The Third Twin Page 0,85

The only possible explanation for the absence of clues was that she had made the arrangements by phone or in person, perhaps with someone who was a close friend. And if that were the case he might not be able to find out anything about it by searching her room.

He heard a footstep in the corridor outside, and he tensed. There was a click as a card was passed through the card reader. Berrington stared helplessly at the door. There was nothing he could do: he was caught red-handed, sitting at her desk, with her computer on. He could not pretend to have wandered in here by accident.

The door opened. He expected to see Jeannie, but in fact it was a security guard.

The man knew him. "Oh, hi, Professor," the guard said. "I saw the light on, so I thought I'd check. Dr. Ferrami usually keeps her door open when she's here."

Berrington struggled not to blush. "That's quite all right," he said. Never apologize, never explain. "I'll be sure to close the door when I'm through here."

"Great."

The guard stood silent, waiting for an explanation. Berrington clamped his jaw shut. Eventually the man said: "Well, good night, Professor."

"Good night."

The guard left.

Berrington relaxed. No problem.

He checked that her modem was switched on, then clicked on America Online and accessed her mailbox. Her terminal was programmed to give her password automatically. She had three pieces of mail. He downloaded them all. The first was a notice about increased prices for using the Internet. The second came from the University of Minnesota and read:

I'll be in Baltimore on Friday and would like to have a drink with you for old times' sake. Love, Will

Berrington wondered if Will was the bearded guy in the bike picture. He threw it out and opened the third letter. It electrified him.

You'll be relieved to know that I'm running your scan on our fingerprint file tonight. Call me. Ghita.

It was from the FBI.

"Son of a bitch," Berrington whispered. "This will kill us."

Chapter 26

BERRINGTON WAS AFRAID TO TALK ON THE PHONE ABOUT Jeannie and the FBI fingerprint file: So many telephone calls were monitored by intelligence agencies. Nowadays the surveillance was done by computers programmed to listen for key words and phrases. If someone said "plutonium" or "heroin" or "kill the president," the computer would tape the conversation and alert a human listener. The last thing Berrington needed was some CIA eavesdropper wondering why Senator Proust was so interested in FBI fingerprint files.

So he got in his silver Lincoln Town Car and drove at ninety miles an hour on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. He often broke the speed limit In fact, he was impatient with all kinds of rules. It was a contradiction in him, he recognized that. He hated peace marchers and drug takers, homosexuals and feminists and rock musicians and all nonconformists who flouted American traditions. Yet at the same time he resented anyone who tried to tell him where to park his car or how much to pay his employees or how many fire extinguishers to put in his laboratory.

As he drove, he wondered about Jim Proust's contacts in the intelligence community. Were they just a bunch of old soldiers who sat around telling stories about how they had blackmailed antiwar protesters and assassinated South American presidents? Or were they still at the cutting edge? Did they still help one another, like the Mafia, and regard the return of a favor as an almost religious obligation? Or were those days over? It was a long time since Jim had left the CIA; even he might not know.

It was late, but Jim was waiting for Berrington at his office in the Capitol building. "What the hell has happened that you couldn't tell me on the phone?" he said.

"She's about to run her computer program on the FBI's fingerprint file."

Jim went pale. "Will it work?"

"It worked on dental records, why wouldn't it work on fingerprints?"

"Jesus H. Christ," Jim said feelingly.

"How many prints do they have on file?"

"More than twenty million sets, as I recall. They can't be all criminals. Are there that many criminals in America?"

"I don't know, maybe they have prints of dead people too. Focus, Jim, for Christ's sake. Can you stop this happening?"

"Who's her contact at the Bureau?"

Berrington handed him the printout he had made of Jeannie's E-mail. As Jim studied it, Berrington looked around. On the walls of his office, Jim had photographs of himself with every American president after Kennedy. There was a uniformed