the Third Twin

31

JEANNIE THOUGHT ABOUT STEVE LOGAN AS SHE DROVE TO JFU. She had called him a big strong kid, but in fact he was more mature than some men ever got to be. She had cried on his shoulder, so she must trust him at some deep level. She had liked the way he smelled, sort of like tobacco before it is lit. Despite her distress she could not help noticing his erection, although he had tried not to let her feel it. It was flattering that he should get so excited just hugging her, and she smiled as she recalled the scene. It was a pity he was not ten or fifteen years older.

Steve reminded her of her first love, Bobby Springfield. She was thirteen, he was fifteen. She knew almost nothing about love and sex, but he was equally ignorant, and they had embarked on a voyage of discovery together. She blushed as she remembered the things they had done in the back row of the Moviedrome on Saturday nights. The exciting thing about Bobby, as with Steve, was a sense of passion constrained. Bobby had wanted her so badly, and had been so inflamed by stroking her nipples or touching her panties, that she had felt enormously powerful. For a while she had abused that power, getting him all hot and bothered just to prove she could do it. But she soon realized, even at the age of thirteen, that that was a foolish game. Still she never lost the sense of risk, of delight in playing with a chained giant. And she felt that with Steve.

He was the only good thing on her horizon. She was in bad trouble. She could not resign from her post here at JFU now. After the New York Times had made her famous for defying her bosses, she would find it hard to get another scientific job. If I were a professor, I wouldn’t hire someone who caused this kind of trouble, she thought.

But it was too late for her to take a more cautious stance. Her only hope was to press on stubbornly, using the FBI data, and produce scientific results so convincing that people would look again at her methodology and debate its ethics seriously.

It was nine o’clock when she pulled into her parking space. As she locked the car and walked into Nut House she had an acid feeling in her stomach: too much tension and no food.

As soon as she stepped into her office, she knew someone had been there.

It was not the cleaners. She was familiar with the changes they made: the chairs shifted an inch or two, cup rings swabbed, the wastebasket on the wrong side of the desk. This was different. Someone had sat at her computer. The keyboard was at the wrong angle; the intruder had unconsciously shifted it to his or her habitual position. The mouse had been left in the middle of the pad, whereas she always tucked it neatly up against the edge of the keyboard. Looking around, she noticed a cupboard door open a crack and a corner of paper sticking out of the edge of a filing cabinet.

The room had been searched.

At least, she reflected, it had been done amateurishly. It was not like the CIA was after her. All the same it made her deeply uneasy, and she had butterflies in her stomach as she sat down and turned on her PC. Who had been here? A member of the faculty? A student? A bribed security guard? Some outsider? And why?

An envelope had been slipped under her door. It contained a release, signed by Lorraine Logan and faxed to Nut House by Steve. She took Charlotte Pinker’s release out of a file and put both in her briefcase. She would fax them to the Aventine Clinic.

She sat at her desk and retrieved her E-mail. There was only one message: the results of the FBI scan. “Hallelujah,” she breathed.

She downloaded the list of names and addresses with profound relief. She was vindicated; the scan had in fact found pairs. She could hardly wait to check them out and see whether there were any more anomalies like Steve and Dennis.

Ghita had sent her an earlier E-mail message, saying she was going to run the scan, Jeannie recalled. What had happened to that? She wondered if it had been downloaded by last night’s snooper. That could explain the panicky late-night call to Ghita’s boss.

She was about to look at the names on the list when the phone rang. It was the university president. “Maurice Obeli here. I think we had better discuss this report in the New York Times, don’t you?”

Jeannie’s stomach tightened. Here we go, she thought apprehensively. It begins. “Of course,” she said. “What time would suit you?”

“I was hoping you might step into my office right away.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She copied the FBI results onto a floppy disk then exited from the Internet. She took the disk out of her computer and picked up a pen. She thought for a moment, then wrote on the label SHOPPING.LST. No doubt it was an unnecessary precaution, but it made her feel better.

She slipped the floppy into the box containing her backup files and went out.

The day was already heating up. As she crossed the campus she asked herself what she wanted out of this meeting with Obeli. Her only objective was to be allowed to continue with her research. She needed to be tough and make it clear she was not to be bullied; but ideally she would soothe the anger of the university authorities and de-escalate the conflict.

She was glad she had worn the black suit, even though she was sweating in it: it made her look older and more authoritative. Her high heels clacked on the flagstones as she approached Hillside Hall. She was ushered straight into the president’s lavish office.

Berrington Jones was sitting there, a copy of the New York Times in his hand. She smiled at him, glad to have an ally. He nodded rather coolly and said: “Good morning, Jeannie.”

Maurice Obeli was in his wheelchair behind his big desk. With his usual abrupt manner he said: “The university simply cannot tolerate this, Dr. Ferrami.”

He did not ask her to sit, but she was not going to be scolded like a schoolgirl, so she selected a chair, moved it, sat down, and crossed her legs. “It was a pity you told the press you had canceled my project before checking whether you had the legal right to do so,” she said as coolly as she could. “I fully agree with you that it made the college look foolish.”

He bridled. “It was not I who made us look foolish.”

That was enough being tough, she decided; now was the moment to tell him they were both on the same side. She uncrossed her legs. “Of course not,” she said. “The truth is we were both a little hasty, and the press took advantage of us.”

Berrington put in: “The damage is done, now—there’s no point in apologizing.”

“I wasn’t apologizing,” she snapped. She turned back to Obeli and smiled. “However, I do think we should stop bickering.”

Once again Berrington answered her. “It’s too late for that,” he said.

“I’m sure it’s not,” she said. She wondered why Berrington had said that. He ought to want a reconciliation; it was not in his interests to be inflammatory. She kept her eyes and her smile on the president. “We’re rational people. We must be able to find a compromise that would allow me to continue my work and yet preserve the university’s dignity.”

Obeli clearly liked that idea, although he frowned and said: “I don’t quite see how.…”

“This is all a waste of time,” Berrington said impatiently.

It was the third time he had made a quarrelsome interjection. Jeannie choked back another waspish rejoinder. Why was he being like this? Did he want her to stop doing her research and get into trouble with the university and be discredited? It began to seem that way. Was it Berrington who had sneaked into her room and downloaded her E-mail and warned off the FBI? Could it even be he who had tipped off the New York Times in the first place and started this whole row? She was so stunned by the perverse logic of this notion that she fell silent.

“We have already decided the university’s course of action,” Berrington said.

She realized she had mistaken the power structure in the room. Berrington was the boss here, not Obeli. Berrington was the conduit for Genetico’s research millions, which Obeli needed. Berrington had nothing to fear from Obeli; rather the reverse. She had been watching the monkey instead of the organ-grinder.

Berrington had now dropped the pretense that the university president was in charge. “We didn’t call you in here to ask your opinion,” he said.

“Then why did you call me in?” Jeannie asked.

“To fire you,” he replied.

She was stunned. She had expected the threat of dismissal, but not the thing itself. She could hardly take it in. “What do you mean?” she said stupidly.

“I mean you’re fired,” Berrington said. He smoothed his eyebrows with the tip of his right index finger, a sign that he was pleased with himself.

Jeannie felt as if she had been punched. I can’t be fired, she thought. I’ve only been here a few weeks. I was getting on so well, working so hard. I thought they all liked me, except Sophie Chapple. How did this happen so fast?

She tried to collect her thoughts. “You can’t fire me,” she said.

“We just did.”

“No.” As she got over the initial shock, she began to feel angry and defiant. “You’re not tribal chieftains here. There’s a procedure.” Universities usually could not fire faculty without some kind of hearing. It was mentioned in her contract, but she had never checked the details. Suddenly it was vitally important to her.

Maurice Obeli supplied the information. “There will be a hearing before the discipline committee of the university senate, of course,” he said. “Normally, four weeks’ notice is required; but in view of the bad publicity surrounding this case I, as president, have invoked the emergency procedure, and the hearing will be held tomorrow morning.”

Jeannie was bewildered by how fast they had acted. The discipline committee? Emergency procedure? Tomorrow morning? This was not a discussion. It was more like being arrested. She half expected Obeli to read her her rights.

He did something similar. He pushed a folder across his desk. “In there you will find the procedural rules of the committee. You may be represented by a lawyer or other advocate provided you notify the chair of the committee in advance.”

Jeannie at last managed a sensible question. “Who’s the chair?”

“Jack Budgen,” said Obeli.

Berrington looked up sharply. “Is that already settled?”

“The chair is appointed annually,” Obeli said. “Jack took over at the start of the semester.”

“I didn’t know that.” Berrington looked annoyed, and Jeannie knew why. Jack Budgen was her tennis partner. That was encouraging: he ought to be fair to her. All was not lost. She would have a chance to defend herself, and her research methods, in front of a group of academics. There would be a serious discussion, not the glib superficialities of the New York Times.

And she had the results of her FBI sweep. She began to see how she would defend herself. She would show the committee the FBI data. With luck there would be one or two pairs who did not know they were twins. That would be impressive. Then she would explain the precautions she took to protect individuals’ privacy.…

“I think that’s all,” said Maurice Obeli.

Jeannie was being dismissed. She stood up. “What a pity it’s come to this,” she said.

Berrington said quickly: “You brought it to this.”

He was like an argumentative child. She did not have the patience for pointless wrangling. She gave him a disdainful look and left the room.

As she crossed the campus she reflected ruefully that she had completely failed to achieve her aims. She had wanted a negotiated settlement, and she had got a gladiatorial contest. But Berrington and Obeli had made their decision before she walked into the room. The meeting had been a formality.

She returned to Nut House. As she approached her office she noticed with irritation that the cleaners had left a black plastic garbage bag right outside the door. She would call them immediately. But when she tried to open her door it seemed to be jammed. She swiped her card through the card reader several times, but the door did not open. She was about to walk to reception and call maintenance when a dreadful thought occurred to her.

She looked inside the black bag. It was not full of wastepaper and Styrofoam coffee cups. The first thing she saw was her canvas Lands’ End briefcase. Also in the sack was the Kleenex box from her drawer, a paperback copy of A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley, two framed photographs, and her hairbrush.

They had cleared out her desk and locked her out of her office.

She was devastated. This was a worse blow than what had happened in Maurice Obell’s office. That was just words. This made her feel cut off from a huge part of her life. This is my office, she thought; how can they shut me out? “You fucking creeps,” she said aloud.

It must have been done by security while she was in Obell’s office. Of course they had not warned her; that would have given her the chance to take anything she really needed. Once again she had been surprised by their ruthlessness.

It was like an amputation. They had taken away her science, her work. She did not know what to do with herself, where to go. For eleven years she had been a scientist—as an undergraduate, graduate student, doctoral student, postdoctoral, and assistant professor. Now, suddenly, she was nothing.

As her spirits sank from despondency to black despair, she remembered the disk with the FBI data. She rummaged through the contents of the plastic sack, but there were no floppy disks. Her results, the backbone of her defense, were locked inside the room.

She pounded futilely on the door with her fist. A passing student who took her statistics class gave her a startled look and said: “Can I help you, Professor?”

She recalled his name. “Hi, Ben. You could kick down this goddamn door.”

He studied the door, looking dubious.

“I didn’t mean it,” she said. “I’m fine, thanks.”

He shrugged and walked on.

There was no point standing and staring at the locked door. She picked up the plastic bag and walked into the lab. Lisa was at her desk, keying data into a computer. “I’ve been fired,” Jeannie said.

Lisa stared at her. “What?”

“They locked me out of my office and dumped my stuff in this fucking garbage bag.”

“I don’t believe it!”

Jeannie took her briefcase out of the bag and extracted the New York Times. “It’s on account of this.”

Lisa read the first two paragraphs and said: “But this is bullshit.”

Jeannie sat down. “I know. So why is Berrington pretending to take it seriously?”

“You think he’s pretending?”

“I’m sure of it. He’s too smart to let himself be rattled by this kind of crap. He has some other agenda.” Jeannie drummed her feet on the floor, helpless with frustration. “He’s ready to do anything, he’s really going out on a limb with this … there must be something big at stake for him.” Perhaps she would find the answer in the medical records of the Aventine Clinic in Philadelphia. She checked her watch. She was due there at two P.M.: she had to leave soon.

Lisa still could not take in the news. “They can’t just fire you,” she said indignantly.

“There’s a disciplinary hearing tomorrow morning.”

“My God, they’re serious.”

“They sure are.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

There was, but Jeannie was afraid to ask. She looked appraisingly at Lisa. Lisa was wearing a high-necked blouse with a loose sweater over it, despite the hot weather: she was covering up her body, a reaction to the rape, no doubt. She still looked solemn, like someone recently bereaved.

Would her friendship prove as fragile as Ghita’s? Jeannie was terrified of the answer. If Lisa let her down who would she have left? But she had to put her to the test, even though this was the worst possible time. “You could try to get into my office,” she said hesitantly. “The results from the FBI are in there.”

Lisa did not answer right away. “Did they change your lock, or something?”

“It’s easier than that. They alter the code electronically so that your card no longer works. I won’t be able to get into the building after hours either, I’ll bet.”

“It’s hard to take this in, it’s happened so quickly.”

Jeannie hated pressuring Lisa to take risks. She racked her brains for a way out. “Maybe I could get in myself. A cleaner might let me in, but my guess is that the lock will no longer respond to their cards either. If I’m not using the room it won’t need cleaning anyway. But security must be able to get in.”

“They won’t help you. They’ll know you’ve been locked out deliberately.”

“That’s true,” Jeannie said. “They might let you in, though. You could say you needed something from my office.”

Lisa looked thoughtful.

“I hate to ask you,” Jeannie said.

Then Lisa’s expression changed. “Hell, yes,” she said at last. “Of course I’ll try it.”

Jeannie felt choked up. “Thanks,” she said. She bit her lip. “You’re a friend.” She reached across the desk and squeezed Lisa’s hand.

Lisa was embarrassed by Jeannie’s emotion. “Where in your office is the FBI list?” she said practically.

“The information is on a floppy disk labeled SHOPPING.LST, in a box of floppies in my desk drawer.”

“Got it.” Lisa frowned. “I can’t understand why they’re so against you.”

“It all started with Steve Logan,” Jeannie said. “Ever since Berrington saw him here, there has been trouble. But I think I may be on the way to understanding why.” She stood up.

“What are you going to do now?” said Lisa.

“I’m going to Philadelphia.”