The Third Twin - Ken Follett [95]
Jeannie stared at him, openmouthed. “Oh, my God,” she said in a low voice. “Of course it does.”
“I wonder if there’s any connection?”
“I just bet there is,” said Jeannie.
“If there is, then …”
“Then Berrington Jones may know a lot more about you and Dennis than he’s letting on.”
28
IT HAD BEEN A PIG OF A DAY, BUT IT HAD ENDED ALL RIGHT, Berrington thought as he stepped out of the shower.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He was in great shape for fifty-nine: lean, upright, with faintly tanned skin and an almost flat stomach. His pubic hair was dark, but that was because. he dyed it to get rid of the embarrassing gray. It was important to him to be able to take off his clothes in front of a woman without turning out the light.
He had begun the day by thinking he had Jeannie Ferrami over a barrel, but she had proved tougher than he had expected. I won’t underestimate her again, he thought.
On his way back from Washington he had dropped by Preston Barck’s house to brief him on the latest development. As always, Preston had been even more worried and pessimistic than the situation warranted. Affected by Preston’s mood, Berrington had driven home under a cloud of gloom. But when he had walked into the house the phone had been ringing, and Jim, speaking in an improvised code, had confirmed that David Creane would stop the FBI from cooperating with Jeannie. He had promised to make the necessary phone calls tonight.
Berrington toweled himself dry and put on blue cotton pajamas and a blue-and-white-striped bathrobe. Marianne, the housekeeper, had the evening off, but there was a casserole in the refrigerator: chicken Provençal, according to the note she had left in careful, childish handwriting. He put it in the oven and poured a small glass of Springbank scotch. As he took the first sip, the phone rang.
It was his ex-wife, Vivvie. “The Wall Street Journal says you’re going to be rich,” she said.
He pictured her, a slender blonde of sixty years, sitting on the terrace of her California house, watching the sun go down over the Pacific Ocean. “I suppose you want to come back to me.”
“I thought about it, Berry. I thought about it very seriously for at least ten seconds. Then I realized a hundred and eighty million dollars wasn’t enough.”
That made him laugh.
“Seriously, Berry, I’m pleased for you.”
He knew she was sincere. She had plenty of money of her own. After leaving him, she had gone into the real estate business in Santa Barbara and had done well. “Thank you.”
“What are you going to do with the money? Leave it to the boy?”
Their son was studying to be a certified public accountant. “He won’t need it, he’ll make a fortune as an accountant. I might give some of the money to Jim Proust. He’s going to run for president.”
“What’ll you get in return? Do you want to be the U.S. ambassador in Paris?”
“No, but I’d consider surgeon general.”
“Hey, Berry, you’re serious about this. But I guess you shouldn’t say too much on the phone.”
“True.”
“I gotta go, my date just rang the doorbell. See you sooner, Montezuma.” It was an old family joke.
He gave her the response. “In a flash, succotash.” He cradled the phone.
He found it a little depressing that Vivvie was going out for the evening with a date—he had no idea who it might be—while he was sitting at home alone with his scotch. Apart from the death of his father, Vivvie’s leaving him was the great sadness of Berrington’s life. He did not blame her for going; he had been hopelessly unfaithful. But he had loved her, and he still missed her, thirteen years after the divorce. The fact that he was at fault only made him sadder. Joshing with her on the phone reminded him of how much fun they had had together in the good times.
He turned on the TV and watched Prime Time Live while his dinner was warming. The kitchen filled with the fragrance of the herbs Marianne used. She was a great cook. Perhaps it was because Martinique had been a French colony.
Just as he was taking the casserole out of the oven, the phone rang again. This time it was Preston