Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

“Will he come tomorrow?”

“Yes. ‘I’ll do anything for publicity,’ he said. I fixed up his flight and I said I’d meet him at the airport.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“We’ll have three clones: it will look incredible on TV.”

“If we can get Harvey into the hotel.” Jeannie turned to Mr. Oliver. “We can avoid the hotel doorman by driving into the underground garage. The garage elevator goes only as far as the ground floor of the hotel. You have to get out there and get another elevator to the rooms. But the elevator bank is kind of concealed.”

Mr. Oliver said dubiously: “All the same, we’re going to have to keep him quiet for a good five, maybe ten, minutes while we get him from the car to the room. And what if some of the hotel guests see him all tied up? They might ask questions, or call security.”

Jeannie looked at Harvey, lying bound and gagged on the floor. He was watching them and listening. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I have some ideas,” Jeannie said. “Can you retie his feet so he can walk, but not very fast?”

“Sure.”

While Mr. Oliver was doing that, Jeannie went into her bedroom. From her closet she took a colorful sarong she had bought for the beach, a big wraparound shawl, a handkerchief, and a Nancy Reagan mask she had been given at a party and had forgotten to throw away.

Mr. Oliver was getting Harvey to his feet. As soon as he was upright, Harvey took a swing at Mr. Oliver with his bound hands. Jeannie gasped and Lisa screamed. But Mr. Oliver seemed to have been expecting it. He dodged the blow easily, then hit Harvey in the stomach with the butt of the gun. Harvey grunted and bent double, and Mr. Oliver hit him with the gun butt again, this time on his head. Harvey sank to his knees. Mr. Oliver hauled him up again. Now he seemed docile.

“I want to dress him up,” Jeannie said.

“You go ahead,” Mr. Oliver said. “I’ll just stand by and hurt him now and again to keep him cooperative.”

Nervously, Jeannie wrapped the sarong around Harvey’s waist and tied it like a skirt. Her hands were unsteady; she hated being this close to him. The skirt was long and covered Harvey’s ankles, concealing the length of electrical cable that hobbled him. She draped the shawl over his shoulders and fastened it with a safety pin to the bonds on Harvey’s wrists, so that he looked as if he were clutching the corners of the shawl like an old lady. Next she rolled the handkerchief and tied it across his open mouth, securing it with a knot behind his neck, so that the dishcloth could not fall out. Finally she put on the Nancy Reagan mask to hide the gag. “He’s been to a costume party, dressed as Nancy Reagan, and he’s drunk,” she said.

“That’s pretty good,” Mr. Oliver said.

The phone rang. Jeannie picked it up. “Hello?”

“This is Mish Delaware.”

Jeannie had forgotten about her. It had been fourteen or fifteen hours since she had been desperate to contact her. “Hi,” she said.

“You were right. Harvey Jones did it.”

“How do you know?”

“The Philadelphia police were quick off the mark. They went to his apartment. He wasn’t there, but a neighbor let them in. They found the hat and realized it was the one in the description.”

‘That’s great!”

“I’m ready to arrest him, but I don’t know where he is. Do you?”

Jeannie looked at him, dressed like a six-foot-two Nancy Reagan. “No idea,” she said. “But I can tell you where he’ll be at noon tomorrow.”

“Goon.”

“Regency Room, Stouffer Hotel, at a press conference.”

“Thanks.”

“Mish, do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Don’t arrest him until the press conference is over. It’s really important to me that he’s there.”

She hesitated, then said: “Okay.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Jeannie hung up. “Okay, let’s get him in the car.”

Mr. Oliver said: “You go ahead and open the doors. I’ll bring him.”

Jeannie picked up her keys and ran downstairs into the street. Night had fallen, but there was bright starlight as well as the shadowy illumination of the streetlights. She looked along the street. A young couple in ripped jeans were strolling in the opposite direction, hand in hand. On the other side of the road, a man in a straw hat was walking a yellow Labrador. They would all be able to see clearly what was going on. Would they look? Would they care?

Jeannie unlocked her car and opened the door.

Harvey and Mr. Oliver came out of the house, very close together, Mr. Oliver pushing his prisoner forward, Harvey stumbling. Lisa followed them, closing the door of the house.

For an instant, the scene struck Jeannie as absurd. Hysterical laughter bubbled up into her throat. She put her fist in her mouth to silence it.

Harvey reached the car and Mr. Oliver gave a final shove. Harvey half fell into the backseat.

Jeannie’s moment of hilarity passed. She looked again at the other people in the street. The man in the straw hat was watching his dog urinate on the tire of a Subaru. The young couple had not turned around.

So far, so good.

“I’ll get in the back with him,” Mr. Oliver said.

“Okay.”

Lisa got in the front passenger seat and Jeannie drove.

Downtown was quiet on Sunday night. She entered the parking garage beneath the hotel and parked as close as possible to the elevator shaft, to minimize the distance they had to drag Harvey. The garage was not deserted. They had to wait in the car while a dressed-up couple got out of a Lexus and went up to the hotel. Then, when there was no one to see, they got out of the car.

Jeannie took a wrench from her trunk, showed it to Harvey, then tucked it into the pocket of her blue jeans. Mr. Oliver had his wartime pistol in his waistband, concealed by the tail of his shirt. They pulled Harvey out of the car. Jeannie expected him to turn violent at any moment, but he walked peaceably to the elevator.

It took a long time to arrive.

When it came they bundled him in and Jeannie pressed the button for the lobby.

As they went up, Mr. Oliver punched Harvey in the stomach again.

Jeannie was shocked: there had been no provocation.

Harvey groaned and doubled over just as the doors were opening. Two men waiting for the elevator stared at Harvey. Mr. Oliver led him stumbling out, saying: “Excuse me, gentlemen, this young man has had one drink too many.” They got out of the way smartly.

Another elevator stood waiting. They got Harvey into it and Jeannie pressed the button for the eighth floor. She sighed with relief as the doors closed.

They rode to their floor without incident. Harvey was recovering from Mr. Oliver’s punch, but they were almost at their destination. Jeannie led the way to the room she had taken. As they got there she saw with dismay that the door was open, and hanging on the doorknob was a card saying “Room being serviced.” The maid must be turning down the bed or something. Jeannie groaned.

Suddenly Harvey began to thrash around, making noises of protest in his throat, swinging wildly with his bound hands. Mr. Oliver tried to hit him, but he dodged and took three steps along the corridor.

Jeannie stooped in front of him, grabbed the cord binding his ankles with both hands, and heaved. Harvey stumbled. Jeannie tugged again, this time with no effect. God, he’s heavy. He raised his hands to strike her. She braced herselfand pulled with all her might. His feet flew from under him and he went down with a crash.

“My goodness, what in heaven’s name is going on?” said a prim voice. The maid, a black woman of about sixty in an immaculate uniform, had stepped out of the room.

Mr. Oliver knelt at Harvey’s head and lifted his shoulders.