The Third Twin - Ken Follett [161]
“It’s hard making these calls,” Lisa said.
“Do you want to take a break?”
“No.” Lisa shook herself. “We’re doing well. We’ve eliminated two of the five and it’s not yet three A.M.. Who’s next?”
“George Dassault.”
Jeannie was beginning to believe they would find the rapist, but they were not so lucky with the next name. There were only seven George Dassaults in the United States, but three of them did not answer their phones. None had any connection with either Baltimore or Philadelphia—one was in Buffalo, one in Sacramento, and one in Houston—but that did not prove anything. There was nothing they could do but move on. Lisa printed the list of phone numbers so they could try again later.
There was another snag. “I guess there’s no guarantee that the man we’re after is on the CD-ROM,” Jeannie said.
“That’s true. He might not have a phone. Or his number could be unlisted.”
“He could be fisted under a nickname, Spike Dassault or Flip Jones.”
Lisa giggled. “He could have become a rap singer and changed his name to Icey Creamo Creamy.”
“He could be a wrestler called Iron Billy.”
“He could be writing westerns under the name Buck Remington.”
“Or pornography as Heidi Whiplash.”
“Dick Swiftly.”
“Henrietta Pussy.”
Their laughter was abruptly cut off by the crash of breaking glass. Jeannie shot off her stool and darted into the stationery cupboard. She closed the door behind her and stood in the dark, listening.
She heard Lisa say nervously: “Who is it?”
“Security,” came a man’s voice. “Did you put that glass there?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“So nobody could sneak up on me. I get nervous working here late.”
“Well, I ain’t gonna sweep it up. I ain’t a cleaner.”
“Okay, just leave it.”
“Are you on your own, miss?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll just look around.”
“Be my guest.”
Jeannie took hold of the door handle with both hands. If he tried to open it, she would prevent him.
She heard him walking around the lab. “What kind of work are you doing, anyway?” His voice was very close.
Lisa was farther away. “I’d love to talk, but I just don’t have time, I’m really busy.”
If she wasn’t busy, buster, she wouldn’t be here in the middle of the goddamn night, so why don’t you just butt out and leave her be?
“Okay, no problem.” His voice was right outside the door. “What’s in here?”
Jeannie grasped the handle firmly and pulled upward, ready to resist pressure.
“That’s where we keep the radioactive virus chromosomes,” Lisa said. “It’s probably quite safe, though, you can go in if it’s not locked.”
Jeannie suppressed a hysterical laugh. There was no such thing as a radioactive virus chromosome.
“I guess I’ll skip it,” the guard said. Jeannie was about to relax her grip on the door handle when she felt sudden pressure. She pulled upward with all her might. “It’s locked, anyway,” he said.
There was a pause. When next he spoke his voice was distant, and Jeannie relaxed. “If you get lonely, come on over to the guardhouse. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks,” Lisa said.
Jeannie’s tension began to ease, but she cautiously stayed where she was, waiting for the all clear. After a couple of minutes Lisa opened the door. “He’s left the building,” she said.
They went back to the phones.
Murray Claud was another unusual name, and they tracked him down quickly. It was Jeannie who made the call. Murray Claud Sr. told her, in a voice full of bitterness and bewilderment, that his son had been jailed in Athens three years ago, after a knife fight in a taverna, and would not be released until January at the earliest. “That boy could have been anything,” he said. “Astronaut. Nobel Prize winner. Movie star. President of the United States. He has brains, charm, and good looks. And he threw it away. Just threw it all away.”
She understood the father’s pain. He thought he was responsible. She was sorely tempted to tell him the truth, but she was unprepared, and anyway there was no time. She promised herself she would call him again, one day, and give him what consolation she could. Then she hung up.
They left Harvey Jones until