuck here for an hour while the allegation was investigated. Dennis would be searched and her underwear found. It would have to be shown to Warden Temoigne. She imagined him examining the evidence, handling her panties and turning them inside out, with a strange look on his face.…

  No. She would say nothing.

  She suffered a pang of guilt. She had always scorned women who suffered assault and then kept quiet about it, letting the offender get away with it. Now she was doing the same thing.

  She realized that Dennis was counting on that. He had foreseen how she would feel and gambled that he could get away with it. The thought made her so indignant that for a moment she contemplated putting up with the hassle just to thwart him. Then she envisioned Temoigne and Robinson and all the other men in this jail looking at her and thinking, She doesn’t have any panties on, and she realized it would be too humiliating to be borne.

  How clever Dennis was: as clever as the man who had set fire to the gymnasium and raped Lisa, as clever as Steve.…

  “You seem a little shook,” Robinson said to her. “I guess you don’t like rats any more than I do.”

  She pulled herself together. It was over. She had survived with her life and even her eyesight. What happened that was so bad? she asked herself. I might have been mutilated or raped. Instead I just lost my underwear. Be grateful. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said.

  “In that case, I’ll take you out.”

  The three of them left the room together.

  Outside the door Robinson said: “Go get a mop, Pinker.”

  Dennis smiled at Jeannie, a long, intimate smile, as if they were lovers who had spent the afternoon in bed together. Then he disappeared into the interior of the jail. Jeannie watched him go with immense relief, but it was tinged with continuing revulsion, for he had her underwear in his pocket. Would he sleep with her panties pressed to his cheek, like a child with a teddy bear? Or would he wrap them around his penis as he masturbated, pretending that he was fucking her? Whatever he chose to do she felt she was an unwilling participant, her privacy violated and her freedom compromised.

  Robinson walked her to the main gate and shook her hand. She crossed the hot parking lot to the Ford, thinking, I’ll be glad to drive out of this place. She had a sample of Dennis’s DNA, that was the most important thing.

  Lisa was at the wheel, running the air-conditioning to cool the car. Jeannie slumped into the passenger seat.

  “You look beat,” Lisa said as she pulled away.

  “Stop at the first shopping strip,” Jeannie said.

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Jeannie replied. “But you’re not going to believe it.”

  19

  AFTER LUNCH BERRINGTON WENT TO A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD bar and ordered a martini.

  Jim Proust’s casual suggestion of murder had shaken him. Berrington knew he had made a fool of himself by grabbing Jim’s lapel and yelling. But he did not regret the fuss. At least he could be sure Jim knew exactly how he felt.

  It was nothing new for them to fight. He remembered their first great crisis, in the early seventies, when the Watergate scandal broke. It had been a terrible time: conservatism was discredited, the law-and-order politicians turned out to be crooked, and any clandestine activity, no matter how well intentioned, was suddenly viewed as an unconstitutional conspiracy. Preston Barck had been terrified and wanted to give up the whole mission. Jim Proust had called him a coward, argued angrily that there was no danger, and proposed to carry it on as a joint CIA-army project, perhaps with tighter security. No doubt he would have been ready to assassinate any investigative journalist who pried into what they were doing. It had been Berrington who suggested setting up a private company and distancing themselves from the government. Now once again it was up to him to find a way out of their difficulties.

  The place was gloomy and cool. A TV set over the bar showed a soap opera, but the sound was turned down. The cold gin calmed Berrington. His anger at Jim gradually evaporated, and he focused his mind on Jeannie Ferrami.

  Fear had caused him to make a rash promise. He had recklessly told Jim and Preston that he would deal with Jeannie. Now he had to fulfill that imprudent undertaking. He had to stop her asking questions about Steve Logan and Dennis Pinker.

  It was maddeningly difficult. Although he had hired her and arranged her grant, he could not simply give her orders; as he had told Jim, the university was not the army. She was employed by JFU, and Genetico had already handed over a year’s funding. In the long term, of course, he could easily pull the plug on her; but that was not good enough. She had to be stopped immediately, today or tomorrow, before she learned enough to ruin them all.

  Calm down, he thought, calm down.

  Her weak point was her use of medical databases without the permission of the patients. It was the kind of thing the newspapers could make into a scandal, regardless of whether anyone’s privacy was genuinely invaded. And universities were terrified of scandal; it played havoc with their fundraising.

  It was tragic to wreck such a promising scientific project. It went against everything Berrington stood for. He had encouraged Jeannie, and now he had to undermine her. She would be heartbroken, and with reason. He told himself that she had bad genes and would have got into trouble sooner or later; but all the same he wished he did not have to be the cause of her downfall.

  He tried not to think about her body. Women had always been his weakness. No other vice tempted him: he drank in moderation, never gambled, and could not understand why people took drugs. He had loved his wife, Vivvie, but even then he had not been able to resist the temptation of other women, and Vivvie had eventually left him because of his fooling around. Now when he thought of Jeannie he imagined her running her fingers through his hair and saying, “You’ve been so good to me, I owe you so much, how can I ever thank you?”

  Such thoughts made him feel ashamed. He was supposed to be her patron and mentor, not her seducer.

  As well as desire he felt burning resentment. She was just a girl, for God’s sake; how could she be such a threat? How could a kid with a ring in her nose possibly jeopardize him and Preston and Jim when they were on the brink of achieving their lifetime ambitions? It was unthinkable they should be thwarted now; the idea made him dizzy with panic. When he was not imagining himself making love to Jeannie, he had fantasies of strangling her.

  All the same he was reluctant to start a public outcry against her. It was hard to control the press. There was a chance they would begin by investigating Jeannie and finish up investigating him. This would be a dangerous strategy. But he could think of no other, short of Jim’s wild talk of murder.

  He drained his glass. The bartender offered him another martini, but he declined. He looked around the bar and spotted a pay phone next to the men’s room. He swiped his American Express card through the card reader and called Jim’s office. One of Jim’s brash young men answered: “Senator Proust’s office.”

  “This is Berrington Jones—”

  “I’m afraid the senator is in a meeting right now.”

  He really should train his acolytes to be a little more charming, Berrington thought. “Then let’s see if we can avoid interrupting him,” he said. “Does he have any media appointments this afternoon?”

  “I’m not sure. May I ask why you need to know, sir?”

  “No, young man, you may not,” Berrington said with
exasperation. Self-important assistants were the curse of Capitol Hill. “You may answer my question, or you may put Jim Proust on the phone, or you may lose your goddamn job, now which is it to be?”

  “Please hold.”

  There was a long pause. Berrington reflected that wishing Jim would teach his aides to be charming was like hoping a chimpanzee would teach its young table manners. The boss’s style spread to the staff: an ill-mannered person always had rude employees.

  A new voice came on the phone. “Professor Jones, in fifteen minutes the senator is due to attend a press conference to launch Congressman Dinkey’s book New Hope for America.”

  That was just perfect. “Where?”

  “The Watergate hotel.”

  “Tell Jim I’ll be there, and make sure my name is on the guest list, please.” Berrington hung up without waiting for a reply.

  He left the bar and got a cab to the hotel. This would need to be handled delicately. Manipulating the media was hazardous: a good reporter might look past the obvious story and start asking why it was being planted. But each time he thought of the risks, he reminded himself of the rewards and steeled his nerve.

  He found the room where the press conference was to be held. His name was not on the list—self-important assistants were never efficient—but the book’s publicist recognized his face and welcomed him as an additional attraction for the cameras. He was glad he had worn the striped Turnbull & Asser shirt that looked so distinguished in photographs.

  He took a glass of Perrier and looked around the room. There was a small lectern in front of a blowup of the book’s cover, and a pile of press releases on a side table. The TV crews were setting up their lights. Berrington saw one or two reporters he knew, but none he really trusted.

  However, more were arriving all the time. He moved around the room, making small talk, keeping an eye on the door. Most of the journalists knew him: he was a minor celebrity. He had not read the book, but Dinkey subscribed to a traditionalist right-wing agenda that was a mild version of what Berrington shared with Jim and Preston, so Berrington was happy to tell reporters that he endorsed the book’s message.

  At a few minutes past three, Jim arrived with Dinkey. Close behind them was Hank Stone, a senior New York Times man. Bald, red-nosed, bulging over the waistband of his pants, shirt collar undone, tie pulled down, tan shoes scuffed, he had to be the worst-looking man in the White House press corps.

  Berrington wondered if Hank would do.

  Hank had no known political beliefs. Berrington had met him when he did an article about Genetico, fifteen or twenty years ago. Since getting the Washington job, he had written about Berrington’s ideas once or twice and Jim Proust’s several times. He treated them sensationally, rather than intellectually, as newspapers inevitably did, but he never moralized in the pious way liberal journalists would.

  Hank would treat a tip-off on its merits: if he thought it was a good story he would write it. But could he be trusted not to dig deeper? Berrington was not sure.

  He greeted Jim and shook hands with Dinkey. They talked for a few minutes while Berrington looked out hopefully for a better prospect. But none came and the press conference started.

  Berrington sat through the speeches, containing his impatience. There was just not enough time. Given a few days he could find someone better than Hank, but he did not have a few days, he had a few hours. And an apparently fortuitous meeting like this was so much less suspicious than making an appointment and taking the journalist to lunch.

  When the speeches were over there was still no one better than Hank in view.

  As the journalists dispersed Berrington buttonholed him. “Hank, I’m glad I ran into you. I may have a story for you.”

  “Good!”

  “It’s about misuse of medical information on databases.” He made a face. “Not really my kind of thing, Berry, but go on.”

  Berrington groaned inwardly: Hank did not seem to be in a receptive mood. He plowed on, working his charm. “I believe it is your kind of thing, because you’ll see potential in it that an ordinary reporter might overlook.”

  “Well, try me.”

  “First of all, we’re not having this conversation.”

  “That’s a little more promising.”

  “Second, you may wonder why I’m giving you the story, but you’re never going to ask.”

  “Better and better,” Hank said, but he did not make a promise.

  Berrington decided not to push him on it. “At Jones Falls University, in the psychology department, there’s a young researcher called Dr. Jean Ferrami. In her search for suitable subjects to study, she scans large medical databases without the permission of the people whose records are on the files.”

  Hank pulled at his red nose. “Is this a story about computers, or about scientific ethics?”

  “I don’t know, you’re the journalist.”

  He looked unenthusiastic. “It isn’t much of a scoop.”

  Don’t start playing hard to get, you bastard. Berrington touched Hank’s arm in a friendly gesture. “Do me a favor, make some inquiries,” he said persuasively. “Call the university president, his name is Maurice Obeli. Call Dr. Ferrami. Tell them it’s a big story, and see what they say. I believe you’ll get some interesting reactions.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I promise you, Hank, it will be worth your time.” Say yes, you son of a bitch, say yes!

  Hank hesitated, then said: “Okay, I’ll give it a whirl.”

  Berrington tried to conceal his satisfaction behind an expression of gravity, but he could not help a little smile of triumph.

  Hank saw it, and a suspicious frown crossed his face. “You’re not trying to use me, are you, Berry? Like to frighten someone, maybe?”

  Berrington smiled and put an arm around the reporter’s shoulders. “Hank,” he said, “trust me.”

  20

  JEANNIE BOUGHT A THREE-PACK OF WHITE COTTON PANTIES at a Walgreen in a strip mall just outside Richmond. She slipped a pair on in the ladies’ rest room of the neighboring Burger King. Then she felt better.

  Strange how defenseless she had felt without underwear. She had hardly been able to think of anything else. Yet when she was in love with Will Temple she had liked to go around with no panties on. It made her feel sexy all day. Sitting in the library, or working in the lab, or just walking down the street, she would fantasize that Will showed up unexpectedly, in a fever of passion, saying, “There isn’t much time but I’ve got to have you, now, right here,” and she was ready for him. But without a man in her life she needed her underwear like she needed shoes.

  Properly dressed again, she returned to the car. Lisa drove them to the Richmond-Williamsburg airport, where they checked their rental car and caught the plane back to Baltimore.

  The key to the mystery must lie with the hospital where Dennis and Steven were born, Jeannie mused as they took off. Somehow, identical twin brothers had ended up with different mothers. It was a fairy-tale scenario, but something like it must have happened.

  She looked through the papers in her case and checked the birth information on the two subjects. Steven’s birthday was August 25. To her horror she found that Dennis’s birthday was September 7—almost two weeks later.

  “There must be a mistake,” she said. “I don’t know why I didn’t check this before.” She showed Lisa the conflicting documents.

  “We can double-check,” Lisa said.

  “Do any of our forms ask which hospital the subject was born at?”

  Lisa gave a rueful laugh. “I believe that’s one question we didn’t include.”

  “It must have been a military hospital, in this case. Colonel Logan is in the army, and presumably ‘the Major’ was a soldier at the time Dennis was born.”

  “We’ll check.”

  Lisa did not share Jeannie’s impatience. For her it was just another research project. For Jeannie it was everything. “I’d like to call right away,” she said.
“Is there a phone on this plane?”

  Lisa frowned. “Are you thinking of calling Steven’s mother?”

  Jeannie heard the note of disapproval in Lisa’s voice. “Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Does she know he’s in jail?”

  “Good point. I don’t know. Damn. I shouldn’t be the one to break the news.”

  “He may have called home already.”

  “Maybe I’ll go see Steven in jail. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so. But they might have visiting hours, like hospitals.”

  “I’ll just show up and hope for the best. Anyway, I can call the Pinkers.” She waved at a passing stewardess. “Is there a phone on the plane?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Too bad.”

  The stewardess smiled. “Don’t you remember me, Jeannie?”

  Jeannie looked at her for the first time and recognized her immediately. “Penny Watermeadow!” she said. Penny had done her doctorate in English at Minnesota alongside Jeannie. “How are you?”

  “I’m great. How are you doing?”

  “I’m at Jones Falls, doing a research project that’s running into problems. I thought you were going after an academic job.”

  “I was, but I didn’t get one.”

  Jeannie felt embarrassed that she had been successful where her friend had failed. “That’s too bad.”

  “I’m glad, now. I enjoy this work and it pays better than most colleges.”

  Jeannie did not believe her. It shocked her to see a woman with a doctorate working as a stewardess. “I always thought you’d be such a good teacher.”

  “I taught high school for a while. I got knifed by a student who disagreed with me about Macbeth. I asked myself why I was doing it—risking my life to teach Shakespeare to kids who couldn’t wait to go back out on the streets and get on with stealing money to buy crack cocaine.”

  Jeannie remembered the name of Penny’s husband. “How’s Danny?”

  “He’s doing great, he’s area sales manager now. It means he has to travel a lot, but it’s worth it.”

  “Well, it’s good to see you again. Are you based in Baltimore?”