A Heartbeat Away

by Michael Palmer

  A coughing jag cut Whitehead’s explanation short. Rappaport heard the mucus rattling in the man’s chest and grimaced. Ivy League or not, he detested smokers. The stench was bad enough, but he found the weakness of the habit even more reprehensible. Once his antiterrorism program was underway, with all that it entailed, he would turn his attention to shoring up borders and intensifying the war on drugs. Included in that war would be a jihad against smoking and smokers.

  Marguerite Prideaux picked up where Whitehead had left off. Her French accent was pleasing to the secretary, as was her shapely body, and her self-confidence.

  “It seems the virologist working at this moment down below us believes that he has a cure for the infection in your Capitol building,” she said. “And he has now intentionally exposed himself to the virus to prove it.”

  “And do you believe from this conversation you recorded that he has a cure?”

  Corum spoke up again.

  “We unfortunately don’t have the video to confirm what is going on in the lab right now, but the answer to your question is yes. He sounds quite confident, actually.”

  “I can still call down to Rhodes, yes?”

  “Of course. The intercom will reach him in any room, and because he might still be helmeted, and wouldn’t hear as well over the rushing air, lights will flash all over to tell him there’s a call.”

  “You people think of everything,” Rappaport said.

  “Competition is fierce in our field,” Prideaux replied. “We must stay always one step ahead.”

  “I feel exactly the same about politics,” the secretary said, chuckling. “Listen, for the time being, I’m going to assume Rhodes is onto something. But he’s as slippery as a greased eel, and I don’t trust him. I’m going to call down on the intercom and see if I can get some information from him. Meanwhile, see if you can get the video monitors working in the lab ahead of schedule. I don’t have the least desire to go down there and put on one of those biosuits. If Rhodes survives what he’s done, I’ll have to confirm it, and then get in touch with the president. Getting a direct look at him will help.”

  CHAPTER 63

  DAY 9

  2:00 P.M. (EST)

  Angie’s headache was not nearly as bad as the doctors had predicted it might be. There was a mild throbbing above her eyes where the fracture was, but nothing more—at least not yet.

  As instructed in the fax from Griff, she had taken the subway from the station across the street from the hospital, but switched trains four times, twice to backtrack to previous stops. At each station, Angie subtly surveyed the crowd for anybody whom she had seen before. Her throat was dry and tight, and her heart beat like a drumline, but still she maintained what she thought was a calm, measured exterior. In a previous incarnation as an investigative reporter, she had learned a good many tricks of the trade of how to follow or avoid being followed. Some of those she employed now.

  Convinced that she was alone, she finally took a cab from Columbus Circle to Penn Station, and boarded the Acela, the express train to Washington. The first-class car was nearly full, but she had managed to get a single separated by a table from another single.

  The instructions in the fax had been explicit in every respect, but reading it left Angie concerned. After their long, loving early morning on the phone together, she had expected to get a follow-up call from Griff telling her that things were still going well with the treatment he and his computer program had created. Instead, a few hours after their conversation had ended, she had a surprise visitor—Wu Mei, the stunning young charge nurse from the Riverside Nursing Home.

  Mei was overjoyed to find Angie ready for discharge, and shyly handed her a small box of Chinese candy and a manila envelope containing the fax. Griff had been meticulous in his preparation, and had clearly chosen this route of delivery as the one he could trust more than any others. The cover page with the fax explained that this was an emergency, and that Wu Mei was to be called immediately to bring it to Angie Fletcher at Lower Manhattan Hospital.

  To Angie, he wrote that communication from now on would be face-to-face only. No phones. No texting. No e-mail. Her job was to deliver the fax to General Frank Egan at the Capitol, who would then bring it in to President Allaire, and return with orders for her. Until she reached Egan, she would essentially be on her own.

  The fax was specific enough, especially given that Griff knew that one or two people at the nursing home might read it. Still, there was a coldness to his writing—a detachment that made Angie uncomfortable. Something was wrong, either with him or around him. She could feel it in her heart. He hadn’t called her back, and after saying any number of times over the phone that he loved her, there was not one word of concern, caring, or encouragement. The end of the fax asked Allaire to call him after reading it.

  Something was wrong with him.

  The Acela was smooth and fast, and several times during the trip to D.C., Angie actually dozed off. The fax was on her lap in a briefcase she had bought in a leather store near the hospital. At Griff’s instruction, she had purchased a courier’s security chain and had it attached from the handle of the case to her wrist.

  General Egan was waiting for her at the Capitol. Minutes later, she was assigned two FBI agents to babysit her until he was done meeting with President Allaire. One of them was a hot, gum-snapping African-American chick in a miniskirt and thigh-high boots, and the other was a stocky brunette wearing jeans, horn-rimmed glasses, and a backpack, and looking to be no more than twenty.

  The two agents settled in with her at a nearby coffeeshop.

  An hour passed, then two more. The undercover FBI agents were clearly accustomed to waiting. They chatted, read, and even napped. At one point, over the phone, they reserved a room for Angie at a nearby hotel. A while later, they took her out to buy a small suitcase, some clothes, and some toiletries. Finally, General Egan summoned them back to the Capitol. Then, the head of the Northern Command dismissed her bodyguards and brought Angie into his small but well-equipped field office.

  “First of all, tell me,” she said. “Is Griff all right? There’s something about the way he wrote that fax that makes me think there’s trouble.”

  “No one said anything to me about there being a problem.”

  You’re a lousy liar, Angie quickly concluded. Why aren’t you telling me the truth?

  Griff was sick, she concluded. The antiviral serum had failed, and he was ill … or worse.

  Damn him for not telling me. Damn him! Damn them!

  “You’ve read the fax, Ms. Fletcher, Egan said, so you know what the president is planning to do at our safe house.”

  “I think the idea is brilliant. I want to be there when it goes down.”

  “We discussed that possibility, and I’m afraid the president has rejected it.”

  “Then you let me go inside there and speak to him myself.”

  “I understand you’ve been in the hospital with quite a nasty head injury.”

  “I’m going to be there,” she said, pointedly ignoring the inference.

  “We can put you in the surveillance van. It will just be a couple of blocks away.”

  “Genesis murdered two dear friends of mine and now the man I care more for than anyone in the world may be sick. I’m going to be there in that safe house when Griff’s plan starts unfolding. And when this whole thing is over, I’m going to tell the stories of Melvin Forbush and Gottfried Sliplitz, and most of all of Griffin Rhodes. You tell President Allaire I deserve that.”

  Egan looked somewhat bewildered. Then he excused himself and left the office.

  Griff was ill, she thought as she sat there grim and angry. The serum hadn’t worked the way he anticipated, and now he was sick. But he was determined not to go down without taking Paul Rappaport with him. They had to let her be there.

  Angie was working through her response to being turned down by Allaire when Egan reentered his office.

  “Okay, Ms. Fletcher,” he said,
taking his place at his small desk. “You’re in. It’s your story. Now, here’s what you’ve got to do.…”

  CHAPTER 64

  DAY 9

  4:00 P.M. (CST)

  The intercom conversation with Griffin Rhodes was about what Rappaport had anticipated—as icy as the Kansas morning, and as informative as a weather report. Yes, his computer program seemed to have succeeded in creating a program for an antivirus treatment, and yes he trusted his work enough to try it out on himself. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. He would be running tests on himself throughout the day, and as soon as he was confident things were still going well, he would notify Rappaport as well as the president. And finally, yes, he was aware that time was of the essence.

  That was all.

  Rhodes was impossible to deal with.

  Frustrated and anxious, Rappaport did an hour of calisthenics and weights, caught up on some correspondence, and wandered over to the Staghorn Headquarters to check on progress with the video monitoring. There were technical delays, he was told, before their people could be suited up and sent into the hot zone. Another four hours, Corum told him. Maybe five. Marguerite Prideaux made him some tea, but then had to leave when one of her team reported on the technical problems.

  Rappaport returned to his office, and called to check in on his daughter, who was still living at their home and was absolutely paranoid about the Secret Service presence there. She was also upset that the latest series of meds weren’t working, and she wondered if she should be back in the hospital.

  After terminating their conversation as quickly as he could, Rappaport decided to check in on Rhodes again. He was crossing to the intercom when the satellite phone on his desk chirped, announcing an incoming call. He quickly pushed the key sequence required to connect with it. Then he put it on speaker and set his feet up on the desk.

  “Secretary Rappaport,” he announced.

  “Paul, it’s Jim. We need to talk.”

  Rappaport felt himself tense.

  Is this it?

  “I may have some important news for you as well,” he said.

  Allaire went on as if he hadn’t heard.

  “A few minutes ago, I called Dr. Rhodes to check on his progress.”

  “And you learned that he had dosed himself with the WRX virus.”

  “You know?”

  “Sir, I’ve been preparing a report for you. A few hours ago, Staghorn Technologies intercepted a lengthy, unauthorized communication from the Kalvesta labs to the cell phone of Angela Fletcher, the reporter who disappeared from here. She’s—”

  “In Manhattan. I know.” Allaire’s voice had a weakness to it—an odd quaver, as if he had aged.

  At that moment, there was a knock on Rappaport’s door.

  “Excuse me for just a moment, sir,” he said. “Someone’s at the door. Come in.”

  One of the day-shift agents stepped inside and announced that Roger Corum was there, that he had been checked over next door, and that it was important. Rappaport nodded to show him in.

  The head of Staghorn entered, holding up another transmission.

  “It’s Roger Corum, sir, the CEO of Staghorn Security.”

  “I suspect what he is there for has something to do with why I’m calling. Mr. Corum, is this regarding the conversation I just had with Dr. Rhodes?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I have a transcript of it in my hand.”

  “Remarkably quick work. Rhodes said there was no safe line down there in the lab. I guess he’s right. Just leave it there, Mr. Corum. The secretary can read it over after we’ve spoken.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Corum mouthed the words good luck, and backed out.

  “I’ve been told Staghorn has highest clearance,” Allaire said.

  “Yes, sir. I feel strongly that they can be trusted with whatever is in this transmission.”

  “Excellent. Gary will brief you,” Allaire said. “You’re on speaker.”

  After a beat, the secretary of defense took over.

  “Paul. You holding up all right?”

  “Very worried about you all, Gary.”

  “With good reason. But there may be a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. One that isn’t an approaching freight train.”

  “Go on.”

  “I may be repeating things you already know, but at oh one hundred hours, Griffin Rhodes ran a successful computer simulation of his antiviral treatment program named Orion. Following that simulation, Rhodes intentionally and very bravely injected himself with a high concentration of WRX virus to prove that it would work on those of us who have been exposed here in the Capitol.”

  “Did the treatment involve the blood he came back with from the inmate at El Dorado?”

  “Ex-inmate,” Salitas said. “President Allaire pardoned him. The bastard wouldn’t cooperate if he didn’t.”

  “I would have done the same thing you did, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you,” Allaire said.

  “He’s the only known survivor of a WRX exposure,” Salitas went on. “Rhodes mixed his serum with a chemical called an adjuvant, that’s used to boost the level of a specific blood protein.”

  “And was the treatment a success?”

  “It was not,” Salitas said flatly. “Within hours of dosing himself with a purposely massive amount of virus, Rhodes developed shortness of breath, cough, and curious markings on his palms that we know are symptoms and a sign of mid-stage infection.”

  “Good lord,” Rappaport said.

  “We’re in a very dire situation, Paul. We believe most of the population in Group C is now deceased, locked inside the Senate Chamber. Group B, in Statuary Hall, is worsening. And the president, who is in Group A, is showing signs of viral spread as well. Like Rhodes, red markings have appeared on his palms. And his temper is becoming more labile.”

  “This is terrible,” Rappaport said, wondering about the light in the tunnel Salitas had spoken about.

  “To make matters even worse,” the defense secretary said, “we can’t find the vice president.”

  “Henry’s vanished?”

  “He’s been missing for a couple of days. We’re still looking, but so far, nothing.”

  “Do you think he left the Capitol?”

  “We haven’t dismissed any possibility. On top of everything, that harpy Ursula Ellis has convinced the architect of the Capitol to resume television broadcasts from inside the House Chamber.”

  “She’s done what!?”

  “It appears she’s been in touch with Genesis. Don’t ask us how. She’s been an obstruction on every level. In fact, she’s drafted legislation which she claims Genesis wants to have passed.”

  “Legislation? What are you talking about?”

  “A bill,” Salitas said. “Like a real, legal bill. Most of Congress is here, so they can do it. She’s distributed the bill, it’s been debated for days, and now she’s pushing for a vote. Apparently Genesis are some sort of ultra left-wing whackjobs. An ACLU on steroids. The legislation they are demanding will repeal the Patriot Act, make wiretapping illegal, and dismantle almost every advancement we’ve made in bolstering our national security.”

  “We can’t let that happen!”

  “It very well might,” the president said, taking over the line once more. “Ellis is prepared to share what she knows about the virus with the American people. I did my best to hold back the truth. I wanted to avoid a panic. It appears now that decision will be used against me.”

  “Why does she want this bill passed?”

  “If it passes,” Allaire said, “Genesis is promising they’ll deliver her the antiviral treatment. She’ll be a hero. And with Henry missing, if I die, she won’t have any trouble taking over.”

  “Is that true about Genesis having a treatment?”

  “No, of course not! Whoever the hell they are, they’re playing her like a rented fiddle. Why? Stalling, I’ll bet. Stalling until … until we’re all dead.”

>   The weakness in Allaire’s voice had become even more pronounced.

  “Isn’t there anyone who can reason with her?” Rappaport asked.

  “Gary here, again,” Salitas said. “Ellis won’t listen to reason. She’s crazy for power. She’s even got Bethany Townsend, the president’s doctor, watching his every move for signs that he’s not fit to remain in office. Jim is ready to veto Ellis’s bill. But at the moment it looks like she’s going to outlast him.”

  “My God!”

  Again, Allaire took over.

  “I might not be president long enough to stop its passage. Paul, the situation is truly at its most desperate. But there is a ray of hope.”

  The light.

  “I’m listening,” Rappaport said.

  “The communication we received from Rhodes included a summary of his research data. He believes his mistake was in the ratio of the adjuvant he used to the amount of serum. He’s convinced a fifty percent greater amount of this protein is required in order to be effective against the virus—the ratio is something his program sent out that he misinterpreted. His only mistake, he’s calling it.”

  “Can’t Rhodes just give himself another treatment with that added boost?” Rappaport asked.

  “Too late,” Allaire said. “The massive dose of virus he shot into himself is overwhelming the treatment. The virus is already mutating—causing new symptoms. He’s bleeding from his nose, just like many of the people here. He admits it was overconfidence to inject such a large amount, but Rhodes is certain that a fifty percent increase will work for most, if not all of us.”

  “So what’s the next step, Mr. President?”

  “The serum is the key,” Allaire said. “But it is also unique. We can’t get another batch.”

  “How can I help?”

  “The FBI and the CDC are setting up a lab to prepare a new batch of treatment according to the specifications given to us by Rhodes.”

  “Where?”

  “One of our safe houses here in Washington. Gary will give the address to you. We need you and the Secret Service people guarding you to bring the serum to that lab. Genesis has been a step ahead of us at every turn, so secrecy has got to be your highest priority.”