Berrington hung up. “They’re in room eight twenty-one,” he said excitedly. “I bet Harvey’s there.”
Proust said: “The press conference is about to start.”
“We may be too late.” Berrington hesitated, torn. He did not want to delay the announcement by a single second, but he needed to forestall whatever Jeannie was planning. After a moment he said to Jim: “Why don’t you go on stage with Madigan and Preston? I’ll do my best to find Harvey and stop Jeannie Ferrami.”
“Okay.”
Berrington looked at Steve. “I’d be happier if I could take your security man with me. But we can’t let Steve loose.”
The bodyguard said: “No problem, sir. I can handcuff him to a pipe.”
“Great. Do it.”
Berrington and Proust returned to the VIP room. Madigan looked curiously at them. “Something wrong, gentlemen?”
Proust said: “A minor security question, Mike. Berrington is going to handle it while we go ahead with our announcement.”
Madigan was not quite satisfied. “Security?”
Berrington said: “A woman I fired last week, Jean Ferrami, is in the hotel. She may pull some kind of stunt. I’m going to head her off at the pass.”
That was enough for him. “Okay, let’s get on with it.”
Madigan, Barck, and Proust went into the conference room. The bodyguard came out of the bathroom. He and Berrington hurried out into the corridor and pressed the button to summon the elevator. Berrington was apprehensive and worried. He was not a man of action—never had been. The kind of combat he was used to took place on college committees. He hoped he was not about to get in a fistfight.
They went to the eighth floor and ran to room eight twenty-one. Berrington rapped on the door. A man’s voice called: “Who is it?”
Berrington said: “Housekeeping.”
“We’re okay, thank you, sir.”
“I need to check your bathroom, please.”
“Come back later.”
‘There’s a problem, sir.”
“I’m busy right now. Come back in an hour.”
Berrington looked at the bodyguard. “Can you kick this door down?”
The man looked pleased. Then he looked over Berrington’s shoulder and hesitated. Following the direction of his glance, Berrington saw an elderly couple with shopping bags emerge from the elevator. They walked slowly along the corridor toward 821. Berrington waited while they passed. They stopped outside 830. The husband put down his shopping, searched for his key, fumbled it into the lock, and opened the door. At last the couple disappeared into the room.
The bodyguard kicked the door.
The door frame cracked and splintered, but the door held. There was the sound of rapid footsteps from inside.
He kicked it again, and it flew open.
He rushed inside and Berrington followed.
They were brought up short by the sight of an elderly black man pointing a huge antiquated pistol at them.
“Stick up your hands, shut that door, get in here, and lie facedown, or I’ll shoot you both dead,” the man said. “After the way you bust in here, ain’t no jury in Baltimore going to convict me for killing you.”
Berrington raised his hands.
Suddenly a figure catapulted off the bed. Berrington just had time to see that it was Harvey, with his wrists tied together and some kind of gag over his mouth. The old man swung the gun toward him. Berrington was terrified that his son was about to be shot. He cried out: “No!”
The old man moved a fraction of a second too late. Harvey’s bound arms knocked the pistol out of his hands. The bodyguard leaped for it and snatched it up from the carpet. Standing up, he pointed it at the old man.
Berrington breathed again.
The old man slowly raised his arms in the air.
The bodyguard picked up the room phone. “Hotel security to room eight twenty-one,” he said. “There’s a guest here with a gun.”
Berrington looked around the room. There was no sign of Jeannie.
Jeannie emerged from the elevator, wearing her white blouse and black skirt and carrying a tray of tea she had ordered from room service. Her heart was beating like a bass drum. Walking at a brisk, waitressy pace, she entered the Regency Room.
In the little lobby, two women with checklists sat behind tables. A hotel security guard stood near, chatting to them. Presumably no one was supposed to get in without an invitation, but Jeannie was betting they would not question a waitress with a tray. She forced herself to smile at the guard as she headed for the inner door.
“Hey!” he said.
She turned at the door.
“They have plenty of coffee and beverages in there.”
“This is jasmine tea, a special request.”
“Who for?”
She thought fast. “Senator Proust.” She prayed he was there. “Okay, go ahead.”
She smiled again, opened the door, and walked into the conference room.
At the far end, three men in suits were sitting behind a table on a raised dais. In front of them was a pile of legal documents. One of the men was making a formal speech. The audience consisted of about forty people with notebooks, miniature cassette tape recorders, and handheld television cameras.
Jeannie walked to the front. Standing beside the dais was a woman in a black suit and designer glasses. She wore a badge saying
She was the publicist Jeannie had seen earlier, assembling the backdrop. She looked curiously at Jeannie but did not try to stop her, assuming—as Jeannie had intended—that someone had ordered something from room service.
The men on the dais had name cards in front of them. She recognized Senator Proust on the right. On the left was Preston Barck. The one in the middle, who was speaking, was Michael Madigan. “Genetico is not just an exciting biotechnology company,” he was saying in a boring tone.
Jeannie smiled and put down the tray in front of him. He looked mildly surprised and stopped in his speech for a moment.
Jeannie turned to the audience. “I have a very special announcement,” she said.
Steve was sitting on the bathroom floor with his left hand handcuffed to the drainpipe of the bathroom washbasin, feeling angry and desperate. Berrington had found him out a few seconds before his time ran out. Now he was searching for Jeannie and might ruin the entire plan if he found her. Steve had to get away to warn her.
The pipe was attached at its top end to the drain of the basin. It turned in an S-bend, then disappeared into the wall. Contorting his body, Steve got his foot on the pipe, drew it back, and kicked. The entire plumbing fitting shuddered. He kicked again. The mortar around the pipe where it entered the wall began to crumble. He kicked several more times. The mortar fell away, but the pipe was strong.
Frustrated, he peered up to where the pipe joined the washbasin. Maybe that join was weaker. He grasped the pipe with both hands and shook it frenziedly. Once again everything trembled but nothing broke.
He looked at the S-bend. There was a knurled collar around the pipe just above the bend. Plumbers
