The Third Twin

  A little girl on her way to the ladies' room with her mother said: "That man shouted, Mommy."

  "Hush, darling," her mother said.

  Berrington lowered his voice. "She's pulling away."

  "Get in your damn car!"

  "Fuck you, Jim."

  "Follow her!" Jim hung up.

  Berrington cradled the phone.

  Jeannie's red Mercedes went by and turned south on Falls Road.

  Berrington ran to his car.

  47

  JEANNIE STUDIED STEVE'S FATHER. CHARLES WAS DARK haired, with the shadow of a heavy beard on his jaw. His expression was dour and his manner rigidly precise. Although it was Saturday and he had been gardening, he wore neatly pressed dark pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar. He did not look like Steve in any way. The only thing Steve might have got from him was a taste for conservative clothes. Most of Jeannie's students wore ripped denim and black leather, but Steve favored khakis and button-downs.

  Steve had not yet come home, and Charles speculated that he might have dropped by his law school library to read up on rape trials. Steve's mother was lying down. Charles made fresh lemonade, and he and Jeannie went out on the patio of the Georgetown house and sat on lawn chairs.

  Jeannie had woken up from her doze with a brilliant idea in the forefront of her mind. She had thought of a way to find the fourth clone. But she would need Charles's help. And she was not sure he would be willing to do what she had to ask him.

  Charles passed her a tall, cold glass, then took one himself and sat down. "May I call you by your first name?" he said.

  "Please do."

  "And I hope you'll do the same."

  "Sure."

  They sipped their lemonade, then he said: "Jeannie--what is this all about?"

  She put down her glass. "I think it's an experiment," she said. "Berrington and Proust were both in the military until shortly before they set up Genetico. I suspect the company was originally a cover for a military project."

  "I've been a soldier all my adult life, and I'm ready to believe almost anything crazy of the army. But what interest could they have in women's fertility problems?"

  "Think of this. Steve and his doubles are tall, strong, fit, and handsome. They're also very smart, although their propensity to violence gets in the way of their achievements. But Steve and Dennis have IQ scores off the scale, and I suspect the other two would be the same: Wayne is already a millionaire at the age of twenty-two, and the fourth one has at least been clever enough to totally evade detection."

  "Where does that get you?"

  "I don't know. I wonder if the army was trying to breed the perfect soldier."

  It was no more than an idle speculation, and she said it casually, but it electrified Charles. "Oh, my God," he said, and an expression of shocked comprehension spread over his face. "I think I remember hearing about this."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There was a rumor, back in the seventies, that went all around the military. The Russians had a breeding program, people said. They were making perfect soldiers, perfect athletes, perfect chess players, everything. Some people said we should be doing the same. Others said we already were."

  "So that's it!" Jeannie felt that at last she was beginning to understand. "They picked a healthy, aggressive, intelligent, blond-haired man and woman and got them to donate the sperm and egg that went together to form the embryo. But what they were really interested in was the possibility of duplicating the perfect soldier once they had created him. The crucial part of the experiment was the multiple division of the embryo and the implanting into the host mothers. And it worked." She frowned. "I wonder what happened next."

  "I can answer that," Charles said. "Watergate. All those crazy secret schemes were canceled after that."

  "But Genetico went legitimate, like the Mafia. And because they really did find out how to make test-tube babies, the company was profitable. The profits financed the research into genetic engineering that they've been doing ever since. I suspect that my own project is probably part of their grand scheme."

  "Which is what?"

  "A breed of perfect Americans: intelligent, aggressive, and blond. A master race." She shrugged. "It's an old idea, but it's possible now, with modern genetics."

  "So why would they sell the company? It doesn't make sense."

  "Maybe it does," Jeannie said thoughtfully. "When they got the takeover bid, perhaps they saw it as an opportunity to move into high gear. The money will finance Proust's run at the presidency. If they get into the White House they can do all the research they want--and put their ideas into practice."

  Charles nodded. "There's a piece about Proust's ideas in today's Washington Post. I don't think I want to live in his kind of world. If we're all aggressive, obedient soldiers, who's going to write the poems and play the blues and go on antiwar protest marches?"

  Jeannie raised her eyebrows. It was a surprising thought to come from a career soldier. "There's more to it than that," she said. "Human variation has a purpose. There's a reason we're born different from both our parents. Evolution is a trial-and-error business. You can't prevent nature's failed experiments without eliminating the successes too."

  Charles sighed. "And all this means I'm not Steve's father."

  "Don't say that."

  He opened his billfold and took out a photo. "I have to tell you something, Jeannie. I never suspected any of this stuff about clones, but I've often looked at Steve and wondered if there was anything at all of me in him."

  "Can't you see it?" she said.

  "A resemblance?"

  "No physical resemblance. But Steve has a profound sense of duty. None of the other clones could give a darn about duty. He got it from you!"

  Charles still looked grim. "There's bad in him. I know it."

  She touched his arm. "Listen to me. Steve was what I call a wild child--disobedient, impulsive, fearless, bursting with energy--wasn't he?"

  Charles smiled ruefully. "That's the truth."

  "So were Dennis Pinker and Wayne Stattner. Such children are almost impossible to raise right. That's why Dennis is a murderer and Wayne a sadist. But Steve isn't like them--and you're the reason why. Only the most patient, understanding, and dedicated of parents can bring up such children to be normal human beings. But Steve is normal."

  "I pray you're right." Charles opened his billfold to replace the photo.

  Jeannie forestalled him. "May I see it?"

  "Sure."

  Jeannie studied the picture. It had been taken quite recently. Steve was wearing a blue-checked shirt and his hair was a little too long. He was grinning shyly at the camera. "I don't have a photo of him," Jeannie said regretfully as she handed it back.

  "Have that one."

  "I couldn't. You keep it next to your heart."

  "I have a million photos of Steve. I'll put another one in my billfold."

  "Thanks, I really appreciate it."

  "You seem very fond of him."

  "I love him, Charles."

  "You do?"

  Jeannie nodded. "When I think he might be sent to jail for this rape, I want to offer to go instead of him."

  Charles gave a wry smile. "So do I."

  "That's love, isn't it?"

  "Sure is."

  Jeannie felt self-conscious. She had not meant to say all this to Steve's father. She had not really known it herself; it had just come out, and then she had realized it was true.

  He said: "How does Steve feel about you?"

  She smiled. "I could be modest...."

  "Don't bother."

  "He's crazy for me."

  "That doesn't surprise me. Not just because you're beautiful, though you are. You're strong too: that's obvious. He needs someone strong--especially with this accusation over his head."

  Jeannie gave him a calculating look. It was time to ask him. "There is something you could do, you know."

  "Tell me what it is."

  Jeanni
e had rehearsed this speech in the car all the way to Washington. "If I could search another database, I might find the real rapist. But after the publicity in the New York Times, no government agency or insurance company is going to take the risk of working with me. Unless ..."

  "What?"

  Jeannie leaned forward in her lawn chair. "Genetico experimented on soldiers' wives who were referred to them by army hospitals. Therefore most or all of the clones were probably born in army hospitals."

  He nodded slowly.

  "The babies must have had army medical records, twenty-two years ago. Those records may still exist."

  "I'm sure they do. The army never throws anything away."

  Jeannie's hopes rose a notch. But there was another problem. "That long ago, they would have been paper files. Might they have been transferred to computer?"

  "I'm sure they have. It's the only way to store everything."

  "Then it is possible," Jeannie said, controlling her excitement.

  He looked thoughtful.

  She gave him a hard stare. "Charles, can you get me access?"

  "What, exactly, do you need to do?"

  "I have to load my program into the computer, then let it search all the files."

  "How long does it take?"

  "No way of knowing. That depends on the size of the database and the power of the computer."

  "Does it interfere with normal data retrieval?"

  "It could slow it down."

  He frowned.

  "Will you do it?" Jeannie said impatiently.

  "If we're caught, it's the end of my career."

  "Will you?"

  "Hell, yes."

  48

  STEVE WAS THRILLED TO SEE JEANNIE SITTING ON THE PATIO, drinking lemonade and talking earnestly to his father as if they were old friends. This is what I want, he thought; I want Jeannie in my life. Then I can deal with anything.

  He crossed the lawn from the garage, smiling, and kissed her lips softly. "You two look like conspirators," he said.

  Jeannie explained what they were planning, and Steve allowed himself to feel hopeful again.

  Dad said to Jeannie: "I'm not computer-literate. I'll need help loading your program."

  "I'll come with you."

  "I'll bet you don't have your passport here."

  "I sure don't."

  "I can't get you into the data center without identification."

  "I could go home and get it."

  "I'll come with you," Steve said to Dad. "I have my passport upstairs. I'm sure I could load the program."

  Dad looked askance at Jeannie.

  She nodded. "The process is simple. If there are any glitches you can call me from the data center and I'll talk you through it."

  "Okay."

  Dad went into the kitchen and brought out the phone. He dialed a number. "Don, this is Charlie. Who won the golf? ... I knew you could do it. But I'll beat you next week, you watch. Listen, I need a favor, kind of unusual. I want to check my son's medical records from way back when.... Yeah, he's got some kind of rare condition, not life threatening but serious, and there may be a clue in his early history. Would you arrange security clearance for me to go into the Command Data Center?"

  There was a long pause. Steve could not read his father's face. At last he said: "Thanks, Don, I really appreciate it."

  Steve punched the air and said: "Yes!"

  Dad put a finger to his lips, then went on speaking into the phone. "Steve will be with me. We'll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes, if that's all right....Thanks again." He hung up.

  Steve ran up to his room and came back with his passport.

  Jeannie had the disks in a small plastic box. She handed them to Steve. "Put the one marked number one in the disk drive and the instructions will come up on the screen."

  He looked at his father. "Ready?"

  "Let's go."

  "Good luck," Jeannie said.

  They got in the Lincoln Mark VIII and drove to the Pentagon. They parked in the biggest parking lot in the world. In the Midwest there were towns smaller than the Pentagon parking lot. They went up a flight of steps to a second-floor entrance.

  When he was thirteen Steve had been taken on a visitor's tour of the place by a tall young man with an impossibly short haircut. The building consisted of five concentric rings linked by ten corridors like the spokes of a wheel. There were five floors and no elevators. He had lost his sense of direction within seconds. The main thing he remembered was that in the middle of the central courtyard was a building called Ground Zero which was a hotdog stand.

  Now his father led the way past a closed barbershop, a restaurant, and a metro entrance to a security checkpoint. Steve showed his passport and was signed in as a visitor and given a pass to stick to his shirtfront.

  There were relatively few people here on a Saturday evening, and the corridors were deserted but for a few late workers, mostly in uniform, and one or two of the golf carts used for transporting bulky objects and VIPs. Last time he was here Steve had been reassured by the monolithic might of the building: it was all there to protect him. Now he felt differently. Somewhere in this maze of rings and corridors a plot had been hatched, the plot that had created him and his doppelgangers. This bureaucratic haystack existed to hide the truth he sought, and the men and women in crisp army, navy, and air force uniforms were now his foes.

  They went along a corridor, up a staircase, and around a ring to another security point. This one took longer. Steve's full name and address had to be keyed in, and they waited a minute or two for the computer to clear him. For the first time in his life he felt that a security check was aimed at him; he was the one they were looking for. He felt furtive and guilty, although he had done nothing wrong. It was a weird sensation. Criminals must feel like this all the time, he thought. And spies, and smugglers, and unfaithful husbands.

  They passed on, turned several more corners, and came to a pair of glass doors. Beyond the doors, a dozen or so young soldiers were sitting in front of computer screens, keying in data, or feeding paper documents into optical character recognition machines. A guard outside the door checked Steve's passport yet again, then let them in.

  The room was carpeted and quiet, windowless and softly lit, with the characterless atmosphere of purified air. The operation was being run by a colonel, a gray-haired man with a pencil-line mustache. He did not know Steve's father, but he was expecting them. His tone was brisk as he directed them to the terminal they would use: perhaps he regarded their visit as a nuisance.

  Dad told him: "We need to search the medical records of babies born in military hospitals around twenty-two years ago."

  "Those records are not held here."

  Steve's heart sank. Surely they could not be defeated that easily?

  "Where are they held?"

  "In St. Louis."

  "Can't you access them from here?"

  "You need priority clearance to use the data link. You don't have that."

  "I didn't anticipate this problem, Colonel," Dad said testily. "Do you want me to call General Krohner again? He may not thank us for bothering him unnecessarily on a Saturday night, but I will if you insist."

  The colonel weighed a minor breach of rules against the risk of irritating a general. "I guess that'll be okay. The line isn't being used, and we need to test it sometime this weekend."

  "Thank you."

  The colonel called over a woman in lieutenant's uniform and introduced her as Caroline Gambol. She was about fifty, overweight, and corseted, with the manner of a headmistress. Dad repeated what he had told the colonel.

  Lieutenant Gambol said: "Are you aware that those records are governed by the privacy act, sir?"

  "Yes, and we have authorization."

  She sat at the terminal and touched the keyboard. After a few minutes she said: "What kind of search do you want to run?"

  "We have our own search program."

  "Yes, sir. I'll be glad to load that for
you."

  Dad looked at Steve. Steve shrugged and handed the woman the floppy disks.

  As she was loading the program she looked curiously at Steve. "Who wrote this software?"

  "A professor at Jones Falls."

  "It's very clever," she said. "I've never seen anything quite like it." She looked at the colonel, who was watching over her shoulder. "Have you, sir?"

  He shook his head.

  "It's loaded. Shall I run the search?"

  "Go ahead."

  Lieutenant Gambol pressed Enter.

  49

  A HUNCH MADE BERRINGTON FOLLOW COLONEL LOGAN'S black Lincoln Mark VIII when it emerged from the driveway of the Georgetown house. He was not sure whether Jeannie was in the car; he could see only the colonel and Steve in the front, but it was a coupe, and she might have been in the back.

  He was glad to have something to do. The combination of inactivity and pressing anxiety was wearying. His back ached and his legs were stiff. He wished he could give it all up and go. He might be sitting in a restaurant with a good bottle of wine, or at home listening to a CD of Mahler's Ninth Symphony, or undressing Pippa Harpenden. But then he thought of the rewards that the takeover would bring. First there would be the money: sixty million dollars was his share. Then the chance of political power, with Jim Proust in the White House and himself as surgeon general. Finally, if they succeeded, a new and different America for the twenty-first century, America as it used to be, strong and brave and pure. So he gritted his teeth and persisted with this grubby exercise in snooping.

  For a while he found it relatively easy to track Logan through the slow-moving Washington traffic. He stayed two cars behind, as in the gumshoe movies. The Mark VIII was elegant, he thought idly. Maybe he should trade in his Town Car. The sedan had presence, but it was middle-aged: the coupe was more dashing. He wondered how much he would get trading in the Town Car. Then he remembered that by Monday night he would be rich. He could buy a Ferrari, if he wanted to look dashing.

  Then the Mark VIII went through a light and around a corner, the light turned red, the car in front of Berrington stopped, and he lost sight of Logan's car. He cursed and leaned on his horn. He had been woolgathering. He shook his head to clear it. The tedium of surveillance was sapping his concentration. When the light turned green again he screeched around the corner and accelerated hard.

  A few moments later he saw the black coupe waiting at a light, and he breathed easier.