the Third Twin (1996)

Eventually Berrington came back in. “Three of our neighbors were robbed last night,” he said. “I guess we got lucky.”

    Through the night Jeannie and Mr. Oliver had taken shifts, one guarding Harvey while the other lay down, but neither of them got much rest. Only Harvey slept, snoring behind his gag.

In the morning they took turns in the bathroom. Jeannie dressed in the clothes she had brought in her suitcase, a white blouse and black skirt, so that she could be taken for a waitress.

They ordered breakfast from room service. They could not let the waiter into the room, for then he would see Harvey trussed up on the bed, so Mr. Oliver signed the check at the door, saying: “My wife’s undressed, I’ll take the trolley from here.”

He let Harvey drink a glass of orange juice, holding it to his mouth while Jeannie stood behind him, ready to hit him with her wrench if he tried anything.

Jeannie waited anxiously for Steve to call. What had happened to him? He had spent the night at Berrington’s house. Was he keeping up the pretense?

Lisa arrived at nine o’clock with a pile of copies of the press release, then left for the airport, to meet George Dassault and any other clones who might show up. None of the three had called.

Steve called at nine-thirty. “I have to be quick,” he said.

“Berrington’s in the bathroom. Everything’s all right, I’m coming to the press conference with him.”

“He doesn’t suspect anything?”

“No—although I’ve had some tense moments. How’s my double?”

“Subdued.”

“Gotta go.”

“Steve?”

“Make it fast!”

“I love you.” She hung up. I shouldn’t have said that; a girl is supposed to play hard to get. Well, to hell with it.

At ten she went on a scouting expedition to check out the Regency Room. It was a corner room with a little lobby and a door to an anteroom. A publicist was already there, assembling a backdrop with the Genetico logo for the benefit of the TV cameras.

Jeannie took a swift look around, then returned to her room.

Lisa called from the airport. “Bad news,” she said. “The New York flight is late.”

“Oh, Christ!” Jeannie said. “Any sign of the others, Wayne or Hank?”

“No.”

“How late is George’s plane?”

“It’s expected at eleven-thirty.”

“You might still get here.”

“If I drive like the wind.”

    At eleven o’clock Berrington emerged from his bedroom, pulling on his suit coat. He was wearing a blue chalk stripe with a vest over a white shirt with French cuffs, old-fashioned but effective. “Let’s get going,” he said.

Steve put on Harvey’s tweed sport coat. It fit perfectly, of course, and it looked a lot like one Steve himself owned.

They went outside. They were both overdressed for this weather. They got into the silver Lincoln and turned on the air-conditioning. Berrington drove fast, heading downtown. To Steve’s relief he did not talk much on the journey. He parked in the hotel garage.

“Genetico hired a public relations outfit to run this event,” he said as they went up in the elevator. “Our in-house publicity department has never handled anything this big.”

As they headed for the Regency Room, a smartly coiffed woman in a black suit intercepted them. “I’m Caren Beamish from Total Communications,” she said brightly. “Would you like to come to the VIP room?” She showed them into a small room where snacks and drinks were laid out.

Steve was mildly bothered; he would have liked to take a look at the layout of the conference room. But perhaps it made no difference. As long as Berrington continued to believe he was Harvey right up until the appearance of Jeannie, nothing else mattered.

There were six or seven people in the VIP room already, including Proust and Barck. With Proust was a muscular young man in a black suit who looked like a bodyguard. Berrington introduced Steve to Michael Madigan, the head of Landsmann’s North American operations.

Berrington nervously gulped a glass of white wine. Steve could have used a martini—he had much more reason to be scared than Berrington—but he had to keep his wits about him and he could not afford to relax for an instant. He looked at the watch he had taken from Harvey’s wrist. It was five to twelve. Just a few more minutes. And when this is over, then I’ll have a martini.

Caren Beamish clapped her hands for attention and said: “Gentlemen, are we ready?” There were muttered replies and nods. “Then everyone but the platform party should take their seats now, please.”

That’s it. I’ve succeeded. It’s over.

Berrington turned to Steve and said: “See you sooner, Montezuma.” He looked expectant.

“Sure,” Steve said.

Berrington grinned. “What do you mean, sure? Give me the rest of it!”