The Third Twin - Ken Follett [109]
“Please leave,” he said.
The security guard took her by the left elbow.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “No need to hold me.”
He did not release her. “This way, please,” he said.
He was a middle-aged man with gray hair and a pot belly. In this mood Jeannie was not going to be mauled by him. With her right hand she grasped the arm he was holding her with. The muscles of his upper arm were flabby. “Let go, please,” she said, and she squeezed. Her hands were strong and her grip was more powerful than most men’s. The guard tried to retain his grasp on her elbow but the pain was too much for him, and after a moment he released her. “Thank you,” she said.
She walked away.
She felt better. She had been right to think there was a clue in this clinic. Their efforts to keep her from learning anything were the best possible confirmation that they had a guilty secret. The solution to the mystery was connected with this place. But where did that get her?
She went to her car but did not get in. It was two-thirty and she had had no lunch. She was too excited to eat much, but she needed a cup of coffee. Across the street was a café next to a gospel hall. It looked cheap and clean. She crossed the road and went inside.
Her threat to Dick Minsky had been empty; there was nothing she could do to harm him. She had achieved nothing by getting mad at him. In fact she had tipped her hand, making it clear that she knew she was being lied to. Now they were on their guard.
The café was quiet but for a few students finishing lunch. She ordered coffee and a salad. While she was waiting, she opened the brochure she had picked up in the lobby of the clinic. She read:
The Aventine Clinic was founded in 1972 by Genetico Inc., as a pioneering center for research and development of human in vitro fertilization—the creation of what the newspapers call “test-tube babies.”
And suddenly it was all clear.
34
JANE EDELSBOROUGH WAS A WIDOW IN HER EARLY FIFTIES. A statuesque but untidy woman, she normally dressed in loose ethnic clothes and sandals. She had a commanding intellect, but no one would have guessed it to look at her. Berrington found such people baffling. If you were clever, he thought, why disguise yourself as an idiot by dressing badly? Yet universities were full of such people—in fact, he was exceptional in taking care over his appearance.
Today he was looking especially natty in a navy linen jacket and matching vest with lightweight houndstooth-check pants.
He inspected his image in the mirror behind the door before leaving his office on his way to see Jane.
He headed for the Student Union. Faculty rarely ate there—Berrington had never entered the place—but Jane had gone there for a late lunch, according to the chatty secretary in physics.
The lobby of the union was full of kids in shorts standing in line to get money out of the bank teller machines. He stepped into the cafeteria and looked around. She was in a far corner, reading a journal and eating French fries with her fingers.
The place was a food court, such as Berrington had seen in airports and shopping malls, with a Pizza Hut, an ice-cream counter, and a Burger King, as well as a regular cafeteria. Berrington picked up a tray and went into the cafeteria section. Inside a glass-fronted case were a few tired sandwiches and some doleful cakes. He shuddered; in normal circumstances he would drive to the next state rather than eat here.
This was going to be difficult. Jane was not his kind of woman. That made it even more likely that she would lean the wrong way at the discipline hearing. He had to make a friend of her in a short time. It would call for all his powers of charm.
He bought a piece of cheesecake and a cup of coffee and carried them to Jane’s table. He felt jittery, but he forced himself to look and sound relaxed. “Jane,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise. May I join you?”
“Sure,” she said amiably, putting her journal aside. She