Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

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.

He looked up and caught Steve’s eye.

They stared at one another for a long moment. It was like looking into a mirror. Steve tried to see beyond Harvey’s appearance, read his face and look into his heart, and see the cancer that made him evil. But he could not. All he saw was a man just like himself, who had walked down the same road and taken a different turning.

He tore his eyes away from Harvey and went into the Regency Room.

It was pandemonium. Jeannie and Lisa were in the center of a crowd of cameramen. He saw one—no two, three clones with them. He pushed through to her. “Jeannie!” he said.

She looked up at him, her face blank.

“It’s Steve!” he said.

Mish Delaware was beside her.

Steve said to Mish: “If you’re looking for Harvey he’s outside, waiting for the elevator.”

Mish said to Jeannie: “Can you tell which one this is?”

“Sure.” Jeannie looked at him and said: “I play a little tennis myself.”

He grinned. “If you only play a little tennis, you’re probably not in my league.”

“Thank God!” she said. She threw her arms around him. He smiled and bent to her face, and they kissed.

The cameras swung around to them, a sea of flashguns glitered, and that was the picture on the front page of newspapers all over the world the following morning.