Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

“Rhodes, I’m terrified my outburst is just the virus at work,” he said in a panicky, whispered voice. “It’s happening in small pockets in both A and B Groups. Irritability beyond what should be expected under the circumstances. Uncontrolled outbursts. Arguments. Even fistfights.”

“Sir, can you please hold your palms up to the camera?”

Griff breathed a relieved sigh when he saw they were unremarkable.

“We’re running out of time, Rhodes,” Allaire continued. “It’s getting worse. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I.”

The president’s infection was becoming manifest.

Griff had no more doubt about that fact than he did about the trouble his own work was in.

The man was brittle and irascible. Talking to him was like playing catch using a ticking bomb for a ball.

“No, sir,” Griff managed. “You don’t have to tell me how serious this all is. You mentioned A and B Group. Any update from C?”

Allaire’s expression turned doleful, his face etched by regret.

“We’ve had some deaths there,” he said. “We’ve implemented increased biocontainment safety protocols to allow medical personnel continued access to the victims in C, but I’m afraid it’s too dangerous to allow that to continue. The people in there are sick and many are going mad. Everyone in C Group is going to die. It’s a given now. We’re praying for you to save the rest of us.”

“We did have one significant development,” Griff said.

Allaire’s voice became immediately energized.

“What is it?”

Griff had made the statement without much thought. He now decided on the spot not to reveal what he’d learned of Sylvia Chen’s secret experiments. For all he knew, Allaire might have authorized them. For now, he, Angie, and Melvin were alone in this fight. It was the only way they could ensure there would be no more leaks or attempts to sabotage their efforts.

“What’s the news?” Allaire demanded again.

“Some of my work is having a little effect on the computer model of the virus. We’re going to experiment with adding some adjuvants.”

“Those are chemical boosters, yes?”

“Exactly. I am looking to see if we can pump up the immunological response of our current treatment.”

“Good,” Allaire said. “Keep the people at the CDC in the loop. They might have suggestions for adjuvants that could help.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Do you have any specific chemicals in mind?”

“Based on our results so far, there are some possibilities,” Griff said. “I have Melvin doing research. We’re not wasting any time on sleep.”

“Do you want more help?”

“I don’t have time to bring them up to speed, and I don’t have the facilities. How much have you told the media and the people there in the Capitol about WRX3883?”

“I … actually, I haven’t told them anything at all. They still think we’re dealing with a variant of influenza. At least most of them do.”

“Not good,” Griff muttered.

“What?!”

“Mr. President, maybe the crowd would be a little easier to deal with if they knew the extent of what you’re dealing with.”

Once again, Allaire’s expression began to morph. The tension in his voice rose.

“Rhodes,” he said, “why don’t you let me do my job as the president while you do your job as virus man and find a treatment for what’s killing us.”

From his spot by the door, Forbush suddenly cut into the conversation as if he was unaware that it was going on.

“Griff, I’ve been thinking…”

“Rhodes, who’s there?” Allaire snapped.

Griff held a finger up to his lips to quiet Melvin, then he pointed to the videoconference monitor.

“It’s me, Melvin, Mr. Allaire,” Forbush said, clearly unimpressed that he had just interrupted a private meeting between his boss and the most powerful man on earth.

Griff stifled a grin. No wonder he enjoyed being around his friend as much as he did.

“This is about the list of names,” Melvin said, ignoring Allaire completely. “I’ve been searching for death certificates, but I think that’s going about it the wrong way.”

“What death certificates?” the president demanded. “What are you talking about?”

“Melvin is working on Dr. Chen’s animal death reports,” Griff said, with theatrical exaggeration. “She gave each animal a certificate so we can easily reference them.”

It was hardly one of Forbush’s strengths, but Griff hoped his assistant would pick up on his expression and allow the lie to hold. Still, he turned his back to the camera so that his assistant alone could see him put his finger to his lips. After ten seconds of uncertainty, Forbush saw the light and nodded that he understood.

“Mr. President,” Griff said, “I’m not sure you’ve met Melvin Forbush before.”

Grinning broadly, Forbush bent low, put his face eight inches or so from the camera, and waved hello to the president with the fingers of one hand.

Allaire seemed to calm down a notch.

“Mr. Forbush,” he said, “I want to thank you personally for your dedication and service to the country.”

“It’s a job,” Forbush said. “I’m doing my best, and no matter how exhausted Dr. Rhodes is, he’s doing his best, too.”

“Good,” Allaire responded. “Now, both of you get back to it. Because the way things are right now, you both need to do better than your best.”

With that, the screen went dark.

“Well, that sure went swimmingly,” Griff said, sighing. “I guess I’d be a little tense, too, if someone told me I didn’t have much time left.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“It’s not what you say that counts, Melvin. It’s what people hear.”

An hour passed.

Griff spent most of it staring across the small room at nothing in particular. His exhaustion seemed overshadowed by the feelings of impotence at not being able to get more out of Sylvia Chen’s recipes—her notes on what appeared to be experiments performed on human subjects.

“Hey there,” Forbush said from the doorway. “Are you ready to get back to work?”

Griff sighed and stretched the tightness from his neck and shoulders.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Good, because I told the president of the United States you were trying your best.”

“I’m suffering from brain lock, Melvin. That happens when I get real tired. It’s like I’m incapable of looking at a problem from more than one perspective.”

“That’s strange. My problem is that I always see problems from too many perspectives. Speaking of which—”

“Yes?”

“One of the perspectives I’ve been thinking about, that I almost forgot to mention, has to do with Sylvia’s list of names.”

“Did you connect with any of them?”

“No,” Forbush said. “But I’ve been wondering if maybe the names in Chen’s lab reports could be bogus.”

“Bogus?”

“A code within a code. Do you think the president knew anything about these tests?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Griff said.

Forbush pulled over a chair and sat down beside him.

“Well, something has been bugging me about the reports,” he said.

“Go on.”

“It’s the heading on each page. ‘The Certain Path.’ ”

“Why does that bug you? I assume it’s just Sylvia’s way of saying this is the certain path to making WRX3883 a workable agent, and keeping the lab in operation.”

“Maybe.… Have you ever seen the movie Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid ?”

“Steve Martin,” Griff quickly recalled. “I think I saw it, but maybe I’ve just seen clips. It came out a while ago.”