A Heartbeat Away

by Michael Palmer

  Prison … Possibly torture.

  The woman had to have known, Angie thought. She had to have known what was in store for Griff. Who paid her to do it? Why? Where had she disappeared to?

  A sweet, computerized voice announced, “Biometric scan approved for Angela Jane Fletcher. Guest pass seven-oh-seven, security level Alpha Hotel Alpha. Please proceed to iris scan.”

  Angie set her chin in place and readied herself.

  “Who supplies all this equipment, anyway?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  The scan failed and a loud warning buzz followed.

  “Please clear the optical scanner and try again,” the voice demanded.

  “You can’t talk during a scan,” Forbush said. “The algorithms that handle the matching are very precise. Keep your chin pressed in and your head as still as possible.”

  “Sorry.”

  Angie repositioned herself.

  “The equipment comes from different vendors,” Forbush explained. “Staghorn Security from Indiana handles the ordering and then puts the system together and installs it. If every one of the companies dealing with the government were as efficient and detail-oriented as Staghorn, half the national debt would probably vanish. Those guys know what they’re doing and they know how to do it.”

  This time the scan worked and Angie lifted her chin from the cup.

  “What about the cameras?” she asked.

  “Those came from Staghorn also.”

  “Maybe we should talk to them. If they know the equipment inside and out, perhaps they’ll have some idea how Genesis and Sylvia managed to pull off the scam. The computer graphics don’t seem like they would be that easy to do.”

  “If you know how, you know how,” Forbush replied matter-of-factly. “Griff is in his lab right now. After we go to Sylvia’s office, maybe he’ll show you what he does in that arena.”

  “You really care about him, don’t you.”

  “I trust him, if that’s what you mean. He’s genuinely concerned about people. I suppose you’ve already picked up on the fact that sometimes I have trouble … um … getting along with others. He and I have never had one disagreement.” Forbush considered his words for a moment, then added quite seriously, “Even though I’m smarter.”

  Angie waited on the other side of the door for the man, then headed down the corridor toward the cool zone of offices, and beyond that, the Kitchen. Data transferred wirelessly to a computer chip automatically unlocked the next secure metal door with a loud click.

  “Do you know the Staghorn folks, Melvin?”

  “I’ve done some work with them. Nice people. Smart. Anxious to please.”

  “I would imagine that sometimes you’re not so pleaseable.”

  “You imagine correctly.”

  As they approached the hot zone changing area, Angie sensed an increase in the tightness in her chest. In spite of herself, she was beginning to panic. They were two hundred feet underground approaching the area where, less than a year ago, dreadfully powerful microbes were being developed, including a virtually invisible germ that would soon begin killing scores of people in the Capitol.

  “Is there any living virus left down here?”

  “You mean in the Kitchen? I suppose it’s possible. We don’t take any chances. Besides, Griff has those blood samples from Washington. He’s suited up, working on them now to reestablish tissue culture lines.”

  The band around Angie’s chest grew stronger. Her breathing felt strained.

  “I need a minute, Melvin,” she said.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. We all feel claustrophobic and endangered from time to time down here, especially when we stop to think about how few particles of WRX3883 it would take to kill us.”

  “That makes me feel much better.”

  “Good,” Forbush said, clearly missing her sarcasm. “You said you wanted to start with Dr. Chen’s lab office. You’re going to have to suit up.”

  “I’ve done that before.”

  “So you know that breathing in the suit takes some getting used to.”

  “Yes.”

  “The air can feel like molasses at first.”

  “I understand.”

  “And we’ll have to talk real loud to be heard over the air compressors.”

  “Melvin, let’s go.”

  “Change on the other side of the lockers, then go through the security door. I’ll meet you in the Kitchen. This is the door to the locker room. Once you pass into the first staging area, the light above the locker room door will turn green.”

  Willing herself to calm down, Angie pulled on the door handle. It was difficult to open.

  “Negative pressure,” Forbush said. “Helps keep any loose virus particles from—”

  Before Forbush could finish the explanation, Angie clenched her teeth, yanked the heavy door open, and stepped inside.

  “Don’t forget to remove all jewelry,” Forbush’s voice continued through a speaker on the wall. “And remember to tape your wrists and ankles.… This is a little like the lab in Michael Crichton’s The Andromeda Strain, but not exactly.… Arthur Hill played Dr. Jeremy Stone in that one. One of my favorites. He’s Canadian. Not Dr. Stone, but Arthur Hill.”

  Several years before, Angie had written a three-part story on the autism spectrum disorder called Asperger syndrome. Unless her research was way off base, Melvin Forbush was a poster child for the neurological condition. Delightful, but at times exasperating, she had written. Often brilliant, yet frequently unaware or out of step. Obsessed with details provided they are interested in the subject.

  He and I have not had one disagreement, Forbush had said about Griff.

  It was another tribute to the man already hard at work in the lab ahead of her—the man charged with saving the lives of the president of the United States and seven hundred others. Angie had never fallen in love with the same man twice. Now she found herself wondering.

  Twenty minutes later, she was ready. Dressed in a biocontainment suit, she exited the locker room and entered the next staging area, which glowed purple from ultraviolet lights. Finally, she entered the airlock to await her guide. The rush of air after she connected her hose was initially like going ninety in a convertible with the top down.

  “Are you doing okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. This is what my brain feels like most of the time. I sort of like the rush.”

  As Angie waited, once again her thoughts focused on Sylvia Chen. Griff had given her a capsule summary of the woman and her life. Born in China, and brought to the U.S. by her mother at a young age. Now speaks with minimal or no accent. No mention of her father. Graduated from Yale at twenty. Ph.D. from Columbia at twenty-six. Tenured by age thirty-eight. Briefly married. No children. Tireless researcher. Driven by ambition. Passed over for what would have made her the youngest department chief at Columbia, and so took her research on WRX3883 to the government. Author of literally hundreds of books, articles, and scientific papers. The anti-Griff in terms of her belief in the importance of using animals for her research—primarily chimpanzees or other smaller primates. Nevertheless, she had great belief and trust in Griff and his work. An opera buff and chess master. Meticulous, serious, intense. Owned a black Porsche, and in the wide, flat spaces of southwest Kansas, drove it extremely fast. Coveted a Nobel Prize, and had hitched her wagon in that regard to WRX3883, but believed it was bad luck to dwell on that desire.

  The airlock door opened and closed, depositing Forbush behind her. Together, they entered the hot zone identified by a wall-mounted placard as the Kitchen.

  “Do you want a tour?” Forbush offered.

  “Later, maybe. I want to see Dr. Chen’s office and lab.”

  “I tell you, it’s already been gone over several times.”

  “Then this shouldn’t take too long.”

  Next to the placard were detailed instructions on how to handle an exposure event. Beside the instructions was a sign reading simply BLACK ZONE, with an a
rrow pointing straight down.

  “Explain,” she said.

  “We never used it, but it’s a small bunker down below near the animal facility, with a couple of beds and a TV. If you get exposed to WRX, that’s where you would go to die.”

  “Nice.”

  “Sort of like the submarine in Das Boot.”

  “Chen’s office?”

  “Down the hall.”

  “Favor, Melvin. Can I do this myself?”

  “I suppose. What do you think you’re looking for?”

  “I have no idea. Something … anything. Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes.”

  “Miss Marple.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Agatha Christie’s detective—Murder at the Gallop; Murder Most Foul. That’s who you remind—”

  “Ten minutes, Melvin.”

  She thanked him with a pat on the shoulder.

  Sylvia Chen had gone to great lengths to insert some hominess into her windowless space. The walls were whitewashed plaster, with either Chinese artwork or bookshelves filled with scientific tomes. There was a wooden desk in the corner—perhaps walnut—and incandescent lamps designed to mimic natural sunlight. The largest painting, framed in black, was an appealing watercolor of Angel Falls in Venezuela, and across from it was a small table, featuring an inactive water fountain made of bronze. The floor was foot-square off-white tiles, largely covered by a circular oriental rug in rich blues and reds.

  After a slow inspection of each wall and shelf, Angie stood in the center of the rug and closed her eyes. Sylvia Chen was there. This was a woman who cared desperately about her appearance and her surroundings—a woman who needed to be appreciated.

  When Forbush returned, Angie was seated at Chen’s desk, gazing first at one wall, then at the next.

  “Are you done, yet, Miss Marple?”

  “Not yet. I’m just getting a sense of Sylvia.”

  “Not much here, is there?”

  “More than you might think,” Angie said over the rush of air in her helmet.

  Griff appeared to Forbush’s right.

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Oh, hi, there, Doctor. How’s it going?”

  “Looks like we’re live. We’ve got virus and we’ve got cells to grow ’em in, and the two seem to be getting along.”

  “So let the games begin,” Angie said. “Have you budgeted any time for sleep?”

  “Do you think those people in the Capitol are sleeping?”

  “Point made. I’ll pick you up some maximum-strength NoDoz at the commissary as soon as they build one.”

  “You were saying there’s more to this room than one might think.”

  “Like the way that table over there is turned at a forty-five-degree angle to the wall, and the reason Chen chose a circular rug and not one with corners.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Forbush said.

  “Melvin, how much do you know about feng shui?”

  CHAPTER 29

  DAY 3

  4:10 P.M. (CST)

  Griff made his own cursory exam of Sylvia Chen’s office, but saw nothing more unusual than a supremely organized, uncluttered workspace.

  “You need to look with your mind, not your eyes,” Angie urged.

  Griff stood with his faceplate nearly touching hers to hear above the constant rush of air flowing into his pressurized suit.

  “Okay, educate me.”

  “I would say that my life has been an endless series of phases. Some of them don’t stick, like racquetball and SCUBA and contra dancing, some of them do, like vegetarian cooking and pilates. My feng shui period only lasted until I realized I was far too scattered and disorganized to ever pull it off. But knowledge is never wasted, and by the time I stopped my adult extension classes and daily studies, I had learned a great deal.”

  Griff and Melvin followed her over to the framed picture of Angel Falls—the tallest waterfall in the world.

  “Feng is wind, shui is water. It’s a Taoist explanation of nature that stresses the importance of energy flow. The simple idea of the science—and like most things Chinese, it can be examined on any number of levels—is that a clear energy flow improves fortune, health, and happiness.”

  “Energy,” Griff said. “Got it.”

  “For instance, this room is divided into zones. I can tell without a compass that this is the north wall of the office because of the water elements Chen has placed here.” She gripped the back of a narrow chair positioned directly beneath the framed picture and pulled it a few inches away from the wall. “This chair and the blue throw pillow on it feature the colors that best energize this zone.”

  Griff pointed to the adjacent wall, which was also the entrance into the office.

  “What zone is that?” he asked.

  “That’s the east zone. The inside of the office door is painted green.”

  “You know, I actually remember her saying that the color of her door helped her to think better,” Forbush said.

  “No surprise. This area is characterized by the wood element. Green colors dominate and improve optimism, contentment, and spiritual growth.”

  “I’ll bet you got an A in your course,” Griff said.

  “Actually, I almost got kicked out. Dr. Huang, the instructor, said I needed to sit still during class or I couldn’t stay.”

  Griff set his gloved hands on Angie’s shoulders and turned her to him.

  “All interesting,” he said, “but I don’t see the relevance, and I’ve got a lab to get up and running.”

  “We want to know where Sylvia might be, right?”

  “If she’s still alive,” Forbush added.

  “Well, the office layout and décor tell me that she adheres to at least some traditional Chinese beliefs.”

  Angie turned to Chen’s desk and held up a framed five-by-seven photo.

  “That’s Sylvia,” Griff said, believing he had answered the question Angie was about to ask. “Although I am sure it was taken some years ago.”

  Instead, Angie pointed to the other woman in the photograph, an elderly Chinese woman dressed in a white floral-patterned blouse and black skirt.

  “How about her?”

  Griff shrugged.

  “No idea.”

  “It’s her mother,” Angie said. “Facial structure, eyes. I’m virtually sure of it.”

  “So?”

  Angie pulled the photograph out from the black frame and held it up so that Griff could see the date and time stamp the digital camera automatically applied to the print.

  “This was taken four years ago.”

  Griff shifted impatiently.

  “Listen, Angie, I’m fascinated by all you’re saying, and I don’t want to sound rude, but we’ve got to focus on getting some experiments started. Where are you going with this?”

  “If Chen is alive, I would bet dollars to donuts that she’s going to be near her mother.”

  “That’s quite a leap from a painting and a chair. How could you conclude that?”

  “Traditional values. The mother/daughter bond is strong in most cultures, but it’s especially so between Chinese women and their mothers.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Actually, no,” Angie said. “Listen, Griff, I know you guys are in a rush, but I think there’s something here.”

  “Where?”

  Angie summoned them across to the bookcase.

  “The dominant element in the west zone is metal. Silver and gold colors and the metals themselves enhance this zone’s energy.”

  Griff stooped to examine some of the titles.

  “I don’t see how books like Pathogenesis in Clinical Virology would improve anybody’s health,” he said.

  “Unless that person had just contracted Marburg,” Forbush quipped, laughing unself-consciously at his own dark humor.

  Angie pulled out books from the bookcase, glanced quickly at the covers, and instead of shelving them, tossed them aside one by one.

 
“Hey, Ange, slow down. There might be something sharp that could puncture your suit. What are you looking for, anyway?”

  “This!” Angie exclaimed, holding up a tall, thin volume with a colorful cover.

  Griff read the title aloud.

  “The Power of Peach: Recipes Fit for Kings and Emperors. I don’t get it.”

  “Me neither,” Forbush added.

  “Given the other titles, and the relevance of almost all the books to Chen’s work, this one is out of place. There’s no other one like it here.”

  “Go on,” Griff said, suddenly interested.

  “The peach is symbolic of long life, and plays a significant role in feng shui.”

  One by one, Angie turned the pages of the cookbook, fumbling because of her gloves. As she neared the middle, a trifold brochure slid out and fluttered to the floor. Angie picked it up with some difficulty, unfolded it to its full width, and held it up for Griff and Melvin to read.

  “Riverside Nursing Home. And here’s a letter from them written three years ago thanking Dr. Chen for her inquiry.”

  “What are you thinking?” Griff asked.

  “I’m thinking Sylvia’s mother might well be a resident in this facility. And if Sylvia is still alive, she’s somewhere near this place, or at least she visits there.”

  “How do we prove that?” Griff asked. “We don’t have phones or even Internet access unless we’re being monitored.”

  “I wouldn’t try that anyway. Too dangerous. Especially if we’re the only ones who suspect this might be where Sylvia is. Until we know who Genesis is, and how they knew to blow up that helicopter, it’s unwise to trust anyone but ourselves. You two have to stay in this lab, but I don’t. Melvin, I need your help in sneaking me out of this place.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Forbush replied. “Where to?”

  “The nearest decent-sized airport.” She pointed to the address on the back page of the brochure. “I’m going to New York City. Chinatown, to be precise.”

  CHAPTER 30