like Genesis, then that is exactly what I will do.”
“Excuse me if I don’t concur,” Griff said.
“Personally, Dr. Rhodes, I don’t care if you support my political philosophy or not. Now, you’ll both carry this device. And you will answer whenever I request a conference.”
“And if I refuse?” Griff asked.
“I shall inform the president of your subversive behavior,” Rappaport replied. “Succeed, or fail, you could end up spending the rest of your life back in that prison cell. So you don’t really have a choice. Do you?”
Griff resisted the urge to reiterate his “no hidden catches” deal with James Allaire as well as the urge to tackle the Homeland Security secretary to the floor and show him knuckle-to-jaw what true subversive behavior felt like. Instead, he indicated the two people still seated at the conference table.
“So are these your install folks?” he said to Corum.
The CEO smiled, visibly relieved for the change of subject.
“Staghorn is not in the business of manufacturing any of the technology we sell,” Corum said. “We’re more of a consortium—international general contractors for security, if you will—which is why I’ve brought with me the CEOs of two of the foremost companies in the world—companies that will be providing us with the equipment to get this job done.” He gestured to the woman first. “This is Marguerite Prideaux, from Paris. Marguerite is with SecureTech, a French company in our vendor network. And next to her is Colin Whitehead, CEO of Matrix Industries of New Jersey. Yes,
The woman approached Griff and extended a fine, slender hand. She was a dark-haired beauty, dressed in a fashionable pantsuit. She had an aura about her that announced her European heritage as though it was a perfume she wore. From Griff’s arrival, she had kept her intelligent, oval eyes fixed on him.
Her fellow board member was a cadaverously thin man in his forties, with the crimson spray of rosacea across his cheeks. He coughed twice as he came forward, and Griff could see the top of a Camel cigarette box jutting out from the breast pocket of his shirt. His nose was bulbous and pocked—possibly from too much drinking.
Griff shook their hands impatiently. Forbush gave each a far more enthusiastic greeting.
“So which of you can help me with my problem?” he asked.
“What problem is that?” Colin Whitehead replied, partially stifling another cough.
“I have proof that the security videotape showing Dr. Rhodes, here, stealing the virus from our lab, has been forged. I was going to contact Staghorn to get some expert opinion as to how that could have been done. But now, here you are, right on our doorstep.”
Griff shot Forbush a disapproving glare. There was no time for this.
“Melvin, we have those test tubes in the centrifuge we need to extract.”
“No we don’t,” Forbush said cheerily. “I took those out hours ago.”
“Well, we have to run the test again in another three hours. Three hours from now, Melvin.”
The exchange between the two was handled with all the elegance of a rugby scrum, but finally Forbush seemed to key in on what Griff was trying to say.
“Right … three hours.… We have testing to do. But Griff, I can be quick. We need this. You need this if you want to prove your innocence.”
Roger Corum saved the moment.
“We’d be happy to look at whatever you have to share, Melvin. We’re here for a few days—until the install is complete, anyway.”
Rappaport took a step toward Griff.
“You had better not be planning anything, Rhodes,” he said.
“I’m planning to work.”
“I am not stupid. You think I didn’t notice you and Melvin, here, trying to have a sidebar conversation in front of us? Roger, I want very much for you to meet with this fellow about the video footage, since he asked so politely. I will be contacting President Allaire and letting him know we are here and on top of the situation. Dr. Rhodes, I also intend to tell him that progress is being made.”
“Tell him whatever you wish.”
“As soon as I am finished with the president and some other business, we are all going to take a trip down to the lab.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Griff asked, focused on the ventilation shaft, and his upcoming thirty- minute crawl through darkness to the heavy grate beyond the installation’s fenced perimeter. “I mean, soon enough you’ll have your cameras and recording devices in place to keep watch over me.”
“I want to see for myself what it is you are doing down there,” Rappaport answered coolly. “And more importantly, I want to make sure that you are down there doing it.”
CHAPTER 51
Griff lay prone on the floor of the Kitchen, with a spin ratchet, a screwdriver, and a flashlight beside him. Working with any sort of tools in a biocontainment suit was like swimming in molasses—possible, but certainly no fun. The targets were the screws securing the slotted front grate of the ventilation shaft. The heavy screwdriver turned awkwardly in his gloved hand, falling again and again. Most of the lab equipment in the Kitchen was specially designed for the decreased mobility of BL-4 laboratory work, and the extra effort and concentration required to maneuver the tool had Griff’s heart racing. Droplets of sweat condensed on the inside of his faceplate, reducing visibility in the already dimly lit workspace. But turn by turn he was making progress.
Two screws out.… Now, three …
One to go.
The groove of the final screw was nearly gone, and the body was stripped, making the already difficult task nearly impossible. Griff needed some sort of lubricating spray, but there was none. The five minutes he and Melvin had allotted for this phase of the escape had already taken triple that. How ironic to have the fate of the country hinging on a tiny bit of rust. The notion brought a rueful smile.
Griff had overheard Stafford say that patrols along the roads bordering Kalvesta were being increased in response to the secretary’s unexpected arrival. Any delay on his part risked Melvin being spotted by one of those patrols—assuming, of course, that Melvin ended his Staghorn meeting in time to make their rendezvous. With his anxiety escalating, Griff brought in a small hammer and chisel to loosen the stripped screw.
Another try with the screwdriver. Griff figured he could change the angle of the blade to improve the leverage.
The handle shook as Griff strained to turn it. The shank slipped free of the mangled screw head, and he felt the blade tear across the fabric of his suit. Hyperventilating, and fearing the worst, he checked the puncture. The suit’s several protective layers seemed to be intact.
Griff tried another approach, gripping the sides of the vent with his gloved hands and twisting the already loose metal plate as he pulled. Home run! The troublesome screw budged, then creaked a fraction of a millimeter, then suddenly turned. For the moment, at least, the kingdom was saved.
The pre-filters removed easily enough, but the much larger HEPA filter looked to be a serious challenge. The angle required to use the spin ratchet on the stainless steel bolts seemed designed for a contortionist. Sweat continued dripping down Griff’s brow and stinging his eyes, until he was working nearly blind. To make matters worse, again and again his elbows displaced his flashlight.
He finally managed to unplug the connectors powering the fan, and held his breath. Despite Melvin’s
