And the cloak of dignity was difficult to take off. Some professors could remove their jackets and join in a game of touch football with a group of undergraduates, but not Berrington. The students never told him jokes or invited him to their parties, but neither did they act rudely to him or talk during his lectures or question his grades.
In a sense his whole life since the creation of Genetico had been a deception, but he had carried it off with boldness and panache. However, there was no stylish way to sneak into someone else's room and search it.
He checked his watch. The lab would be closed now. Most of his colleagues had left, heading for their suburban homes or for the bar of the Faculty Club. This was as good a moment as any. There was no time when the building was guaranteed to be empty; scientists worked whenever the mood took them. If he were seen, he would have to brazen it out.
He left his office, went down the stairs, and walked along the corridor to Jeannie's door. There was no one around. He swiped the card through the card reader and her door opened. He stepped inside, switched on the lights, and closed the door behind him.
It was the smallest office in the building. In fact it had been a storeroom, but Sophie Chapple had maliciously insisted it become Jeannie's office, on the spurious grounds that a bigger room was needed to store the boxes of printed questionnaires the department used. It was a narrow room with a small window. However, Jeannie had livened it up with two wooden chairs painted bright red, a spindly palm in a pot, and a reproduction of a Picasso etching, a bullfight in vivid shades of yellow and orange.
He picked up the framed picture on her desk. It was a black-and-white photograph of a good-looking man with sideburns and a wide tie, and a young woman with a determined expression: Jeannie's parents in the seventies, he guessed. Otherwise her desk was completely clear. Tidy girl.
He sat down and switched on her computer. While it was booting up he went through her drawers. The top one contained ballpoints and scratch pads. In another he found a box of tampons and a pair of panty hose in an unopened packet. Berrington hated panty hose. He cherished adolescent memories of garter belts and stockings with seams. Panty hose were unhealthy, too, like nylon Jockey shorts. If President Proust made him surgeon general, he planned to put a health warning on all panty hose. The next drawer contained a hand mirror and a brush with some of Jeannie's long dark hair caught in its bristles; the last, a pocket dictionary and a paperback book called A Thousand Acres. No secrets so far.
Her menu came up on screen. He picked up her mouse and clicked on Calendar. Her appointments were predictable: lectures and classes, laboratory time, tennis games, dates for drinks and movies. She was going to Oriole Park at Camden Yards to watch the ball game on Saturday; Ted Ransome and his wife were having her over to brunch on Sunday; her car was due to be serviced on Monday. There was no entry that said "Scan medical files of Acme Insurance." Her to-do list was equally mundane: "Buy vitamins, call Ghita, Lisa birthday gift, check modem."
He exited the diary and began to look through her files. She had masses of statistics on spreadsheets. Her word-processing files were smaller: some correspondence, designs for questionnaires, a draft of an article. Using the Find feature, he searched her entire WP directory for the word "database." It came up several times in the article and again in file copies of three outgoing letters, but none of the references told him where she planned to use her search engine next. "Come on," he said aloud, "there has to be something, for God's sake."
She had a filing cabinet, but there was not much in it; she had been here only a few weeks. After a year or two it would be stuffed full of completed questionnaires, the raw data of psychological research. Now she had a few incoming letters in one file, departmental memos in another, photocopies of articles in a third.
In an otherwise empty cupboard he found, facedown, a framed picture of Jeannie with a tall, bearded man, both of them on bicycles beside a lake. Berrington inferred a love affair that had ended.
He now felt even more worried. This was the room of an organized person, the type who planned ahead. She filed her incoming letters and kept copies of everything she sent out. There ought to be evidence here of what she was going to do next. She had no reason to be secretive about it; until today there had been no suggestion that she had anything to be ashamed of. She must be planning another database sweep. The only possible explanation for the absence of clues was that she had made the arrangements by phone or in person, perhaps with someone who was a close friend. And if that were the case he might not be able to find out anything about it by searching her room.
He heard a footstep in the corridor outside, and he tensed. There was a click as a card was passed through the card reader. Berrington stared helplessly at the door. There was nothing he could do: he was caught red-handed, sitting at her desk, with her computer on. He could not pretend to have wandered in here by accident.
The door opened. He expected to see Jeannie, but in fact it was a security guard.
The man knew him. "Oh, hi, Professor," the guard said. "I saw the light on, so I thought I'd check. Dr. Ferrami usually keeps her door open when she's here."
Berrington struggled not to blush. "That's quite all right," he said. Never apologize, never explain. "I'll be sure to close the door when I'm through here."
"Great."
The guard stood silent, waiting for an explanation. Berrington clamped his jaw shut. Eventually the man said: "Well, good night, Professor."
"Good night."
The guard left.
Berrington relaxed. No problem.
He checked that her modem was switched on, then clicked on America Online and accessed her mailbox. Her terminal was programmed to give her password automatically. She had three pieces of mail. He downloaded them all. The first was a notice about increased prices for using the Internet. The second came from the University of Minnesota and read:
I'll be in Baltimore on Friday and would like to have a drink with you for old times' sake. Love, Will
Berrington wondered if Will was the bearded guy in the bike picture. He threw it out and opened the third letter. It electrified him.
You'll be relieved to know that I'm running your scan on our fingerprint file tonight. Call me. Ghita.
It was from the FBI.
"Son of a bitch," Berrington whispered. "This will kill us."
26
BERRINGTON WAS AFRAID TO TALK ON THE PHONE ABOUT Jeannie and the FBI fingerprint file: So many telephone calls were monitored by intelligence agencies. Nowadays the surveillance was done by computers programmed to listen for key words and phrases. If someone said "plutonium" or "heroin" or "kill the president," the computer would tape the conversation and alert a human listener. The last thing Berrington needed was some CIA eavesdropper wondering why Senator Proust was so interested in FBI fingerprint files.
So he got in his silver Lincoln Town Car and drove at ninety miles an hour on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. He often broke the speed limit In fact, he was impatient with all kinds of rules. It was a contradiction in him, he recognized that. He hated peace marchers and drug takers, homosexuals and feminists and rock musicians and all nonconformists who flouted American traditions. Yet at the same time he resented anyone who tried to tell him where to park his car or how much to pay his employees or how many fire extinguishers to put in his laboratory.
As he drove, he wondered about Jim Proust's contacts in the intelligence community. Were they just a bunch of old soldiers who sat around telling stories about how they had blackmailed antiwar protesters and assassinated South American presidents? Or were they still at the cutting edge? Did they still help one another, like the Mafia, and regard the return of a favor as an almost religious obligation? Or were those days over? It was a long time since Jim had left the CIA; even he might not know.
It was late, but Jim was waiting for Berrington at his office in the Capitol building. "What the hell has happened that you couldn't tell me on the phone?" he said.
/> "She's about to run her computer program on the FBI's fingerprint file."
Jim went pale. "Will it work?"
"It worked on dental records, why wouldn't it work on fingerprints?"
"Jesus H. Christ," Jim said feelingly.
"How many prints do they have on file?"
"More than twenty million sets, as I recall. They can't be all criminals. Are there that many criminals in America?"
"I don't know, maybe they have prints of dead people too. Focus, Jim, for Christ's sake. Can you stop this happening?"
"Who's her contact at the Bureau?"
Berrington handed him the printout he had made of Jeannie's E-mail. As Jim studied it, Berrington looked around. On the walls of his office, Jim had photographs of himself with every American president after Kennedy. There was a uniformed Captain Proust saluting Lyndon Johnson; Major Proust, still with a full head of straight blond hair, shaking hands with Dick Nixon; Colonel Proust glaring balefully at Jimmy Carter; General Proust sharing a joke with Ronald Reagan, both of them laughing fit to bust; Proust in a business suit, deputy director of the CIA, deep in conversation with a frowning George Bush; and Senator Proust, now bald and wearing glasses, wagging a finger at Bill Clinton. He was also pictured dancing with Margaret Thatcher, playing golf with Bob Dole, and horseback riding with Ross Perot. Berrington had a few such photos, but Jim had a whole damn gallery. Whom was he trying to impress? Himself, probably. Constantly seeing himself with the most powerful people in the world told Jim he was important.
"I never heard of anyone called Ghita Sumra," Jim said. "She can't be high up."
"Who do you know at the FBI?" Berrington said impatiently.
"Have you ever met the Creanes, David and Hilary?" Berrington shook his head.
"He's an assistant director, she's a recovering alcoholic. They're both about fifty. Ten years ago, when I was running the CIA, David worked for me in the Diplomatic Directorate, keeping tabs on all the foreign embassies and their espionage sections. I liked him. Anyway, one afternoon Hilary got drunk and went out in her Honda Civic and killed a six-year-old kid, a black girl, on Beulah Road out in Springfield. She drove on, stopped at a shopping mall, and called Dave at Langley. He went over there in his Thunderbird, picked her up and took her home, then reported the Honda stolen."
"But something went wrong."
"There was a witness to the accident who was sure the car had been driven by a middle-aged white woman, and a stubborn detective who knew that not many women steal cars. The witness positively identified Hilary, and she broke down and confessed."
"What happened?"
"I went to the district attorney. He wanted to put them both in jail. I swore it was an important matter of national security and persuaded him to drop the prosecution. Hilary started going to AA and she hasn't had a drink since."
"And Dave moved over to the Bureau and did well."
"And boy, does he owe me."
"Can he stop this Ghita woman?"
"He's one of nine assistant directors reporting to the deputy director. He doesn't run the fingerprint division, but he's a powerful guy."
"But can he do it?"
"I don't know! I'll ask, okay? If it can be done, he'll do it for me."
"Okay, Jim," Berrington said. "Pick up the damn phone and ask him."
27
JEANNIE SWITCHED ON THE LIGHTS IN THE PSYCHOLOGY LAB and Steve followed her in. "The genetic language has four letters," she said. "A, C, G, and T."
"Why those four?"
"Adenine, cytosine, guanine, and thymine. They're the chemical compounds attached to the long central strands of the DNA molecule. They form words and sentences, such as "Put five toes on each foot.' "
"But everyone's DNA must say "Put five toes on each foot.' "
"Good point. Your DNA is very similar to mine and everyone else's in the world. We even have a lot in common with the animals, because they're made of the same proteins as we are."
"So how do you tell the difference between Dennis's DNA and mine?"
"Between the words there are bits that don't mean anything, they're just gibberish. They're like spaces in a sentence. They're called oligonucleotides, but everyone calls them oligos. In the space between 'five' and 'toes,' there might be an oligo that reads TATAGAGACCCC, repeated."
"Everyone has TATAGAGACCCC?"
"Yes, but the number of repeats varies. Where you have thirty-one TATAGAGACCCC oligos between 'five' and 'toes,' I might have two hundred and eighty-seven. It doesn't matter how many you have, because the oligo doesn't mean anything."
"How do you compare my oligos with Dennis's?"
She showed him a rectangular plate about the size and shape of a book. "We cover this plate with a gel, make slots all across the top, and drop samples of your DNA and Dennis's into the slots. Then we put the plate in here." On the bench was a small glass tank. "We pass an electric current through the gel for a couple of hours. This causes the fragments of DNA to ooze through the gel in straight lines. But small fragments move faster than big ones. So your fragment, with thirty-one oligos, will finish up ahead of mine with two hundred and eighty-seven."
"How can you see how far they've moved?"
"We use chemicals called probes. They attach themselves to specific oligos. Suppose we have an oligo that attracts TATAGAGACCCC." She showed him a piece of rag like a dishcloth. "We take a nylon membrane soaked in a probe solution and lay it on the gel so it blots up the fragments. Probes are also luminous, so they'll mark a photographic film." She looked in another tank. "I see Lisa has already laid the nylon on the film." She peered down at it. "I think the pattern has been formed. All we need to do is fix the film."
Steve tried to see the image on the film as she washed it in a bowl of some chemical, then rinsed it under a tap. His history was written on that page. But all he could see was a ladderlike pattern on the clear plastic. Finally she shook it dry then pegged it in front of a light box.
Steve peered at it. The film was streaked, from top to bottom, with straight lines, about a quarter of an inch wide, like gray tracks. The tracks were numbered along the bottom of the film, one to eighteen. Within the tracks were neat black marks like hyphens. It meant nothing to him.
Jeannie said: "The black marks show you how far along the tracks your fragments traveled."
"But there are two black marks in each track."
"That's because you have two strands of DNA, one from your father and one from your mother."
"Of course. The double helix."
"Right. And your parents had different oligos." She consuited a sheet of notes, then looked up. "Are you sure you're ready for this--one way or the other?"
"Sure."
"Okay." She looked down again. "Track three is your blood."
There were two marks about an inch apart, halfway down the film.
"Track four is a control. It's probably my blood, or Lisa's. The marks should be in a completely different position."
"They are." The two marks were very close together, right at the bottom of the film near the numbers.
"Track five is Dennis Pinker. Are the marks in the same position as yours, or different?"
"The same," Steve said. "They match exactly."
She looked at him. "Steve," she said, "you're twins."
He did not want to believe it. "Is there any chance of a mistake?"
"Sure," she said. "There's a one-in-a-hundred chance that two unrelated individuals could have a fragment the same on both maternal and paternal DNA. We normally test four different fragments, using different oligos and different probes. That reduces the chance of a mistake to one in a hundred million. Lisa will do three more; they take half a day each. But I know what they're going to say. And so do you, don't you?"
"I guess I do." Steve sighed. "I'd better start believing this. Where the hell did I come from?"
Jeannie looked thoughtful. "Something you said has been on my mind: 'I don't have any brothers or sisters.' From what y
ou've said about your parents, they seem like the kind of people who might want a house full of kids, three or four."
"You're right," Steve said. "But Mom had trouble conceiving. She was thirty-three, and she had been married to Dad for ten years, when I came along. She wrote a book about it: What to Do When You Can't Get Pregnant. It was her first bestseller. She bought a summer cabin in Virginia with the money."
"Charlotte Pinker was thirty-nine when Dennis was born. I bet they had subfertility problems too. I wonder if that's significant."
"How could it be?"
"I don't know. Did your mother have any kind of special treatment?"
"I never read the book. Shall I call her?"
"Would you?"
"It's time I told them about this mystery, anyway."
Jeannie pointed to a desk. "Use Lisa's phone."
He dialed his home. His mother answered. "Hi, Mom."
"Was she pleased to see you?"
"Not at first. But I'm still with her."
"So she doesn't hate you."
Steve looked at Jeannie. "She doesn't hate me, Mom, but she thinks I'm too young."
"Is she listening?"
"Yes, and I think I'm embarrassing her, which is a first. Mom, we're in the laboratory, and we have kind of a puzzle. My DNA appears to be the same as that of another subject she's studying, a guy called Dennis Pinker."
"It can't be the same--you'd have to be identical twins."
"And that would only be possible if I'd been adopted."
"Steve, you weren't adopted, if that's what you're thinking. And you weren't one of twins. God knows how I would have coped with two of you."
"Did you have any kind of special fertility treatment before I was born?"
"Yes, I did. The doctor recommended me to a place in Philadelphia that a number of officers' wives had been to. It was called the Aventine Clinic. I had hormone treatment."
Steve repeated that to Jeannie, and she scribbled a note on a Post-it pad.
Mom went on: "The treatment worked, and there you are, the fruit of all that effort, sitting in Baltimore pestering a beautiful woman seven years your senior when you should be here in D.C. taking care of your white-haired old mother."