cabinet, which was stocked with just-in-case office supplies.
“It helps, Jordan,” Allaire said, reaching inside the cabinet, “because it means that the attack speaks for itself. It happened. That’s the given, just like an attorney can argue that the patient entered the operating room for a toe operation and left with one leg missing.” Allaire stood up, still with his back turned to the room. “Tell me,” he said, “what did Genesis do that speaks for itself?”
Allaire turned around, and though he had reached for something inside the cabinet, he held nothing in his hands. He waited for somebody to speak.
Bethany Townsend finally responded.
“Genesis placed the vials of WRX3883 inside the bags of select persons attending the State of the Union Address,” she said.
“Exactly, Doctor,” the president replied. He stood in the center of the room, his arms folded across his chest. “That’s precisely what they did. The thing speaks for itself.”
With that, Allaire lowered his crossed arms. A wooden ruler, measuring one foot in length, slid out from where he had hid it up the sleeve of his suit jacket. The ruler clattered noisily on the wooden table before settling with the inch markers up.
There was no triumph in Allaire’s expression.
“Hank, I want a full accounting of your security personnel. I am sure you’ll find that one of them is missing.”
Tomlinson still looked puzzled. “What are you suggesting, sir?” he asked.
Allaire was patient.
“Somebody working our security checkpoint wasn’t looking for contraband being brought into the Capitol,” he said. “He was using his post as a means of bringing the vials inside and inserting them into the bags as he was searching them.”
Tomlinson lit up as the new realization took hold.
“On it right away, Mr. President,” he said.
Quickly, the room emptied out. Griff was the last to leave.
“Nice going,” he said, turning back at the doorway. “I would have every inch of this place swept for cameras. These people have been preparing for this for a long time.”
“Dr. Rhodes, how do you think I should handle the Mackey situation?”
“You sure you want the opinion of a terrorist?”
“Doctor, you and I are up against it enough without clawing at one another like this. We need to call some sort of a truce.”
Griff studied the man, who seemed to have aged years in just a few hours.
“In that case,” Griff said, “I would consider separating what you know from the customary rules of politics. Hard as it may be, that means no more lying.”
Allaire held his gaze.
“I’ll consider it,” he said finally.
CHAPTER 22
Despite his smoldering anger at being denied due process following his arrest in Kalvesta, Griff grudgingly had to admit admiration for James Allaire’s ability to remain composed in the face of monumental decisions.
Some years ago, Griff had reviewed a journal article analyzing the nervous systems of professional tennis players. The hypothesis of the paper was that given the normal rate of nerve conduction, and the speed of a tennis serve, the serve would have been in the screen behind the receiver before he could react and return it. And yet, return serve they did—again and again. The conclusion of the researchers was that the speed of nerve conduction in the top players was some sort of anomaly—a mutation, perhaps.
Watching Allaire operate, wondering about the often historic consequences of his actions and decisions, Griff found himself speculating if the man’s nervous system functioned differently than the physiologic “normals” of the world. While those with normal decision-making processes were deciding what to do, the president of the United States had already done it.
At Allaire’s order, a quiet but thorough search of the Capitol had been conducted. The sweep disclosed cameras concealed in every room—at least two dozen units in all.
But none in the Hard Room.
Allaire’s counterattack began with architect Jordan Lamar’s casual brush past Griff. It took several seconds for Griff to realize a note had been pressed into the palm of his glove.
One by one, each of the president’s team received instructions. The Hard Room would be the only safe area for communications, but that space was to be used only for emergencies. Cameras would either be dismantled or left on as decoys.
Griff felt his stomach drop. He had entered the Capitol complex fearing and not trusting the president. Now, it appeared, he was the target of Genesis as well.
A team headed by Salitas discovered six cameras expertly concealed inside smoke detectors in the hallway outside the subway. The state-of-the-art video equipment was providing a window into the supply delivery route running from the underground entrance into the Capitol complex.
Allaire ordered half of the cameras inactivated and the rest redirected and left in place. None of them was to be in a position to record any unusual increase in activity.
The cameras were not the only discovery made during the next few hours. Hank Tomlinson had been unable to locate one of his officers, a five-year veteran of the Capitol Police force named Peter Tannen. Tannen had been assigned security detail at the breached checkpoint and was now assumed to be a part of Genesis. The FBI was dissecting the man’s life with the intensity of their 9/11 investigation. Suspicion already was that he might no longer be among the living.
Griff and Angie slipped into the subway tunnel. Their mission was to get out of the Capitol and back to the lab at Kalvesta. Griff glanced over at a nearby wall-mounted clock and made a mental note of the time following the initial exposure.
In another forty-eight, the first fatalities might be reported. He did not need a clock to tell him that the deaths would continue until there was nobody left in the Capitol to die.
The military team with him was Special Forces, trained to be first responders following a bioterrorist attack. Before the operation got under way, Griff briefed the group on the dangers of WRX3883.
“We’re used to working with anthrax,” one of the operatives said at the conclusion of Griff’s brief presentation. “This shouldn’t be that different.”
“If you get infected with WRX3883, you’ll wish it were anthrax. Be careful, but work as rapidly as you can.”
Two hours later, the team leader for the Special Ops unit approached Griff in her blue biocontainment suit. He could see through her visor that, like himself, she was drenched in sweat.
“We’re ready for your inspection,” she said. “Whoever that Angie is, she’s a hell of a worker.”
