by Ken Follett
He sighed. But it would be wrong. She was not a volunteer. Insecurity and fear had brought her to this bed, not desire. Yes, Steve, you can fuck her—and you will be exploiting a frightened immigrant who believes she has no choice. And that would be contemptible. You would despise a man who could do that.
“Do you feel better now?” he said.
“Yes.…”
“Then go back to your own bed.”
She touched his face, then kissed his mouth softly. He kept his lips firmly shut but patted her hair in a friendly way.
She stared at him in the half-dark. “You’re not him, are you,” she said.
“No,” Steve said. “I’m not him.”
A moment later she was gone.
He still had an erection.
Why am I not him? Because of the way I was brought up?
Hell, no.
I could have fucked her. I could be Harvey. I’m not him because I choose not to be. My parents didn’t make that decision just now: I did. Thanks for your help, Mom and Dad, but it was me, not you, who sent her back to her room.
Berrington didn’t create me, and you didn’t create me.
I did.
MONDAY
62
STEVE WOKE UP WITH A START.
Where am I?
Someone was shaking his shoulder, a man in striped pajamas. It was Berrington Jones. He suffered a moment of disorientation, then everything came back to him.
“Dress smart for the press conference, please,” Berrington said. “In the closet you’ll find a shirt you left here a couple of weeks ago. Marianne laundered it. Come to my room and pick out a tie to borrow.” He went out.
Berrington talked to his son as if to a difficult, disobedient child, Steve reflected as he got out of bed. The unspoken sentence “Don’t argue, just do it” was attached to every utterance. But his abrupt manner made conversation easier for Steve. He could get away with monosyllabic responses that did not risk betraying his ignorance.
It was eight A.M. Wearing his undershorts, he went along the passage to the bathroom. He took a shower, then shaved with a disposable razor he found in the bathroom cabinet. He moved slowly, postponing the moment when he would have to put himself at risk by conversing with Berrington.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he went to Berrington’s room, in accordance with his orders. Berrington was not there. Steve opened the closet. Berrington’s ties were baronial: stripes and small dots and foulards, all in shiny silk, nothing up-to-date. He picked one with broad horizontal stripes. He needed underwear, too. He looked at Berrington’s boxer shorts. Although he was much taller than Berrington, they had the same waist size. He took a plain blue pair.
When he was dressed he braced himself for another ordeal of deception. Just a few more hours and it would be all over. He had to allay Berrington’s suspicions until a few minutes after noon, when Jeannie would interrupt the press conference.
He took a deep breath and went out.
He followed the smell of frying bacon to the kitchen. Marianne was at the stove. She stared wide-eyed at Steve. Steve had a momentary panic: if Berrington noticed her expression he might ask her what was wrong—and the poor girl was so terrified that she would probably tell him. But Berrington was watching CNN on a small TV set and he was not the type to take an interest in the help.
Steve sat down and Marianne poured him coffee and juice. He gave her a reassuring smile to calm her down.
Berrington held up a hand for silence—unnecessarily, for Steve had no intention of making small talk—and the anchor read an item about the takeover of Genetico. “Michael Madigan, CEO of Landsmann North America, said last night that the disclosure phase had been satisfactorily completed, and the deal will be signed in public at a press conference in Baltimore today. Shares in Landsmann rose fifty pfennigs on the Frankfurt exchange in early trading this morning. General Motors third-quarter figures—”
There was a ring at the doorbell and Berrington hit the mute button. He looked out of the kitchen window and said: “There’s a police car outside.”
Steve was struck by a terrible thought. If Jeannie had reached Mish Delaware and told her what she had learned about Harvey, the police could have decided to arrest Harvey. And Steve was going to have trouble denying that he was Harvey Jones, when he was wearing Harvey’s clothes and sitting in Harvey’s father’s kitchen eating blueberry muffins made by Harvey’s father’s cook.
He did not want to go back to jail.
But that was not the worst of it. If he should be arrested now, he would miss the press conference. If none of the other clones showed up, Jeannie would have only Harvey. And one twin did not prove anything.
Berrington got up to go to the door.
Steve said: “What if they’re after me?”
Marianne looked as if she were going to die.
Berrington said: “I’ll tell them you’re not here.” He left the room.
Steve could not hear the conversation on the doorstep. He sat frozen to his seat, neither eating nor drinking. Marianne stood like a statue at the stove, with a kitchen spatula in her hand.
Eventually Berrington came back in. “Three of our neighbors were robbed last night,” he said. “I guess we got lucky.”
Through the night Jeannie and Mr. Oliver had taken shifts, one guarding Harvey while the other lay down, but neither of them got much rest. Only Harvey slept, snoring behind his gag.
In the morning they took turns in the bathroom. Jeannie dressed in the clothes she had brought in her suitcase, a white blouse and black skirt, so that she could be taken for a waitress.
They ordered breakfast from room service. They could not let the waiter into the room, for then he would see Harvey trussed up on the bed, so Mr. Oliver signed the check at the door, saying: “My wife’s undressed, I’ll take the trolley from here.”
He let Harvey drink a glass of orange juice, holding it to his mouth while Jeannie stood behind him, ready to hit him with her wrench if he tried anything.
Jeannie waited anxiously for Steve to call. What had happened to him? He had spent the night at Berrington’s house. Was he keeping up the pretense?
Lisa arrived at nine o’clock with a pile of copies of the press release, then left for the airport, to meet George Dassault and any other clones who might show up. None of the three had called.
Steve called at nine-thirty. “I have to be quick,” he said.
“Berrington’s in the bathroom. Everything’s all right, I’m coming to the press conference with him.”
“He doesn’t suspect anything?”
“No—although I’ve had some tense moments. How’s my double?”
“Subdued.”
“Gotta go.”
“Steve?”
“Make it fast!”
“I love you.” She hung up. I shouldn’t have said that; a girl is supposed to play hard to get. Well, to hell with it.
At ten she went on a scouting expedition to check out the Regency Room. It was a corner room with a little lobby and a door to an anteroom. A publicist was already there, assembling a backdrop with the Genetico logo for the benefit of the TV cameras.
Jeannie took a swift look around, then returned to her room.
Lisa called from the airport. “Bad news,” she said. “The New York flight is late.”
“Oh, Christ!” Jeannie said. “Any sign of the others, Wayne or Hank?”
“No.”
“How late is George’s plane?”
“It’s expected at eleven-thirty.”
“You might still get here.”
“If I drive like the wind.”
At eleven o’clock Berrington emerged from his bedroom, pulling on his suit coat. He was wearing a blue chalk stripe with a vest over a white shirt with French cuffs, old-fashioned but effective. “Let’s get going,” he said.
Steve put on Harvey’s tweed sport coat. It fit perfectly, of course, and it looked a lot like one Steve himself owned.
They went outside. They were both overdressed for this weather. They got into the silver Lincoln and turned on the air-conditioning. Berrington drove fast, heading downtown. To Steve’s relief he did not talk much on the journey. He parked in the hotel garage.
“Genetico hired a public relations outfit to run this event,” he said as they went up in the elevator. “Our in-house publicity department has never handled anything this big.”
As they headed for the Regency Room, a smartly coiffed woman in a black suit intercepted them. “I’m Caren Beamish from Total Communications,” she said brightly. “Would you like to come to the VIP room?” She showed them into a small room where snacks and drinks were laid out.
Steve was mildly bothered; he would have liked to take a look at the layout of the conference room. But perhaps it made no difference. As long as Berrington continued to believe he was Harvey right up until the appearance of Jeannie, nothing else mattered.
There were six or seven people in the VIP room already, including Proust and Barck. With Proust was a muscular young man in a black suit who looked like a bodyguard. Berrington introduced Steve to Michael Madigan, the head of Landsmann’s North American operations.
Berrington nervously gulped a glass of white wine. Steve could have used a martini—he had much more reason to be scared than Berrington—but he had to keep his wits about him and he could not afford to relax for an instant. He looked at the watch he had taken from Harvey’s wrist. It was five to twelve. Just a few more minutes. And when this is over, then I’ll have a martini.
Caren Beamish clapped her hands for attention and said: “Gentlemen, are we ready?” There were muttered replies and nods. “Then everyone but the platform party should take their seats now, please.”
That’s it. I’ve succeeded. It’s over.
Berrington turned to Steve and said: “See you sooner, Montezuma.” He looked expectant.
“Sure,” Steve said.
Berrington grinned. “What do you mean, sure? Give me the rest of it!”
Steve went cold. He had no idea what Berrington was talking about. It seemed to be a catchphrase, like “See you later, alligator,” but a private one. Obviously there was a reply, but it wasn’t “In a while, crocodile.” What the hell could it be? Steve cursed inwardly. The press conference was about to open—he needed to keep up the pretense for just a few more seconds!
Berrington frowned in puzzlement, staring at him.
Steve felt perspiration break out on his forehead.
“You can’t have forgotten it,” Berrington said, and Steve saw suspicion dawn in his eyes.
“Of course I haven’t,” Steve replied quickly—too quickly, for then he realized that he had committed himself.
Senator Proust was listening now. Berrington said: “So give me the rest of it.” Steve saw him cut his eyes to Proust’s bodyguard, and the man tensed visibly.
In desperation, Steve said: “In an hour, Eisenhower.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then Berrington said: “That’s a good one!” and laughed.
Steve relaxed. That must be the game: you had to make up a new response every time. He thanked his stars. To hide his relief, he turned away.
“Showtime, everybody,” said the publicist.
“This way,” Proust said to Steve. “You don’t want to walk out onto the stage.” He opened a door and Steve stepped through.
He found himself in a bathroom. Turning around, he said: “No, this is—”
Proust’s bodyguard was right behind him. Before Steve knew what was happening, the man had him in a painful half nelson. “Make a noise and I’ll break your fucking arms,” he said.
Berrington stepped into the bathroom behind the bodyguard. Jim Proust followed him and closed the door.
The bodyguard held the boy tightly.
Berrington’s blood was boiling. “You young punk,” he hissed. “Which one are you? Steve Logan, I suppose.”
The boy tried to keep up the pretense. “Dad, what are you doing?”
“Forget it, the game’s up—now where is my son?”
The boy did not answer.
Jim said: “Berry, what the hell is going on?’
Berrington tried to calm down. “This isn’t Harvey,” he said to Jim. “This is one of the others, probably the Logan boy. He must have been impersonating Harvey since yesterday evening. Harvey himself must be locked away somewhere.”
Jim paled. “That means that what he told us about Jeannie Ferrami’s intentions was a blind!”
Berrington nodded grimly. “She’s probably planning some kind of protest at the press conference.”
Proust said: “Shit, not in front of all the cameras!”
“That’s what I’d do in her place—wouldn’t you?”
Proust thought for a moment. “Will Madigan keep his nerve?”
Berrington shook his head. “I couldn’t say. He’d look pretty foolish, canceling the takeover at the last minute. On the other hand, he’d look even more foolish paying a hundred and eighty million dollars for a company that’s about to be sued for every penny it’s got. He could go either way.”
“Then we’ve got to find Jeannie Ferrami and stop her!”
“She might have checked into the hotel.” Berrington snatched up the phone beside the toilet. “This is Professor Jones at the Genetico press conference in the Regency Room,” he said in his most authoritative voice. “We’re waiting for Dr. Ferrami—what room is she in?”
“I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out room numbers, sir.” Berrington was about to explode when she added: “Would you like me to connect you?”
“Yes, sure.” He heard the ringing tone. After a wait, it was answered by a man who sounded elderly. Improvising, Berrington said: “Your laundry is ready, Mr. Blenkinsop.”
“I didn’t give out no laundry.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir—what room are you in?” He held his breath.
“Eight twenty-one.”
“I wanted eight twelve. My apologies.”
“No problem.”
Berrington hung up. “They’re in room eight twenty-one,” he said excitedly. “I bet Harvey’s there.”
Proust said: “The press conference is about to start.”
“We may be too late.” Berrington hesitated, torn. He did not want to delay the announcement by a single second, but he needed to forestall whatever Jeannie was planning. After a moment he said to Jim: “Why don’t you go on stage with Madigan and Preston? I’ll do my best to find Harvey and stop Jeannie Ferrami.”
“Okay.”
Berrington looked at Steve. “I’d be happier if I could take your security man with me. But we can’t let Steve loose.”
The bodyguard said: “No problem, sir. I can handcuff him to a pipe.”
“Great. Do it.”
Berrington and Proust returned to the VIP room. Madigan looked curiously at them. “Something wrong, gentlemen?”
Proust said: “A minor security question, Mike. Berrington is going to handle it while we go ahead with our announcement.”
Madigan was not quite satisfied. “Security?”
Berrington said: “A woman I fired last week, Jean Ferrami, is in the hotel. She may pull some kind of stunt. I’m going to head her off at the pass.”
That was enough for him. “Okay, let’s get on with it.”
Madigan, Barck, and Proust went into the conference room. The bodyguard came out of the bathroom. He and Berrington hurried out into the corridor and pressed the button to summon the elevator. Berrington was apprehensive and worried. He was not a man of action—never had been. The kind of combat he was used to took place on college committees. He hoped he was not about to get in a fistfight.
They went to the eighth floor and ran to room eight twenty-one. Berrington rapped on the door. A man’s voice called: “Who is it?”
Berrington said: “Housekeeping.”
“We’re okay, thank you, sir.”
&nb
sp; “I need to check your bathroom, please.”
“Come back later.”
‘There’s a problem, sir.”
“I’m busy right now. Come back in an hour.”
Berrington looked at the bodyguard. “Can you kick this door down?”
The man looked pleased. Then he looked over Berrington’s shoulder and hesitated. Following the direction of his glance, Berrington saw an elderly couple with shopping bags emerge from the elevator. They walked slowly along the corridor toward 821. Berrington waited while they passed. They stopped outside 830. The husband put down his shopping, searched for his key, fumbled it into the lock, and opened the door. At last the couple disappeared into the room.
The bodyguard kicked the door.
The door frame cracked and splintered, but the door held. There was the sound of rapid footsteps from inside.
He kicked it again, and it flew open.
He rushed inside and Berrington followed.
They were brought up short by the sight of an elderly black man pointing a huge antiquated pistol at them.
“Stick up your hands, shut that door, get in here, and lie facedown, or I’ll shoot you both dead,” the man said. “After the way you bust in here, ain’t no jury in Baltimore going to convict me for killing you.”
Berrington raised his hands.
Suddenly a figure catapulted off the bed. Berrington just had time to see that it was Harvey, with his wrists tied together and some kind of gag over his mouth. The old man swung the gun toward him. Berrington was terrified that his son was about to be shot. He cried out: “No!”
The old man moved a fraction of a second too late. Harvey’s bound arms knocked the pistol out of his hands. The bodyguard leaped for it and snatched it up from the carpet. Standing up, he pointed it at the old man.
Berrington breathed again.
The old man slowly raised his arms in the air.
The bodyguard picked up the room phone. “Hotel security to room eight twenty-one,” he said. “There’s a guest here with a gun.”
Berrington looked around the room. There was no sign of Jeannie.