to be documented by a third party—someone unassociated with your administration. A reporter. That way there can be no misunderstandings or covert efforts to change fact into fiction. Consider it an insurance policy on your word.”
“I’ll make some calls.”
“No need,” Griff said. “Get me Angela Fletcher.”
“The science reporter for
“She’s reported from hot zones before.”
Allaire and Salitas silently conferred and agreed.
“I’ll see if we can track her down.”
Griff flashed back to the scene outside the Capitol, the chaos of the gathering crowd, and the disembodied woman’s voice that kept calling his name.
“No need for that, Mr. President,” he said. “I believe she’s outside the Capitol right now.”
CHAPTER 19
“I knew it was you, Rhodes!” Angie cried out. “I knew it!”
Griff was there as she entered the Capitol through the airlock, his military entourage a respectful distance away.
“Welcome to hell,” he said, reaching out to take her gloved hands in his.
“You know, I almost didn’t bring my binocs with me, but at the last moment I threw them in my bag. All it took was one good look through that visor of yours and I knew it was you, despite the Rip Van Winkle beard.”
“It’s a long story.”
Through the visor of her butyl hood Griff could see that, if anything, Angela Fletcher was even more beautiful than the woman in his memory—wonderful skin; sensual, truculent lips; velvet, deep brown eyes. It was hard to believe it had been twelve years since they first met in Kenya. She must have been a baby.
“If
“Worse than you can imagine.”
She set her hand on his arm.
“Whatever they want of you, Griff, I know you can do it. I’m pleased to see you’re back in the game.”
The temperature inside his suit went up several degrees.
He had heard those exact words from her before. First in Africa, then again, years later, on his houseboat in the Keys.
She always had more faith in him than he did in himself. He had never told her, and probably never would, but Angela Fletcher was the only woman he had ever loved.
The canvas backpack Angie wore contained blood collection supplies. Strapped over one shoulder she carried a lightweight video recorder and a digital SLR camera, accounting for all the items Griff had requested.
“How’s the suit, kiddo?” he asked.
“It’s a little tense in here, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Some claustrophobia at first is expected. But now’s the time to turn back if you’re feeling panicked. Believe me, no one will hold it against you, least of all, me.”
“I’m a reporter. This is the story of the century. I’m not going anywhere. Besides, I might be able to help.”
“You already have.”
“You going to tell me the story behind that beard?”
“When we have time. You ever draw blood?”
“I worked as a phlebotomist in college before I switched out of premed. But I don’t think I ever did it with bulky gloves on.”
“We’ve got the president’s doctor to do some of the drawing, and we’ll see if there’s a corpsman here. I can do the rest. In case you couldn’t guess, a puncture in these suits is highly undesirable. Let’s walk.”
“So what do you know about this virus?” Angie asked. “And how did you end up here? The last thing I remember was when I found you on that houseboat of yours vowing to the heavens that your Ebola encounter had done you in, and you were through with viruses.”
“Things happen, people change,” he said.
It had been just another day in an unending sequence of fishing, naps, and Jack Daniels when Angie showed up on the deck of
Angie had come to Africa on assignment to report on virus hunters for
After waiting more than a week for him to return or at least to make contact, Angie finally left for the States. Friends told him that she did so hurt and angry, and never knowing why he had taken off the way he did.
Griff was dozing on the stern deck of
“ ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ ” she said. “Couldn’t you have come up with a little more inventive note than that?”
Griff felt his throat close.
“Creative writing was never one of my strong suits,” he managed, grateful that there was a half-filled glass of Jack Daniels on the table.
“I guess it wasn’t,” she said.
“It’s a little late, I know, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
She sat down next to him. Her scent was dizzying.
“Just a few months ago I was working on a story about an Ebola accident, and I heard from one of the cowboys I interviewed about what happened to you.”
“Tweren’t nothin’.… You married?”
“Engaged. You?”
“I like to sit here and fish and drink, and watch the sun pass by. Women tend to want more out of a husband than that, I think.”
“You were afraid you were going to die. That was the reason you took off on me, wasn’t it.”
“Almost. I was never afraid of dying. I was afraid of what my dying would do to you. You didn’t deserve that.”
“You might have let me in on the decision.”
“I didn’t feel I could. I was always going to lose, Angie. It was just a matter of where and when, and how much of me was left when the battle was over.”
“You once said you were going up against near-perfection. I never quite knew what that meant.”
“But you do now.”
“I think so, yes.”
“I should have been a matador, Ange,” he said, absently tossing a pebble into the still water. “Bigger
