Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

The door flew open. Harvey swung around, turning his back on Jeannie.

Steve burst in.

Steve and Harvey stared at one another in astonishment for a frozen moment.

They were exactly the same. What would happen if they fought? They were equal in height, weight, strength and fitness. A fight could go on forever.

On impulse, Jeannie picked up the omelet pan with both hands. Imagining that she was hitting a cross-court ground shot with her famous double-handed backhand, she shifted her weight to her front foot, locked her wrists, and swung the heavy pan with all her might.

She hit the back of Harvey’s head right on the sweet spot.

There was a sickening thud. Harvey’s legs seemed to go soft. He sank to his knees, swaying.

As if she had run to the net for the volley, Jeannie lifted the pan high with her right hand and brought it down as hard as she could on top of his head.

His eyes rolled up and he went limp and crashed to the floor.

Steve said: “Boy, am I glad you didn’t hit the wrong twin.”

Jeannie started to shake. She dropped the pan and sat on a kitchen stool. Steve put his arms around her. “It’s over,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” she replied. “It’s only just begun.”

The phone was still ringing.

57

“YOU LAID HIM OUT, THE BASTARD,” STEVE SAID. “WHO is he?”

‘This is Harvey Jones,” Jeannie answered. “And he’s Berrington Jones’s son.”

Steve was amazed. “Berrington brought up one of the eight as his son? Well, I’ll be damned.”

Jeannie stared at the unconscious figure on the floor. “What are we going to do?”

“For a start, why don’t we answer the phone?”

Automatically, Jeannie picked it up. It was Lisa. “It almost happened to me,” Jeannie said without preamble.

“Oh, no!”

“The same guy.”

“I can’t believe it! Shall I come right over?”

“Thanks, I’d like that.”

Jeannie hung up. She ached all over from having been thrown to the floor, and her mouth hurt where he had forced the gag in. She could still taste Harvey’s blood. She poured a glass of water, rinsed her mouth, and spat into the kitchen sink. Then she said: “We’re in a dangerous place, Steve. The people we’re up against have powerful friends.”

“I know.”

“They might try to kill us.”

“Tell me about it.”

The notion made it hard for Jeannie to think. I must not become paralyzed by fear, she thought. “Do you think if I promise never to tell what I know, they might leave me alone?”

Steve considered that for a moment, then he said: “No, I don’t.”

“Nor do I. So I’ve got no choice but to fight.”

There was a footstep on the stairs and Mr. Oliver put his head around the door. “What the heck happened here?” he said. He looked from the unconscious Harvey on the floor to Steve and back again. “Well, I’ll be.”

Steve picked up Jeannie’s black Levi’s and handed them to her, and she slipped them on quickly, covering her nakedness. If Mr. Oliver noticed, he was too tactful to say anything. Pointing at Harvey, he said: “This must be that guy in Philadelphia. No wonder you thought it was your boyfriend. They got to be twins!”

Steve said: “I’m going to tie him up before he comes round. Do you have any cord, Jeannie?”

Mr. Oliver said: “I have some electric cable. I’ll get my toolbox.” He went out.

Jeannie hugged Steve gratefully. She felt as if she had awakened from a nightmare. “I thought he was you,” she said. “It was just like yesterday, but this time I wasn’t being paranoid, I was right.”

“We said we should make up a code, then we didn’t get around to it.”

“Let’s do it now. When you approached me on the tennis court last Sunday, you said, I play a little tennis myself.’ “

“And you modestly said, ‘If you only play a little tennis, you’re probably not in my league.’ ”

“That’s the code. If one of us says the first line, the other has to say the second.”

“Done.”

Mr. Oliver came back with his toolbox. He rolled Harvey over and started to tie his hands in front, binding the palms flat against one another but leaving the pinkie fingers free.

Steve said: “Why not tie his hands behind his back?”

Mr. Oliver looked bashful. “If you’ll excuse me for mentioning it, this way he can hold his own dick when he has to take a piss. I learned that in Europe during the war.” He started to bind Harvey’s feet. “This guy won’t cause you no more trouble. Now what are you planning to do about the front door?”

Jeannie looked at Steve, who said: “I busted it pretty bad.”

“I’d better call a carpenter,” Jeannie said.

Mr. Oliver said: “I got some loose timber in the yard. I could fix it so we can lock the door tonight. Then we could get someone to do a better job tomorrow.”

Jeannie felt profoundly grateful to him. “Thank you, that’s so kind.”

“Don’t mention it. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me since World War Two.”

“I’ll help you,” Steve offered.

Mr. Oliver shook his head. “You two have a lot to discuss, I can see that. Like whether you’re going to call the cops on this guy you have trussed up on your carpet.” Without waiting for an answer he picked up his toolbox and went downstairs.

Jeannie collected her thoughts. “Tomorrow, Genetico will be sold for a hundred and eighty million dollars and Proust will be on the presidential trail. Meanwhile I’ve got no job and my reputation is shot. I’ll never work as a scientist again. But I could turn both situations around, with what I know.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Well … I could issue a press release about the experiments.”

“Wouldn’t you need some kind of proof?”

“You and Harvey together make pretty dramatic evidence. Especially if we could get you on TV together.”

“Yeah—on Sixty Minutes or something. I like that.” His face fell again. “But Harvey wouldn’t cooperate.”

“They can film him tied up. Then we call the cops, and they can film that too.”

Steve nodded. “The trouble is, you probably have to act before Landsmann and Genetico finalize the takeover. Once they have the money, they may be able to ride out any bad publicity we generate. But I don’t see how you can get on TV in the next few hours. And their press conference is tomorrow morning, according to The Wall Street Journal.”

“Maybe we should hold our own press conference.”

Steve snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! We gate-crash their press conference.”

“Hell, yes. Then maybe the people from Landsmann will decide not to sign the papers, and the takeover will be canceled.”

“And Berrington won’t make all those millions of dollars.”

“And Jim Proust won’t run for president.”

“We must be crazy,” Steve said. “These are some of the most powerful people in America, and we’re talking about spoiling their party.”

The sound of hammering came from below as Mr. Oliver began to mend the door. Jeannie said: “They hate black people, you know. All this bullshit about good genes and second-rate Americans is just code. They’re white supremacists all dressed up with modern science. They want to make Mr. Oliver a second-class citizen. The hell with them, I’m not going to stand by and watch.”

“We need a plan,” Steve said practically.

“Okay, here goes,” Jeannie said. “First we have to find out where the Genetico press conference is being held.”

“Probably a Baltimore hotel.”

“We’ll call them all, if necessary.”

“We should probably take a room in the hotel.”