Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

They wrote: What is the status of the legislation?

Ellis typed back: Getting closer. Allaire is showing symptoms of infection. Has exhibited rage behavior that is worrisome to his personal physician.

Genesis: This is the time to strike. Get that bill passed.

Ellis: Tilden is still a veto threat.

Genesis: That is your concern, not ours. If you want the antiviral treatment, then you will need to find a way to pass the bill into law.

Ellis stared at the messaging device. She knew what “find a way” really meant. She was third in line for the presidency, soon to be second. More than just her ambitions were at stake now. She had put her life in danger simply by setting foot inside the Senate Chamber. Now, she needed the treatment. Of course, there was a way.

Consider it done, Ellis wrote.

Sergeant Stafford equipped Griff and Forbush with down parkas for the short walk to the bungalow where Rappaport was waiting. For Griff, it felt splendid to breathe fresh air again. One of the greatest pleasures of going down was a deep appreciation for the little things after coming back up.

The sun was a pale disc in a placid sky. It would be nearly set by the time he escaped from Kalvesta on his way to the Certain Path Mission in Wichita. Wind from the south whipped across the flat, frozen landscape and sent Griff’s hands scrambling for the lining of his jacket pockets. His footsteps crunched on rime as he and Forbush trudged past the same model VH-60N Whitehawk helicopter that lifted him out of the Florence prison yard just a few days ago.

“Isn’t that the president’s helicopter?” Forbush asked.

“No, it’s just the same model,” Griff said, his voice etched with worry. “But if we don’t figure out an antiviral treatment, it could be the new Marine One for President Rappaport.”

They entered the topside bungalow that functioned as the facility’s conference room. The sharp wind whipped the hinged door closed behind them. A portable kerosene heater in the corner of the room sputtered and gurgled while keeping the rectangular space at a serviceable sixty-five degrees. Griff left his parka on, hoping that the Secretary of Homeland Security would get the hint that there was work to be done below ground.

Four people—three men and a woman—sat waiting at a long foldout table in the center of the room. Griff figured the two men and a woman standing nearby were Rappaport’s assigned Secret Service agents. Husky Sergeant Stafford and three of his team brought the total number present to a baker’s dozen—just above capacity for the space.

A thin man with graying temples, sharply dressed in a tailored suit, rose from his seat at the table. Griff, hardly a newshound, had never seen photos of any of the Cabinet. He assumed the man, who moved like an athlete and looked patrician bred, was Paul Rappaport. The former governor’s bearing and sharply defined features had Griff trying to recall the exact words to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s song “Fortunate Son.”

“Griffin Rhodes,” Griff said. “My associate, Melvin Forbush.”

Griff took a step forward to shake hands. Two of the agents intervened, blocking his path.

“We’ve got to search you first, sir,” the woman said.

Groaning inwardly, Griff dropped his parka to the floor, and lifted his arms for a pat-down. A second agent swept him with a handheld metal detector. Melvin, who had a dreamy expression that Griff took to mean he was imagining himself in any number of movie pat-down scenes, was subjected to the same treatment.

“All clear,” one agent said to Rappaport.

The secretary then met them in the middle of the room. Griff extended his hand. Rappaport took it for a moment. Griff could see mistrust in the man’s gray eyes.

“I’m not the bad guy here,” Griff said in a near whisper.

“I know what you believe, but I also know your history,” Rappaport said.

“So you know that I was framed.”

The secretary did not smile.

“I know that you were arrested for stealing the virus,” he said. “And I know that you’re the man President Allaire has tasked with saving our government. Makes me think of the fox guarding the henhouse.”

Griff’s expression was one of extreme displeasure. Angie’s heroism and current plight continued to dominate his thoughts, along with his impending escape from the lab to Wichita. In addition, Griff had Sylvia Chen’s human experimentation and his own continued failures with Orion adding to his emotional cocktail. His ability to control his simmering anger was hanging by the strand of a spider’s web.

“Mr. Secretary, what is it you want from me?” he said. “Did you just fly a thousand miles to put me in my place?”

Rappaport’s grin held no mirth.

“Well, what I want, Dr. Rhodes, is to make absolutely certain you are doing what you have promised to do. I am ready to become president if I must, but I’d prefer it not come to that.”

“Pardon my saying so, Mr. Secretary, but to my sense, at least, that statement isn’t exactly oozing sincerity.”

“That’s your interpretation, Rhodes. As secretary of Homeland Security, it’s my sworn duty to protect the president and this country. If that includes monitoring you and your work here, and it does, then that is just what I shall do. If my sworn duty involves taking over for President Allaire, then that is what I will do. But at the moment, all I care about is seeing to it that you do everything in your power to save those poor unfortunates in the Capitol. In that regard, I want to know exactly what you are doing down there in that little hole of yours. Because, let us be honest with each other—”

“Yes, let’s.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“So, I’ve gathered.”

“I have brought with me some folks who will make absolutely certain I can keep a very close eye on you and your activities.”

Rappaport turned and motioned to one of the men seated at the conference table behind them. The man stood slightly taller than Rappaport, and appeared equally as fit. He wore a blue blazer over an oxford shirt. The jacket had a ten-point buck emblazoned on the pocket. Unlike Rappaport, he was interested in shaking Griff’s hand.

“I’m Roger Corum,” he said, “CEO of Staghorn Security Technologies.”

Forbush’s expression suddenly became that of a child viewing a fireworks display.

“Wow! That’s so great,” he said, with his typical enthusiasm, as he gave Corum’s hand a prolonged, vigorous pumping. “I’ve been wanting to get in touch with you guys about some security tape I have from the system you upgraded a couple of years ago. Talk about a lucky break!”

Rappaport interrupted before Corum could reply. Clearly, the secretary had no interest in communicating with Griff’s associate.

“I asked Roger to accompany me here as a personal favor. I will allow him to explain our intentions.”

“Why don’t we all sit first,” Corum said, his speech gently Southern, and his manner much more agreeable than Rappaport’s.

“If it’s okay with you, I prefer to stand,” Griff said. “Because if we’re standing, this meeting will be shorter. And every second we’re not working is another second we’re not working.”

“Understood,” Corum said. “Secretary Rappaport is interested in monitoring the activities down below in real time. Since it is impractical for him to be physically present there, he has asked that Staghorn install state-of-the-art communications equipment to allow him, and through him, the president, to remain in constant voice and video contact with your team.”