“I love you.” She hung up.
At ten she went on a scouting expedition to check out the Regency Room. It was a corner room with a little lobby and a door to an anteroom. A publicist was already there, assembling a backdrop with the Genetico logo for the benefit of the TV cameras.
Jeannie took a swift look around, then returned to her room.
Lisa called from the airport. “Bad news,” she said. “The New York flight is late.”
“Oh, Christ!” Jeannie said. “Any sign of the others, Wayne or Hank?”
“No.”
“How late is George’s plane?”
“It’s expected at eleven-thirty.”
“You might still get here.”
“If I drive like the wind.”
At eleven o’clock Berrington emerged from his bedroom, pulling on his suit coat. He was wearing a blue chalk stripe with a vest over a white shirt with French cuffs, old-fashioned but effective. “Let’s get going,” he said.
Steve put on Harvey’s tweed sport coat. It fit perfectly, of course, and it looked a lot like one Steve himself owned.
They went outside. They were both overdressed for this weather. They got into the silver Lincoln and turned on the air-conditioning. Berrington drove fast, heading downtown. To Steve’s relief he did not talk much on the journey. He parked in the hotel garage.
“Genetico hired a public relations outfit to run this event,” he said as they went up in the elevator. “Our in- house publicity department has never handled anything this big.”
As they headed for the Regency Room, a smartly coiffed woman in a black suit intercepted them. “I’m Caren Beamish from Total Communications,” she said brightly. “Would you like to come to the VIP room?” She showed them into a small room where snacks and drinks were laid out.
Steve was mildly bothered; he would have liked to take a look at the layout of the conference room. But perhaps it made no difference. As long as Berrington continued to believe he was Harvey right up until the appearance of Jeannie, nothing else mattered.
There were six or seven people in the VIP room already, including Proust and Barck. With Proust was a muscular young man in a black suit who looked like a bodyguard. Berrington introduced Steve to Michael Madigan, the head of Landsmann’s North American operations.
Berrington nervously gulped a glass of white wine. Steve could have used a martini—he had much more reason to be scared than Berrington—but he had to keep his wits about him and he could not afford to relax for an instant. He looked at the watch he had taken from Harvey’s wrist. It was five to twelve.
Caren Beamish clapped her hands for attention and said: “Gentlemen, are we ready?” There were muttered replies and nods. “Then everyone but the platform party should take their seats now, please.”
Berrington turned to Steve and said: “See you sooner, Montezuma.” He looked expectant.
“Sure,” Steve said.
Berrington grinned. “What do you mean,
Steve went cold. He had no idea what Berrington was talking about. It seemed to be a catchphrase, like “See you later, alligator,” but a private one. Obviously there was a reply, but it wasn’t “In a while, crocodile.” What the hell could it be? Steve cursed inwardly. The press conference was about to open—he needed to keep up the pretense for just a few more seconds!
Berrington frowned in puzzlement, staring at him.
Steve felt perspiration break out on his forehead.
“You can’t have forgotten it,” Berrington said, and Steve saw suspicion dawn in his eyes.
“Of course I haven’t,” Steve replied quickly—too quickly, for then he realized that he had committed himself.
Senator Proust was listening now. Berrington said: “So give me the rest of it.” Steve saw him cut his eyes to Proust’s bodyguard, and the man tensed visibly.
In desperation, Steve said: “In an hour, Eisenhower.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then Berrington said: “That’s a good one!” and laughed.
Steve relaxed. That must be the game: you had to make up a new response every time. He thanked his stars. To hide his relief, he turned away.
“Showtime, everybody,” said the publicist.
“This way,” Proust said to Steve. “You don’t want to walk out onto the stage.” He opened a door and Steve stepped through.
He found himself in a bathroom. Turning around, he said: “No, this is—”
Proust’s bodyguard was right behind him. Before Steve knew what was happening, the man had him in a painful half nelson. “Make a noise and I’ll break your fucking arms,” he said.
Berrington stepped into the bathroom behind the bodyguard. Jim Proust followed him and closed the door.
The bodyguard held the boy tightly.
Berrington’s blood was boiling. “You young punk,” he hissed. “Which one are you? Steve Logan, I suppose.”
The boy tried to keep up the pretense. “Dad, what are you doing?”
“Forget it, the game’s up—now where is my son?”
The boy did not answer.
Jim said: “Berry, what the hell is going on?’
Berrington tried to calm down. “This isn’t Harvey,” he said to Jim. “This is one of the others, probably the Logan boy. He must have been impersonating Harvey since yesterday evening. Harvey himself must be locked away somewhere.”
Jim paled. “That means that what he told us about Jeannie Ferrami’s intentions was a blind!”
Berrington nodded grimly. “She’s probably planning some kind of protest at the press conference.”
Proust said: “Shit, not in front of all the cameras!”
“That’s what I’d do in her place—wouldn’t you?”
Proust thought for a moment. “Will Madigan keep his nerve?”
Berrington shook his head. “I couldn’t say. He’d look pretty foolish, canceling the takeover at the last minute. On the other hand, he’d look even more foolish paying a hundred and eighty million dollars for a company that’s about to be sued for every penny it’s got. He could go either way.”
“Then we’ve got to find Jeannie Ferrami and stop her!”
“She might have checked into the hotel.” Berrington snatched up the phone beside the toilet. “This is Professor Jones at the Genetico press conference in the Regency Room,” he said in his most authoritative voice. “We’re waiting for Dr. Ferrami—what room is she in?”
“I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out room numbers, sir.” Berrington was about to explode when she added: “Would you like me to connect you?”
“Yes, sure.” He heard the ringing tone. After a wait, it was answered by a man who sounded elderly. Improvising, Berrington said: “Your laundry is ready, Mr. Blenkinsop.”
“I didn’t give out no laundry.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir—what room are you in?” He held his breath.
“Eight twenty-one.”
“I wanted eight twelve. My apologies.”
“No problem.”
