the Third Twin (1996)

“Oh, okay.” Jeannie relaxed. She had nothing to worry about on this score. “Well, I’ve devised a search engine that scans computer data and finds matching pairs. My purpose is to find identical twins. It can be used on any kind of database.”

“But you’ve gained access to medical records in order to use this program.”

“It’s important to define what you mean by access. I’ve been careful not to trespass on anyone’s privacy. I never see anyone’s medical details. The program doesn’t print the records.”

“What does it print?”

“The names of the two individuals, and their addresses and phone numbers.”

“But it prints the names in pairs.” “Of course, that’s the point.”

“So if you used it on, say, a database of electroencephalograms, it would tell you that John Doe’s brain waves are the same as Jim Fitz’s.”

“The same or similar. But it would not tell me anything about either man’s health.”

“However, if you knew previously that John Doe was a paranoid schizophrenic, you could conclude that Jim Fitz was, too.”

“We would never know such a thing.”

“You might know John Doe.”

“How?”

“He might be your janitor, anything.”

“Oh, come on!”

“It’s possible.”

“Is that going to be your story?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, it’s theoretically possible, but the chance is so small that any reasonable person would discount it.”

“That’s arguable.”

The reporter seemed determined to see an outrage, regardless of the facts, Jeannie thought; and she began to worry. She had enough problems without getting the damn newspapers on her back. “How real is all this?” she said. “Have you actually found anyone who feels their privacy has been violated?”

“I’m interested in the potentiality.”

Jeannie was struck by a thought. “Who told you to call me, anyway?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Same reason you’ve been asking me questions. I’d like to know the truth.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“That’s interesting,” Jeannie said. “I’ve talked to you at some length about my research and my methods. I have nothing to hide. But you can’t say the same. You appear to be, well, ashamed, I guess. Are you ashamed of the way you found out about my project?”

“I’m not ashamed of anything,” the reporter snapped.

Jeannie felt herself getting cross. Who did this woman think she was? “Well, someone’s ashamed. Otherwise why won’t you tell me who he is? Or she?”

“I have to protect my sources.”

“From what?” Jeannie knew she should lay off. Nothing was to be gained by antagonizing the press. But the woman’s attitude was insufferable. “As I’ve explained, there’s nothing wrong with my methods and they don’t threaten anyone’s privacy. So why should your informant be so secretive?”

“People have reasons—”

“It looks as if your informant was malicious, doesn’t it?” Even as she said it, Jeannie was thinking, Why should anyone want to do this to me?

“I can’t comment on that.”

“No comment, huh?” she said sarcastically. “I must remember that line.”

“Dr. Ferrami, I’d like to thank you for your cooperation.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jeannie said, and she hung up.

She stared at the phone for a long moment. “Now what the hell was that all about?” she said.

WEDNESDAY

21

BERRINGTON JONES SLEPT BADLY.

He spent the night with Pippa Harpenden. Pippa was a secretary in the physics department, and a lot of professors had asked her out, including several married men, but Berrington was the only one she dated. He had dressed beautifully, taken her to an intimate restaurant, and ordered exquisite wine. He had basked in the envious glances of men his own age dining with their ugly old wives. He had brought her home and lit candles and put on silk pajamas and made love to her slowly until she gasped with pleasure.

But he woke up at four o’clock and thought of all the things that could go wrong with his plan. Hank Stone had been sucking down the publisher’s cheap wine yesterday afternoon; he might just forget all about his conversation with Berrington. If he remembered it, the editors of the New York Times might still decide not to follow up the story. They might make some inquiries and realize there was nothing much wrong with what Jeannie was doing. Or they could simply move too slowly and start looking into it next week, when it would be top late.

After he had been tossing and turning for a while, Pippa mumbled: “Are you all right, Berry?”

He stroked her long blond hair, and she made sleepily encouraging noises. Making love to a beautiful woman was normally consolation for any amount of trouble, but he sensed it would not work now. He had too much on his mind. It would have been a relief to talk to Pippa about his problems—she was intelligent, and she would be understanding and sympathetic—but he could not reveal such secrets to anyone.

After a while he got up and went running. When he returned she had gone, leaving a thank-you note wrapped in a sheer black nylon stocking.

The housekeeper arrived a few minutes before eight and made him an omelet. Marianne was a thin, nervous girl from the French Caribbean island of Martinique. She spoke little English and was terrified of being sent back home, which made her very biddable. She was pretty, and Berrington guessed that if he told her to blow him she would think it was part of her duties as a university employee. He did no such thing, of course; sleeping with the help was not his style.

He took a shower, shaved, and dressed for high authority in a charcoal gray suit with a faint pinstripe, a white shirt, and a black tie with small red dots. He wore monogrammed gold cuff links, he folded a white linen handkerchief into his breast pocket, and he buffed the toecaps of his black oxfords until they gleamed.

He drove to the campus, went to his office, and turned on his computer. Like most superstar academics, he did very little teaching. Here at Jones Falls he gave one lecture per year. His role was to direct and supervise the research of the scientists in the department and to add the prestige of his name to the papers they wrote. But this morning he could not concentrate on anything, so he looked out of the window and watched four youngsters play an energetic game of doubles on the tennis court while he waited for the phone to ring.

He did not have to wait long.

At nine-thirty the president of Jones Falls University, Maurice Obeli, called. “We’ve got a problem,” he said.

Berrington tensed. “What’s up, Maurice?”

“Bitch on the New York Times just called me. She says someone in your