The Third Twin - Ken Follett [55]
Jeannie bridled. “If he had felt you up, Warden, would you have unwisely tried to resist him?”
“I ain’t a girl,” Temoigne said with the air of one who plays a winning card.
Lisa tactfully intervened. “We should get started, Dr. Ferrami—we have a lot of work to do.”
“You’re right.”
Temoigne said: “Normally you would interview the prisoner through a grille. You’ve specially asked to be in the same room with him, and I have orders from above to let you. All the same I urge you to think again. He is a violent and dangerous criminal.”
Jeannie felt a tremor of anxiety, but she stayed outwardly cool. “There will be an armed guard in the room all the time we’re with Dennis.”
“There sure will. But I’d be more comfortable if there was a steel mesh separating you from the prisoner.” He gave a sickly grin. “A man doesn’t even have to be a psychopath to suffer temptation with two such attractive young girls.”
Jeannie stood up abruptly. “I appreciate your concern, Warden, I really do. But we have to carry out certain procedures, such as taking a blood sample, photographing the subject, and so on, which can’t be done through bars. Furthermore, parts of our interview are intimate and we feel it would compromise our results to have such an artificial barrier between us and the subject.”
He shrugged. “Well, I guess you’ll be okay.” He stood up. “I’ll walk you along to the cell block.”
They left the office and crossed a baked-earth yard to a two-story concrete blockhouse. A guard opened an iron gate and let them in. The interior was as hot as the outside. Temoigne said: “Robinson here will take care of you from now on. Anything else you girls need, just holler.”
“Thank you, Warden,” Jeannie said. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
Robinson was a reassuringly tall black man of about thirty. He had a pistol in a buttoned holster and an intimidating-looking nightstick. He showed them into a small interview room with a table and half a dozen chairs in a stack. There was an ashtray on the table and a water cooler in the corner; otherwise the room was bare. The floor was tiled in gray plastic and the walls were painted a similar shade. There was no window.
Robinson said: “Pinker will be here in a minute.” He helped Jeannie and Lisa arrange the table and chairs. Then they sat down.
A moment later the door opened.
16
BERRINGTON JONES MET WITH JIM PROUST AND PRESTON Barck at the Monocle, a restaurant close to the Senate office building in Washington. It was a power lunch venue, full of people they knew: congressmen, political consultants, journalists, aides. Berrington had decided there was no point in trying to be discreet. They were too well known, especially Senator Proust with his bald head and big nose. If they had met in an obscure location, some reporter would have spotted them and written a gossip item asking why they were holding secret meetings. Better to go where thirty people would recognize them and assume they were having a routine discussion about their legitimate mutual interests.
Berrington’s aim was to keep the Landsmann deal on the rails. It had always been a risky venture, and Jeannie Ferrami had made it downright dangerous. But the alternative was to give up their dreams. There would be only one chance to turn America around and put her back on the course of racial integrity. It was not too late, not quite. The vision of a law-abiding, churchgoing, family-oriented white America could be made a reality. But they were all around sixty years of age: they were not going to get another chance after this.
Jim Proust was the big personality, loud and blustering; but although he often annoyed Berrington, he could usually be talked around. Mild-mannered Preston, much more likable, was also stubborn.
Berrington had bad news for them, and he got it out of the way as soon as they had ordered. “Jeannie Ferrami is in Richmond today, seeing Dennis Pinker.”
Jim scowled. “Why the hell didn’t you stop her?” His voice was deep and harsh from years of barking orders.
As always, Jim’s overbearing