The Third Twin - Ken Follett [152]
A few moments later he saw the black coupé waiting at a light, and he breathed easier.
They drove around the Lincoln Memorial, then crossed the Potomac by Arlington Bridge. Were they heading for National Airport? They took Washington Boulevard, and Berrington realized their destination must be the Pentagon.
He followed them down the off-ramp into the Pentagon’s immense parking lot. He found a slot in the next lane, turned off his engine, and watched. Steve and his father got out of the car and headed for the building.
He checked the Mark VIII. There was no one left inside. Jeannie must have stayed behind at the house in Georgetown. What were Steve and his father up to? And Jeannie?
He walked twenty or thirty yards behind them. He hated this. He dreaded being spotted. What would he say if they confronted him? It would be unbearably humiliating.
Thankfully, neither of them looked back. They went up a flight of steps and entered the building. He stayed with them until they passed through a security barrier and he had to turn back.
He found a pay phone and called Jim Proust. “I’m at the Pentagon. I followed Jeannie to the Logan house, then trailed Steve Logan and his father here. I’m worried, Jim,”
“The colonel works at the Pentagon, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah,”
“It could be innocent.”
“But why would he go to his office on a Saturday evening?”
“For a poker game in the general’s office, if I remember my army days.”
“You don’t take your kid to a poker game, no matter what age he is.”
“What’s at the Pentagon that could harm us?” “Records.”
“No,” Jim said. “The army has no record of what we did. I’m sure of that.”
“We have to know what they’re doing. Isn’t there some way you can find out?”
“I guess. If I don’t have friends at the Pentagon, I don’t have them anywhere. I’ll make some calls. Stay in touch.”
Berrington hung up and stood staring at the phone. The frustration was maddening. Everything he had worked for all his life was imperiled, and what was he doing? Following people around like a grubby private eye. But there was nothing else he could do. Seething with helpless impatience, he turned around and went back to his car to wait.
50
STEVE WAITED IN A FEVER OF ANTICIPATION. IF THIS WORKED, it would tell him who raped Lisa Hoxton, and then he would have a chance of proving his innocence. But what if it went wrong? The search might not work, or medical records might have been lost or wiped from the database. Computers were always giving you dumb messages: “Not found” or “Out of memory” or “General protection fault.”
The terminal made a doorbell sound. Steve looked at the screen. The search had finished. On the screen was a list of names and addresses in pairs. Jeannie’s program had worked. But were the clones on the list?
He controlled his eagerness. The first priority was to make a copy of the list.
He found a box of new diskettes in a drawer and slid one into the disk drive. He copied the list onto the disk, ejected it, and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans.
Only then did he begin to study the names.
He did not recognize any of them. He scrolled down: there seemed to be several pages. It would be easier to scan a piece of paper. He called Lieutenant Gambol. “Can I print from this terminal?”
“Sure,” she said. “You can use that laser printer.” She came over and showed him how.
Steve stood over the laser printer, watching avidly as the pages came out. He was hoping to see his own name listed alongside three others: Dennis Pinker, Wayne Stattner, and the man who raped Lisa Hoxton. His father watched over his shoulder.
The first page contained only pairs, no groups of three or four.
The name “Steven Logan” appeared halfway down the second page. Dad spotted it at the same time. “There you are,” he said with