The Third Twin (45 page)

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

Caren Beamish
Total Communications!

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 unscrewed it when they had to clean out the bend, he knew, but they used a tool. He got his left hand to the collar, gripped it as hard as he could, and tried to turn it. His fingers slipped and he grazed his knuckles painfully.

He tapped the underside of the sink. It was made of some kind of artificial marble, quite strong. He looked again at the place where the pipe connected with the drain. If he could break that seal, he might be able to pull the pipe out. Then he could easily slip the handcuff over the end and be free.

He changed his position, drew back his foot, and started kicking again.

    Jeannie said: “Twenty-three years ago, Genetico carried out illegal and irresponsible experiments on eight unsuspecting American women.” Her breath was coming fast and she struggled to speak normally and project her voice. “All the women were wives of army officers.” She searched the audience for Steve but could not see him. Where the hell was he? He was supposed to be here—he was the proof!

Caren Beamish said in a shaky voice: “This is a private function, please leave immediately.”

Jeannie ignored her. “The women went to Genetico’s clinic in Philadelphia to have hormone treatment for subfertility.” She let her anger show. “Without permission they were impregnated with embryos from total strangers.”

There was a buzz of comment from the assembled journalists. They were interested, Jeannie could tell.

She raised her voice. “Preston Barck, supposedly a responsible scientist, was so obsessed with his pioneering work in cloning that he divided an embryo seven times, producing eight identical embryos, and implanted them in eight unsuspecting women.”

Jeannie spotted Mish Delaware sitting at the back, watching with an expression of faint amusement. But Berrington was not in the room. That was surprising—and worrying.

On the platform, Preston Barck stood up and spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for this. We were warned there might be a disturbance.”

Jeannie plowed on. “This outrage has been kept secret for twenty-three years. The three perpetrators—Preston Barck, Senator Proust, and Professor Berrington Jones—have been prepared to go to any lengths to cover it up, as I know from bitter experience.”

Caren Beamish was speaking into a hotel phone. Jeannie heard her say: “Get some goddamn security in here right away, please.”

Under the tray, Jeannie had been carrying a sheaf of copies of the press release that she had written and Lisa had photocopied. “All the details are in this handout,” she said, and she began to pass them around as she continued speaking. “Those eight alien embryos grew and were born, and seven of them are alive today. You’ll know them, because they all look alike.”

She could tell from the journalists’ expressions that she had them where she wanted them. A glance at the platform showed Proust with a face like thunder and Preston Barck looking as if he wanted to die.

About now, Mr. Oliver was supposed to walk in with Harvey, so that everyone could see he looked just like Steve and possibly George Dassault as well. But there was no sign of any of them.
Don’t leave it too late!

Jeannie carried on speaking. “You would think they were identical twins—and in fact they have identical DNA—but they were born to eight different mothers. I study twins, and the puzzle of the twins who had different mothers was what first started me investigating this shameful story.”

The door at the back of the room burst open. Jeannie looked up, hoping to see one of the clones. But it was Berrington who rushed in. Breathlessly, as if he had been running, Berrington said: “Ladies and gentlemen, this lady is suffering from a nervous breakdown and has lately been dismissed from her job. She was a researcher on a project funded by Genetico and bears the company a grudge. Hotel security has just arrested an accomplice of hers on another floor. Please bear with us while they escort this person from the building, then our press conference can resume.”

Jeannie was knocked for a loop. Where were Mr. Oliver and Harvey? And what had happened to Steve? Her speech and her handout meant nothing without evidence. She had only a few seconds left. Something had gone terribly wrong. Berrington had somehow foiled her plan.

A uniformed security guard strode into the room and spoke to Berrington.

In desperation, Jeannie turned to Michael Madigan. He had a frosty look on his face, and she guessed he was the kind of man who hated interruptions to his smoothly organized routine. All the same she tried. “I see you have the legal papers in front of you, Mr. Madigan,” she said. “Don’t you think you should check out this story before you sign? Just suppose I’m right—imagine how much money those eight women could sue you for!”

Madigan said mildly: “I’m not in the habit of making business decisions based on tip-offs from nutcases.”

The journalists laughed, and Berrington began to look more confident. The security guard approached Jeannie.

She said to the audience: “I was hoping to show you two or three of the clones, by way of proof. But … they haven’t showed up.”

The reporters laughed again, and Jeannie realized she had become a joke. It was all over, and she had lost.

The guard took her firmly by the arm and pushed her toward the door. She could have fought him off, but there was no point.

She passed Berrington and saw him smile. She felt tears come to her eyes, but she swallowed them and held her head high. To hell with you all, she thought; one day you’ll find out I was right.

Behind her, she heard Caren Beamish say: “Mr. Madigan, if you would care to resume your remarks?”

As Jeannie and the guard reached the door it opened and Lisa came in.

Jeannie gasped when she saw that right behind her was one of the clones.

It must be George Dassault. He had come! But one was not enough—she needed two to make her point. If only Steve would show up, or Mr. Oliver with Harvey!

Then, with blinding joy, she saw a second clone walk in. It must be Henry King. She shook off the security guard. “Look!” she yelled. “Look here!”

As she spoke, a third clone walked in. The black hair told her it was Wayne Stattner.

“See!” Jeannie yelled. “Here they are! They’re identical!”

All the cameras swung away from the platform and pointed at the newcomers. Lights flashed as photographers began to snap the incident.

“I told you!” Jeannie said triumphantly to the journalists. “Now ask them about their parents. They’re not triplets—their mothers have never met! Ask them. Go on, ask them!”

She realized she was sounding too excited, and she made an effort to calm down, but it was difficult, she felt so happy. Several reporters leaped up and approached the three clones, eager to question them. The guard took Jeannie’s arm again, but she was now at the center of a crowd and could not move anyway.

In the background she heard Berrington raise his voice over the buzz of the reporters. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we could have your attention, please!” He began by sounding angry but soon became petulant. “We
would
like to continue with the press conference!” It was no good. The pack had scented a real story, and they had lost interest in speeches.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jeannie saw Senator Proust slip quietly out of the room.

A young man thrust a microphone at her and said: “How did you find out about these experiments?”

Jeannie said into the microphone: “My name is Dr. Jean Ferrami and I’m a scientist at Jones Falls University, in the psychology department. In the course of my work I came across this group of people who seem to be identical twins but aren’t related. I investigated. Berrington Jones attempted to have me fired to prevent my finding out the truth. Despite that, I discovered the clones were the result of a military experiment conducted by Genetico.” She looked around the room.

Where was Steve?

    Steve gave one more kick, and the drainpipe sprang away from the underside of the washbasin in a shower of mortar and marble chips. Heaving on the pipe, he pulled it away from the sink and slipped the handcuff through the gap. Freed, he got to his feet.

He put his left hand in his pocket to conceal the handcuff that dangled from his wrist, then he left the bathroom.

The VIP room was empty.

Not sure what he might find in the conference room, he stepped out into the corridor.

Next to the VIP room was a door marked “Regency Room.” Farther along the corridor, waiting for the elevator, was one of his doubles.

Who was it? The man was rubbing his wrists, as if they were sore; and he had a red mark across both cheeks that looked as if it might have been made by a tight gag. This was Harvey, who had spent the night tied up.