It was true, there was nothing Ghita could say to force Jeannie. But Jeannie said: "Come on, it's not that way."
Ghita did not soften. "Yes, it is that way. I'm asking you to destroy that list."
"I can't."
"Then there's nothing more to say." Ghita went to the door.
"Don't leave like this," Jeannie said. "We've been friends for too long."
Ghita went.
"Shit," Jeannie said. "Shit."
The street door slammed.
Did I just lose one of my oldest friends? Jeannie thought.
Ghita had let her down. Jeannie understood the reasons: there was a lot of pressure on a young woman trying to make a career. All the same, it was Jeannie who was under attack, not Ghita. Ghita's friendship had not survived the test of a crisis.
Jeannie wondered if other friends would go the same way.
Feeling miserable, she took a quick shower and began to throw on her clothes. Then she made herself stop and think. She was going into battle: she had better dress for it. She took off her black jeans and red T-shirt and started again. She washed and blow-dried her hair. She made up her face carefully: foundation, powder, mascara, and lipstick. She dressed in a black suit with a dove gray blouse, sheer stockings, and patent-leather pumps. She changed her nose ring for a plain stud.
She studied herself in a full-length mirror. She felt dangerous and she looked formidable. "Kill, Jeannie, kill," she murmured. Then she went out.
Chapter 31
JEANNIE THOUGHT ABOUT STEVE LOGAN AS SHE DROVE TO JFU. She had called him a big strong kid, but in fact he was more mature than some men ever got to be. She had cried on his shoulder, so she must trust him at some deep level. She had liked the way he smelled, sort of like tobacco before it is lit. Despite her distress she could not help noticing his erection, although he had tried not to let her feel it. It was flattering that he should get so excited just hugging her, and she smiled as she recalled the scene. It was a pity he was not ten or fifteen years older.
Steve reminded her of her first love, Bobby Springfield. She was thirteen, he was fifteen. She knew almost nothing about love and sex, but he was equally ignorant, and they had embarked on a voyage of discovery together. She blushed as she remembered the things they had done in the back row of the Moviedrome on Saturday nights. The exciting thing about Bobby, as with Steve, was a sense of passion constrained. Bobby had wanted her so badly, and had been so inflamed by stroking her nipples or touching her panties, that she had felt enormously powerful. For a while she had abused that power, getting him all hot and bothered just to prove she could do it. But she soon realized, even at the age of thirteen, that that was a foolish game. Still she never lost the sense of risk, of delight in playing with a chained giant. And she felt that with Steve.
He was the only good thing on her horizon. She was in bad trouble. She could not resign from her post here at JFU now. After the New York Times had made her famous for defying her bosses, she would find it hard to get another scientific job. If I were a professor, I wouldn't hire someone who caused this kind of trouble, she thought.
But it was too late for her to take a more cautious stance. Her only hope was to press on stubbornly, using the FBI data, and produce scientific results so convincing that people would look again at her methodology and debate its ethics seriously.
It was nine o'clock when she pulled into her parking space. As she locked the car and walked into Nut House she had an acid feeling in her stomach: too much tension and no food.
As soon as she stepped into her office, she knew someone had been there.
It was not the cleaners. She was familiar with the changes they made: the chairs shifted an inch or two, cup rings swabbed, the wastebasket on the wrong side of the desk. This was different. Someone had sat at her computer. The keyboard was at the wrong angle; the intruder had unconsciously shifted it to his or her habitual position. The mouse had been left in the middle of the pad, whereas she