All the same he was reluctant to start a public outcry against her. It was hard to control the press. There was a chance they would begin by investigating Jeannie and finish up investigating him. This would be a dangerous strategy. But he could think of no other, short of Jim’s wild talk of murder.
He drained his glass. The bartender offered him another martini, but he declined. He looked around the bar and spotted a pay phone next to the men’s room. He swiped his American Express card through the card reader and called Jim’s office. One of Jim’s brash young men answered: “Senator Proust’s office.”
“This is Berrington Jones—”
“I’m afraid the senator is in a meeting right now.”
He really should train his acolytes to be a little more charming, Berrington thought. “Then let’s see if we can avoid interrupting him,” he said. “Does he have any media appointments this afternoon?”
“I’m not sure. May I ask why you need to know, sir?”
“No, young man, you may not,” Berrington said with exasperation. Self-important assistants were the curse of Capitol Hill. “You may answer my question, or you may put Jim Proust on the phone, or you may lose your goddamn job, now which is it to be?”
“Please hold.”
There was a long pause. Berrington reflected that wishing Jim would teach his aides to be charming was like hoping a chimpanzee would teach its young table manners. The boss’s style spread to the staff: an ill-mannered person always had rude employees.
A new voice came on the phone. “Professor Jones, in fifteen minutes the senator is due to attend a press conference to launch Congressman Dinkey’s book New Hope for America.”
That was just perfect. “Where?”
“The Watergate hotel.”
“Tell Jim I’ll be there, and make sure my name is on the guest list, please.” Berrington hung up without waiting for a reply.
He left the bar and got a cab to the hotel. This would need to be handled delicately. Manipulating the media was hazardous: a good reporter might look past the obvious story and start asking why it was being planted. But each time he thought of the risks, he reminded himself of the rewards and steeled his nerve.
He found the room where the press conference was to be held. His name was not on the list—self-important assistants were never efficient—but the book’s publicist recognized his face and welcomed him as an additional attraction for the cameras. He was glad he had worn the striped Turnbull & Asser shirt that looked so distinguished in photographs.
He took a glass of Perrier and looked around the room. There was a small lectern in front of a blowup of the book’s cover, and a pile of press releases on a side table. The TV crews were setting up their lights. Berrington saw one or two reporters he knew, but none he really trusted.
However, more were arriving all the time. He moved around the room, making small talk, keeping an eye on the door. Most of the journalists knew him: he was a minor celebrity. He had not read the book, but Dinkey subscribed to a traditionalist right-wing agenda that was a mild version of what Berrington shared with Jim and Preston, so Berrington was happy to tell reporters that he endorsed the book’s message.
At a few minutes past three, Jim arrived with Dinkey. Close behind them was Hank Stone, a senior New York Times man. Bald, red-nosed, bulging over the waistband of his pants, shirt collar undone, tie pulled down, tan shoes scuffed, he had to be the worst-looking man in the White House press corps.
Berrington wondered if Hank would do.
Hank had no known political beliefs. Berrington had met him when he did an article about Genetico, fifteen or twenty years ago. Since getting the Washington job, he had written about Berrington’s ideas once or twice and Jim Proust’s several times. He treated them sensationally, rather than intellectually, as newspapers inevitably did, but he never moralized in the pious way liberal journalists would.
Hank would treat a tip-off on its merits: if he thought it was a good story he would write it. But could he be trusted not to dig deeper? Berrington was not sure.
He greeted Jim and shook hands with Dinkey. They talked for a few minutes while Berrington looked out hopefully for a better prospect. But none came and the press conference started.
Berrington sat through the speeches, containing his impatience. There was just not enough time. Given a few days he could find someone better than Hank, but he did not have a few days, he had a few hours. And an apparently fortuitous meeting like this was so much less suspicious than making an appointment and taking the journalist to lunch.
When the speeches were over there was still no one better than Hank in view.
As the journalists dispersed Berrington buttonholed him. “Hank, I’m glad I ran into you. I may have a story for you.”
“Good!”
“It’s about misuse of medical information on databases.” He made a face. “Not really my kind of thing, Berry, but go on.”
Berrington groaned inwardly: Hank did not seem to be in a receptive mood. He plowed on, working his charm. “I believe it is your kind of thing, because you’ll see potential in it that an ordinary reporter might overlook.”
“Well, try me.”
“First of all, we’re not having this conversation.”
“That’s a little more promising.”
“Second, you may wonder why I’m giving you the story, but you’re never going to ask.”
“Better and better,” Hank said, but he did not make a promise.
Berrington decided not to push him on it. “At Jones Falls University, in the psychology department, there’s a young researcher called Dr. Jean Ferrami. In her search for suitable subjects to study, she scans large medical databases without the permission of the people whose records are on the files.”
Hank pulled at his red nose. “Is this a story about computers, or about scientific ethics?”
“I don’t know, you’re the journalist.”
He looked unenthusiastic. “It isn’t much of a scoop.”
Don’t start playing hard to get, you bastard. Berrington touched Hank’s arm in a friendly gesture. “Do me a favor, make some inquiries,” he said persuasively. “Call the university president, his name is Maurice Obeli. Call Dr. Ferrami. Tell them it’s a big story, and see what they say. I believe you’ll get some interesting reactions.”
“I don’t know.”
“I promise you, Hank, it will be worth your time.” Say yes, you son of a bitch, say yes!
Hank hesitated, then said: “Okay, I’ll give it a whirl.”
Berrington tried to conceal his satisfaction behind an expression of gravity, but he could not help a little smile of triumph.
Hank saw it, and a suspicious frown crossed his face. “You’re not trying to use me, are you, Berry? Like to frighten someone, maybe?”
Berrington smiled and put an arm around the reporter’s shoulders. “Hank,” he said, “trust me.”
20
JEANNIE BOUGHT A THREE-PACK OF WHITE COTTON PANTIES at a Walgreen in a strip mall just outside Richmond. She slipped a pair on in the ladies’ rest room of the neighboring Burger King. Then she felt better.
Strange how defenseless she had felt without underwear. She had hardly been able to think of anything else. Yet when she was in love with Will Temple she had liked to go around with no panties on. It made her feel sexy all day. Sitting in the library, or working in the lab, or just walking down the street, she would fantasize that Will showed up unexpectedly, in a fever of passion, saying, “There isn’t much time but I’ve got to have you, now, right here,” and she was ready for him. But without a man in her life she needed her underwear like she needed shoes.