the Third Twin (1996)

“The colonel works at the Pentagon, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,”

“It could be innocent.”

“But why would he go to his office on a Saturday evening?”

“For a poker game in the general’s office, if I remember my army days.”

“You don’t take your kid to a poker game, no matter what age he is.”

“What’s at the Pentagon that could harm us?” “Records.”

“No,” Jim said. “The army has no record of what we did. I’m sure of that.”

“We have to know what they’re doing. Isn’t there some way you can find out?”

“I guess. If I don’t have friends at the Pentagon, I don’t have them anywhere. I’ll make some calls. Stay in touch.”

Berrington hung up and stood staring at the phone. The frustration was maddening. Everything he had worked for all his life was imperiled, and what was he doing? Following people around like a grubby private eye. But there was nothing else he could do. Seething with helpless impatience, he turned around and went back to his car to wait.

50

STEVE WAITED IN A FEVER OF ANTICIPATION. IF THIS WORKED, it would tell him who raped Lisa Hoxton, and then he would have a chance of proving his innocence. But what if it went wrong? The search might not work, or medical records might have been lost or wiped from the database. Computers were always giving you dumb messages: “Not found” or “Out of memory” or “General protection fault.”

The terminal made a doorbell sound. Steve looked at the screen. The search had finished. On the screen was a list of names and addresses in pairs. Jeannie’s program had worked. But were the clones on the list?

He controlled his eagerness. The first priority was to make a copy of the list.

He found a box of new diskettes in a drawer and slid one into the disk drive. He copied the list onto the disk, ejected it, and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Only then did he begin to study the names.

He did not recognize any of them. He scrolled down: there seemed to be several pages. It would be easier to scan a piece of paper. He called Lieutenant Gambol. “Can I print from this terminal?”

“Sure,” she said. “You can use that laser printer.” She came over and showed him how.

Steve stood over the laser printer, watching avidly as the pages came out. He was hoping to see his own name listed alongside three others: Dennis Pinker, Wayne Stattner, and the man who raped Lisa Hoxton. His father watched over his shoulder.

The first page contained only pairs, no groups of three or four.

The name “Steven Logan” appeared halfway down the second page. Dad spotted it at the same time. “There you are,” he said with suppressed excitement.

But there was something wrong. There were too many names grouped together. Along with “Steven Logan,” “Dennis Pinker,” and “Wayne Stattner” were “Henry Irwin King,” “Per Ericson,” “Murray Claud,” “Harvey John Jones,” and “George Dassault.” Steve’s elation turned to bafflement.

Dad frowned. “Who are they all?”

Steve counted. “There are eight names.”

“Eight?” Dad said. “Eight?”

Then Steve saw it. “That’s how many Genetico made,” he said. “Eight of us.”

“Eight clones!” Dad said in amazement. “What the hell did they think they were doing?”

“I wonder how the search found them,” Steve said. He looked at the last sheet out of the printer. At the foot it said, “Common characteristic: Electrocardiogram.”

“That’s right, I remember,” Dad said. “You had an electrocardiogram when you were a week old. I never knew why.”

“We all did. And identical twins have similar hearts.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Dad said. “There are eight boys in the world exactly like you.”

“Look at these addresses,” Steve said. “All army bases.”

“Most of those people won’t be at the same address now. Doesn’t the program pull out any other information?”

“No. That’s how come it doesn’t invade people’s privacy.”

“So how does she track them down?”

“I asked her that. At the university they have every phone book on CD-ROM. If that fails they use driving license registries, credit reference agencies, and other sources.”

“The heck with privacy,” Dad said. “I’m going to pull these people’s full medical histories, see if we get any clues.”

“I could use a cup of coffee,” Steve said. “Is there any around?”

“No beverages are allowed in the data center. Spilled liquids play havoc with computers. There’s a little rest area with a coffee maker and a Coke machine around the corner.”

“I’ll be right back.” Steve left the data center with a nod to the guard at the door. The rest area had a couple of tables and a few chairs, and machines selling soda and candy. He ate two Snickers bars and drank a cup of coffee then headed back to the data center.

He stopped outside the glass doors. Several new people were inside, including a general and two armed military policemen. The general was arguing with Dad, and the colonel with the pencil-line mustache seemed to be speaking at the same time. Their body language made Steve wary. Something bad was happening. He stepped into the room and stood by the door. Instinct told him not to draw attention to himself.

He heard the general say: “I have my orders, Colonel Logan, and you’re under arrest.”

Steve went cold.

How had this happened? It was not just that they had discovered Dad was peeking at people’s medical records. That might be a serious matter, but it was hardly an arresting offense. There was more to this. Somehow Genetico had arranged it.

What should he do?

Dad was saying angrily: “You don’t have the right!”

The general shouted back at him: “Don’t lecture me about my goddamn rights, Colonel.”

There was no point in Steve joining in the argument. He had the floppy disk with the list of names right in his pocket. Dad was in trouble, but he could look after himself. Steve should just get out of there with the information.

He turned and went out through the glass doors.

He walked briskly, trying to look as if he knew where he was going. He felt like a fugitive. He struggled to remember how he had got here through the maze. He turned a couple of corners and walked through a security checkpoint.

“Just a minute, sir!” the guard said.

Steve stopped and turned, heart racing. “Yes?” he said, trying to sound like a busy person impatient to get on with his work.

“I need to log you out on the computer. May I see your identification?”

“Of course.” Steve handed over his passport.

The guard checked his picture, then keyed his name into the computer. “Thank you, sir,” he said, handing back the passport.

Steve walked away along the corridor. One more checkpoint and he was out.

Behind him he heard the voice of Caroline Gambol. “Mr. Logan! One moment, please!”

He glanced back over his shoulder. She was running along the corridor behind him, red-faced and puffing.

“Oh, shit,” he said.