It was shocking and painful to be attacked this way. She felt hurt and outraged at the same time, the way she had when a thief had knocked her flying and snatched her billfold in a supermarket in Minneapolis years ago. Even though she knew the reporter was malicious and unscrupulous, she was ashamed, as if she had really done wrong. And she felt exposed, held up to the scorn of the nation.
"I may have trouble finding anyone who will let me scan a database now," she said despondently. "Do you want some coffee? I need something to cheer me up. Not many days start as badly as this."
"I'm sorry, Jeannie, but I'm in trouble too, for getting the Bureau involved."
As Jeannie started the coffee machine, she was struck by a thought. "This article is unfair, but if your boss spoke to you last night, it can't have been the newspaper that prompted his call."
"Maybe he knew the article was coming."
"I wonder who tipped him off?"
"He didn't say exactly, but he told me he had had a phone call from Capitol Hill."
Jeannie frowned. "It sounds as if this is political. Why the hell would a congressman or senator be interested enough in what I'm doing to tell the FBI not to work with me?"
"Maybe it was just a friendly warning from someone who knew about the article."
Jeannie shook her head. "The article doesn't mention the Bureau. Nobody else knows I'm working on FBI files. I didn't even tell Berrington."
"I'll try to find out who the call came from."
Jeannie looked in her freezer. "Have you had breakfast? I have cinnamon buns."
"No, thanks."
"I guess I'm not hungry either." She closed the refrigerator door. She felt despairing. Was there nothing she could do? "Ghita, I don't suppose you could run my scan without your boss's knowledge?"
She did not have much hope that Ghita would agree. But the answer surprised her. Ghita frowned and said: "Didn't you get my E-mail yesterday?"
"I left early. What did it say?"
"That I was going to run your scan last night."
"And did you?"
"Yes. That's why I've come to see you. I did it last night, before he called me."
Suddenly Jeannie was hopeful again. "What? And you have the results?"
"I sent them to you by E-mail."
Jeannie was thrilled. "But that's great! Did you look? Were there many twins?"
"Quite a lot, twenty or thirty pairs."
"That's great! That means the system works!"
"But I told my boss I hadn't run the scan. I was scared and I lied."
Jeannie frowned. "That's awkward. I mean, what if he finds out, at some time in the future?"
"Exactly. Jeannie, you have to destroy that list."
"What?"
"If he ever finds out about it, I'm finished."
"But I can't destroy it! Not if it proves me right!"
Ghita's face set in determined lines. "You have to."
"This is awful," Jeannie said miserably. "How can I destroy something that might save me?"
"I got into this by doing you a favor," Ghita said, wagging a finger. "You have to get me out of it!"
Jeannie did not see that it was entirely her fault. With a touch of acerbity she said: "I didn't tell you to lie to your boss."
That angered Ghita. "I was scared!"
"Wait a minute," Jeannie said. "Let's stay cool." She poured coffee into mugs and gave Ghita one. "Suppose you go into work today and tell your boss there was a misunderstanding. You gave instructions that the sweep should be canceled, but you later found it had already been carried out and the results E-mailed."
Ghita took her coffee but did not drink it. She seemed close to tears. "Can you imagine working for the FBI? I'm up against the most macho men in Middle America. They're looking for any excuse to say that women can't hack it."
"But you won't get fired."
"You got me over a barrel."
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.
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 always tucked it neatly up against the edge of the keyboard. Looking around, she noticed a cupboard door open a crack and a corner of pa
per sticking out of the edge of a filing cabinet.
The room had been searched.
At least, she reflected, it had been done amateurishly. It was not like the CIA was after her. All the same it made her deeply uneasy, and she had butterflies in her stomach as she sat down and turned on her PC. Who had been here? A member of the faculty? A student? A bribed security guard? Some outsider? And why?
An envelope had been slipped under her door. It contained a release, signed by Lorraine Logan and faxed to Nut House by Steve. She took Charlotte Pinker's release out of a file and put both in her briefcase. She would fax them to the Aventine Clinic.
She sat at her desk and retrieved her E-mail. There was only one message: the results of the FBI scan. "Hallelujah," she breathed.
She downloaded the list of names and addresses with profound relief. She was vindicated; the scan had in fact found pairs. She could hardly wait to check them out and see whether there were any more anomalies like Steve and Dennis.
Ghita had sent her an earlier E-mail message, saying she was going to run the scan, Jeannie recalled. What had happened to that? She wondered if it had been downloaded by last night's snooper. That could explain the panicky late-night call to Ghita's boss.
She was about to look at the names on the list when the phone rang. It was the university president. "Maurice Obeli here. I think we had better discuss this report in the New York Times, don't you?"
Jeannie's stomach tightened. Here we go, she thought apprehensively. It begins. "Of course," she said. "What time would suit you?"
"I was hoping you might step into my office right away."
"I'll be there in five minutes."
She copied the FBI results onto a floppy disk then exited from the Internet. She took the disk out of her computer and picked up a pen. She thought for a moment, then wrote on the label SHOPPING.LST. No doubt it was an unnecessary precaution, but it made her feel better.
She slipped the floppy into the box containing her backup files and went out.
The day was already heating up. As she crossed the campus she asked herself what she wanted out of this meeting with Obeli. Her only objective was to be allowed to continue with her research. She needed to be tough and make it clear she was not to be bullied; but ideally she would soothe the anger of the university authorities and de-escalate the conflict.
She was glad she had worn the black suit, even though she was sweating in it: it made her look older and more authoritative. Her high heels clacked on the flagstones as she approached Hillside Hall. She was ushered straight into the president's lavish office.
Berrington Jones was sitting there, a copy of the New York Times in his hand. She smiled at him, glad to have an ally. He nodded rather coolly and said: "Good morning, Jeannie."
Maurice Obeli was in his wheelchair behind his big desk. With his usual abrupt manner he said: "The university simply cannot tolerate this, Dr. Ferrami."
He did not ask her to sit, but she was not going to be scolded like a schoolgirl, so she selected a chair, moved it, sat down, and crossed her legs. "It was a pity you told the press you had canceled my project before checking whether you had the legal right to do so," she said as coolly as she could. "I fully agree with you that it made the college look foolish."
He bridled. "It was not I who made us look foolish."
That was enough being tough, she decided; now was the moment to tell him they were both on the same side. She uncrossed her legs. "Of course not," she said. "The truth is we were both a little hasty, and the press took advantage of us."
Berrington put in: "The damage is done, now--there's no point in apologizing."
"I wasn't apologizing," she snapped. She turned back to Obeli and smiled. "However, I do think we should stop bickering."
Once again Berrington answered her. "It's too late for that," he said.
"I'm sure it's not," she said. She wondered why Berrington had said that. He ought to want a reconciliation; it was not in his interests to be inflammatory. She kept her eyes and her smile on the president. "We're rational people. We must be able to find a compromise that would allow me to continue my work and yet preserve the university's dignity."
Obeli clearly liked that idea, although he frowned and said: "I don't quite see how...."
"This is all a waste of time," Berrington said impatiently.
It was the third time he had made a quarrelsome interjection. Jeannie choked back another waspish rejoinder. Why was he being like this? Did he want her to stop doing her research and get into trouble with the university and be discredited? It began to seem that way. Was it Berrington who had sneaked into her room and downloaded her E-mail and warned off the FBI? Could it even be he who had tipped off the New York Times in the first place and started this whole row? She was so stunned by the perverse logic of this notion that she fell silent.
"We have already decided the university's course of action," Berrington said.
She realized she had mistaken the power structure in the room. Berrington was the boss here, not Obeli. Berrington was the conduit for Genetico's research millions, which Obeli needed. Berrington had nothing to fear from Obeli; rather the reverse. She had been watching the monkey instead of the organ-grinder.
Berrington had now dropped the pretense that the university president was in charge. "We didn't call you in here to ask your opinion," he said.
"Then why did you call me in?" Jeannie asked.
"To fire you," he replied.
She was stunned. She had expected the threat of dismissal, but not the thing itself. She could hardly take it in. "What do you mean?" she said stupidly.
"I mean you're fired," Berrington said. He smoothed his eyebrows with the tip of his right index finger, a sign that he was pleased with himself.
Jeannie felt as if she had been punched. I can't be fired, she thought. I've only been here a few weeks. I was getting on so well, working so hard. I thought they all liked me, except Sophie Chapple. How did this happen so fast?
She tried to collect her thoughts. "You can't fire me," she said.
"We just did."
"No." As she got over the initial shock, she began to feel angry and defiant. "You're not tribal chieftains here. There's a procedure." Universities usually could not fire faculty without some kind of hearing. It was mentioned in her contract, but she had never checked the details. Suddenly it was vitally important to her.
Maurice Obeli supplied the information. "There will be a hearing before the discipline committee of the university senate, of course," he said. "Normally, four weeks' notice is required; but in view of the bad publicity surrounding this case I, as president, have invoked the emergency procedure, and the hearing will be held tomorrow morning."
Jeannie was bewildered by how fast they had acted. The discipline committee? Emergency procedure? Tomorrow morning? This was not a discussion. It was more like being arrested. She half expected Obeli to read her her rights.
He did something similar. He pushed a folder across his desk. "In there you will find the procedural rules of the committee. You may be represented by a lawyer or other advocate provided you notify the chair of the committee in advance."
Jeannie at last managed a sensible question. "Who's the chair?"
"Jack Budgen," said Obeli.
Berrington looked up sharply. "Is that already settled?"
"The chair is appointed annually," Obeli said. "Jack took over at the start of the semester."
"I didn't know that." Berrington looked annoyed, and Jeannie knew why. Jack Budgen was her tennis partner. That was encouraging: he ought to be fair to her. All was not lost. She would have a chance to defend herself, and her research methods, in front of a group of academics. There would be a serious discussion, not the glib superficialities of the New York Times.
And she had the results of her FBI sweep. She began to see how she would defend herself. She would show the committee the FBI data. With luck there would be one or two pairs who did not know they were twi
ns. That would be impressive. Then she would explain the precautions she took to protect individuals' privacy....
"I think that's all," said Maurice Obeli.
Jeannie was being dismissed. She stood up. "What a pity it's come to this," she said.
Berrington said quickly: "You brought it to this."
He was like an argumentative child. She did not have the patience for pointless wrangling. She gave him a disdainful look and left the room.
As she crossed the campus she reflected ruefully that she had completely failed to achieve her aims. She had wanted a negotiated settlement, and she had got a gladiatorial contest. But Berrington and Obeli had made their decision before she walked into the room. The meeting had been a formality.
She returned to Nut House. As she approached her office she noticed with irritation that the cleaners had left a black plastic garbage bag right outside the door. She would call them immediately. But when she tried to open her door it seemed to be jammed. She swiped her card through the card reader several times, but the door did not open. She was about to walk to reception and call maintenance when a dreadful thought occurred to her.
She looked inside the black bag. It was not full of wastepaper and Styrofoam coffee cups. The first thing she saw was her canvas Lands' End briefcase. Also in the sack was the Kleenex box from her drawer, a paperback copy of A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley, two framed photographs, and her hairbrush.
They had cleared out her desk and locked her out of her office.
She was devastated. This was a worse blow than what had happened in Maurice Obell's office. That was just words. This made her feel cut off from a huge part of her life. This is my office, she thought; how can they shut me out? "You fucking creeps," she said aloud.
It must have been done by security while she was in Obell's office. Of course they had not warned her; that would have given her the chance to take anything she really needed. Once again she had been surprised by their ruthlessness.
It was like an amputation. They had taken away her science, her work. She did not know what to do with herself, where to go. For eleven years she had been a scientist--as an undergraduate, graduate student, doctoral student, postdoctoral, and assistant professor. Now, suddenly, she was nothing.
As her spirits sank from despondency to black despair, she remembered the disk with the FBI data. She rummaged through the contents of the plastic sack, but there were no floppy disks. Her results, the backbone of her defense, were locked inside the room.