It was no good. She averted her eyes. "You'd better go," she said.

"You could question me," he said.

"All right. Where did I first meet Steve?"

"At the tennis court."

It was the right answer. "But both Steve and the rapist were at JFU that day."

"Ask me something else."

"How many cinnamon buns did Steve eat on Friday morning?"

He grinned. "Eight, I'm ashamed to say."

She shook her head despairingly. "This place could be bugged. They've searched my office and downloaded my E-mail, they could be listening to us now. It's no good. I don't know Steve Logan that well, and what I do know, others might know too."

"I guess you're right," he said, putting his T-shirt back on.

He sat on the bed and put on his shoes. She went into the living room, not wanting to stand in the bedroom and watch him dress. Was this a terrible mistake? Or was it the smartest move she had ever made? She felt a bereft ache in her loins; she had wanted so badly to make love to Steve. Yet the thought that she might have found herself in bed with someone like Wayne Stattner made her shaky with fear.

He came in, fully dressed. She looked into his eyes, searching for something there, some sign that would a.s.suage her doubts, but she did not find it. I don't know who you are, I just don't know! I don't know who you are, I just don't know!

He read her mind. "It's no use, I can tell. Trust is trust, and when it's gone, it's gone." He let his resentment show for a moment. "What a downer, what a motherf.u.c.king downer."

His anger scared her. She was strong, but he was stronger. She wanted him out of the apartment, and fast.

He sensed her urgency. "Okay, I'm leaving," he said. He went to the door. "You realize he he wouldn't leave." She nodded. wouldn't leave." She nodded.

He said what she was thinking. "But until I really leave, you can't be sure. And if I leave and come right back, that doesn't count either. For you to know it's me, I have to really really go away." go away."

"Yes." She was sure now that this was Steve, but her doubts would return unless he really went away.

"We need a secret code, so you know it's me."

"Okay."

"I'll think of something."

"Okay."

"Good-bye," he said. "I won't try to kiss you."

He went down the stairs. "Call me," he shouted.

She stood still, frozen to the spot, until she heard the slam of the street door.

She bit her lip. She felt like crying. She went to the kitchen counter and poured coffee into a mug. She raised the mug to her lips, but it slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor, where it smashed on the tiles. "f.u.c.k," she said.

Her legs went weak, and she slumped on the couch. She had felt in terrible danger. Now she knew the danger had been imaginary, but she still felt profoundly grateful that it had pa.s.sed. Her body felt swollen with unfulfilled desire. She touched her crotch: her leggings were damp. "Soon," she breathed. "Soon." She thought about how it would be the next time they met, how she would embrace him and kiss him and apologize, and how tenderly he would forgive her; and as she envisioned it she touched herself with her fingertips, and after a few moments a spasm of pleasure went through her.

Then she slept for a while.

46.

IT WAS THE HUMILIATION THAT GOT TO B BERRINGTON.

He kept defeating Jeannie Ferrami, but he was never able to feel good about it. She had forced him to go sneaking around like a petty thief. He had surrept.i.tiously leaked a story to a newspaper, crept into her office and searched her desk drawers, and now he was watching her house. But fear compelled him. His world seemed about to fall around him. He was desperate.

He would never have thought he would be doing this a few weeks from his sixtieth birthday: sitting in his car, parked at the curb, watching someone else's front door like a grubby private eye. What would his mother think? She was still alive, a slim, well-dressed woman of eighty-four, living in a small town in Maine, writing witty letters to the local newspaper and determinedly hanging on to her post as chief flower arranger for the Episcopalian Church. She would shudder with shame to know what her son had been reduced to.

G.o.d forbid he should be seen by anyone he knew. He was careful not to meet the eyes of pa.s.sersby. His car was unfortunately conspicuous. He thought of it as a discreetly elegant automobile, but there were not many silver Lincoln Town Cars parked along this street: aging j.a.panese compacts and lovingly preserved Pontiac Firebirds were the local favorites. Berrington himself was not the kind of person to fade into the background, with his distinctive gray hair. For a while he had held a street map open in front of him, resting on the steering wheel, for camouflage, but this was a friendly neighborhood, and two people had tapped on the window and offered to give him directions, so he had had to put the map away. He consoled himself with the thought that anyone who lived in such a low-rent area could not possibly be important.

He now had no idea what Jeannie was up to. The FBI had failed to find that list in her apartment. Berrington had to a.s.sume the worst: the list had led her to another clone. If that were so, disaster was not far away. Berrington, Jim, and Preston were staring close up at public exposure, disgrace, and ruin.

It was Jim who had suggested that Berrington watch Jeannie's house. "We have to know what she's up to, who comes and goes," Jim had said, and Berrington had reluctantly agreed. He had got here early, and nothing had happened until around midday when Jeannie was dropped off by a black woman he recognized as one of the detectives investigating the rape. She had interviewed him briefly on Monday. He had found her attractive. He managed to remember her name: Sergeant Delaware.

He called Proust from the pay phone in the McDonald's on the corner, and Proust promised to get his FBI friend to find out whom they had been to see. Berrington imagined the FBI man saying, "Sergeant Delaware made contact today with a suspect we have under surveillance. For security reasons I can't reveal any more than that, but it would be helpful to us to know exactly what she did this morning and what case she was working on."

An hour or so later Jeannie had left in a rush, looking heartbreakingly s.e.xy in a purple sweater. Berrington had not followed her car; despite his fears, he could not bring himself to do something so undignified. But she had come back a few minutes later carrying a couple of brown paper sacks from a grocery store. The next arrival was one of the clones, presumably Steve Logan.

He had not stayed long. If I'd been in his shoes, Berrington thought, with Jeannie dressed like that, I would have stayed there all night and most of Sunday.

He checked the car's clock for the twentieth time and decided to call Jim again. He might have heard from the FBI by now.

Berrington left his car and walked to the corner. The smell of French fries made him hungry, but he did not like to eat hamburgers out of fast-food containers. He got a cup of black coffee and went to the pay phone.

"They went to New York," Jim told him.

It was as Berrington had feared. "Wayne Stattner," he said.

"Yup."

"s.h.i.t. What did they do?"

"Asked him to account for his movements last Sunday, and like that. He was at the Emmys. Had his picture, in People People magazine. End of story." magazine. End of story."

"Any indication what Jeannie might be planning to do next?"

"No. What's happening there?"

"Not a lot. I can see her door from here. She did some shopping, Steve Logan came and went, nothing. Maybe they've run out of ideas."

"And maybe not. All we know is that your scheme of firing her didn't shut her up."

"All right, Jim, don't rub it in. Wait-she's coming out." She had changed her clothes: she was wearing white jeans and a royal blue sleeveless blouse that showed her strong arms.

"Follow her," Jim said.

"The h.e.l.l with that. She's getting into her car."

"Berry, we have to know where she goes."

"I'm not a cop, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!"

A little girl on her way to the ladies' room with her mother said: "That man shouted, Mommy."

"Hush, darling," her mother said.

Berrington lowered his voice. "She's pulling away."

"Get in your d.a.m.n car!"

"f.u.c.k you, Jim."

"Follow her!" Jim hung up.

Berrington cradled the phone.

Jeannie's red Mercedes went by and turned south on Falls Road.

Berrington ran to his car.

47.

JEANNIE STUDIED S STEVE'S FATHER. CHARLES WAS DARK haired, with the shadow of a heavy beard on his jaw. His expression was dour and his manner rigidly precise. Although it was Sat.u.r.day and he had been gardening, he wore neatly pressed dark pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar. He did not look like Steve in any way. The only thing Steve might have got from him was a taste for conservative clothes. Most of Jeannie's students wore ripped denim and black leather, but Steve favored khakis and b.u.t.ton-downs. haired, with the shadow of a heavy beard on his jaw. His expression was dour and his manner rigidly precise. Although it was Sat.u.r.day and he had been gardening, he wore neatly pressed dark pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar. He did not look like Steve in any way. The only thing Steve might have got from him was a taste for conservative clothes. Most of Jeannie's students wore ripped denim and black leather, but Steve favored khakis and b.u.t.ton-downs.

Steve had not yet come home, and Charles speculated that he might have dropped by his law school library to read up on rape trials. Steve's mother was lying down. Charles made fresh lemonade, and he and Jeannie went out on the patio of the Georgetown house and sat on lawn chairs.

Jeannie had woken up from her doze with a brilliant idea in the forefront of her mind. She had thought of a way to find the fourth clone. But she would need Charles's help. And she was not sure he would be willing to do what she had to ask him.

Charles pa.s.sed her a tall, cold gla.s.s, then took one himself and sat down. "May I call you by your first name?" he said.

"Please do."

"And I hope you'll do the same."

"Sure."

They sipped their lemonade, then he said: "Jeannie-what is this all about?"

She put down her gla.s.s. "I think it's an experiment," she said. "Berrington and Proust were both in the military until shortly before they set up Genetico. I suspect the company was originally a cover for a military project."

"I've been a soldier all my adult life, and I'm ready to believe almost anything crazy of the army. But what interest could they have in women's fertility problems?"

"Think of this. Steve and his doubles are tall, strong, fit, and handsome. They're also very smart, although their propensity to violence gets in the way of their achievements. But Steve and Dennis have IQ scores off the scale, and I suspect the other two would be the same: Wayne is already a millionaire at the age of twenty-two, and the fourth one has at least been clever enough to totally evade detection."

"Where does that get you?"

"I don't know. I wonder if the army was trying to breed the perfect soldier."

It was no more than an idle speculation, and she said it casually, but it electrified Charles. "Oh, my G.o.d," he said, and an expression of shocked comprehension spread over his face. "I think I remember hearing about this."

"What do you mean?"

"There was a rumor, back in the seventies, that went all around the military. The Russians had a breeding program, people said. They were making perfect soldiers, perfect athletes, perfect chess players, everything. Some people said we should be doing the same. Others said we already were."

"So that's it!" Jeannie felt that at last she was beginning to understand. "They picked a healthy, aggressive, intelligent, blond-haired man and woman and got them to donate the sperm and egg that went together to form the embryo. But what they were really interested in was the possibility of duplicating duplicating the perfect soldier once they had created him. The crucial part of the experiment was the multiple division of the embryo and the implanting into the host mothers. And it worked." She frowned. "I wonder what happened next." the perfect soldier once they had created him. The crucial part of the experiment was the multiple division of the embryo and the implanting into the host mothers. And it worked." She frowned. "I wonder what happened next."

"I can answer that," Charles said. "Watergate. All those crazy secret schemes were canceled after that."

"But Genetico went legitimate, like the Mafia. And because they really did find out how to make test-tube babies, the company was profitable. The profits financed the research into genetic engineering that they've been doing ever since. I suspect that my own project is probably part of their grand scheme."

"Which is what?"

"A breed of perfect Americans: intelligent, aggressive, and blond. A master race." She shrugged. "It's an old idea, but it's possible now, with modern genetics."

"So why would they sell the company? It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe it does," Jeannie said thoughtfully. "When they got the takeover bid, perhaps they saw it as an opportunity to move into high gear. The money will finance Proust's run at the presidency. If they get into the White House they can do all the research they want-and put their ideas into practice." put their ideas into practice."

Charles nodded. "There's a piece about Proust's ideas in today's Washington Post Washington Post. I don't think I want to live in his kind of world. If we're all aggressive, obedient soldiers, who's going to write the poems and play the blues and go on antiwar protest marches?"

Jeannie raised her eyebrows. It was a surprising thought to come from a career soldier. "There's more to it than that," she said. "Human variation has a purpose. There's a reason we're born different from both our parents. Evolution is a trial-and-error business. You can't prevent nature's failed experiments without eliminating the successes too."

Charles sighed. "And all this means I'm not Steve's father."

"Don't say that."

He opened his billfold and took out a photo. "I have to tell you something, Jeannie. I never suspected any of this stuff about clones, but I've often looked at Steve and wondered if there was anything at all of me in him."

"Can't you see it?" she said.

"A resemblance?"

"No physical resemblance. But Steve has a profound sense of duty. None of the other clones could give a darn about duty. He got it from you!"