To Angie, he wrote that communication from now on would be face-to-face only. No phones. No texting. No e-mail. Her job was to deliver the fax to General Frank Egan at the Capitol, who would then bring it in to President Allaire, and return with orders for her. Until she reached Egan, she would essentially be on her own.
The fax was specific enough, especially given that Griff knew that one or two people at the nursing home might read it. Still, there was a coldness to his writing—a detachment that made Angie uncomfortable. Something was wrong, either with him or around him. She could feel it in her heart. He hadn’t called her back, and after saying any number of times over the phone that he loved her, there was not one word of concern, caring, or encouragement. The end of the fax asked Allaire to call him after reading it.
Something was wrong with him.
The Acela was smooth and fast, and several times during the trip to D.C., Angie actually dozed off. The fax was on her lap in a briefcase she had bought in a leather store near the hospital. At Griff’s instruction, she had purchased a courier’s security chain and had it attached from the handle of the case to her wrist.
General Egan was waiting for her at the Capitol. Minutes later, she was assigned two FBI agents to babysit her until he was done meeting with President Allaire. One of them was a hot, gum-snapping African-American chick in a miniskirt and thigh-high boots, and the other was a stocky brunette wearing jeans, horn-rimmed glasses, and a backpack, and looking to be no more than twenty.
The two agents settled in with her at a nearby coffeeshop.
An hour passed, then two more. The undercover FBI agents were clearly accustomed to waiting. They chatted, read, and even napped. At one point, over the phone, they reserved a room for Angie at a nearby hotel. A while later, they took her out to buy a small suitcase, some clothes, and some toiletries. Finally, General Egan summoned them back to the Capitol. Then, the head of the Northern Command dismissed her bodyguards and brought Angie into his small but well-equipped field office.
“First of all, tell me,” she said. “Is Griff all right? There’s something about the way he wrote that fax that makes me think there’s trouble.”
“No one said anything to me about there being a problem.”
Griff was sick, she concluded. The antiviral serum had failed, and he was ill … or worse.
“You’ve read the fax, Ms. Fletcher, Egan said, so you know what the president is planning to do at our safe house.”
“I think the idea is brilliant. I want to be there when it goes down.”
“We discussed that possibility, and I’m afraid the president has rejected it.”
“Then you let me go inside there and speak to him myself.”
“I understand you’ve been in the hospital with quite a nasty head injury.”
“I’m going to be there,” she said, pointedly ignoring the inference.
“We can put you in the surveillance van. It will just be a couple of blocks away.”
“Genesis murdered two dear friends of mine and now the man I care more for than anyone in the world may be sick. I’m going to be there in that safe house when Griff’s plan starts unfolding. And when this whole thing is over, I’m going to tell the stories of Melvin Forbush and Gottfried Sliplitz, and most of all of Griffin Rhodes. You tell President Allaire I deserve that.”
Egan looked somewhat bewildered. Then he excused himself and left the office.
Griff was ill, she thought as she sat there grim and angry. The serum hadn’t worked the way he anticipated, and now he was sick. But he was determined not to go down without taking Paul Rappaport with him. They had to let her be there.
Angie was working through her response to being turned down by Allaire when Egan reentered his office.
“Okay, Ms. Fletcher,” he said, taking his place at his small desk. “You’re in. It’s your story. Now, here’s what you’ve got to do.…”
CHAPTER 64
The intercom conversation with Griffin Rhodes was about what Rappaport had anticipated—as icy as the Kansas morning, and as informative as a weather report. Yes, his computer program seemed to have succeeded in creating a program for an antivirus treatment, and yes he trusted his work enough to try it out on himself. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. He would be running tests on himself throughout the day, and as soon as he was confident things were still going well, he would notify Rappaport as well as the president. And finally, yes, he was aware that time was of the essence.
That was all.
Rhodes was impossible to deal with.
Frustrated and anxious, Rappaport did an hour of calisthenics and weights, caught up on some correspondence, and wandered over to the Staghorn Headquarters to check on progress with the video monitoring. There were technical delays, he was told, before their people could be suited up and sent into the hot zone. Another four hours, Corum told him. Maybe five. Marguerite Prideaux made him some tea, but then had to leave when one of her team reported on the technical problems.
Rappaport returned to his office, and called to check in on his daughter, who was still living at their home and was absolutely paranoid about the Secret Service presence there. She was also upset that the latest series of meds weren’t working, and she wondered if she should be back in the hospital.
After terminating their conversation as quickly as he could, Rappaport decided to check in on Rhodes again. He was crossing to the intercom when the satellite phone on his desk chirped, announcing an incoming call. He quickly pushed the key sequence required to connect with it. Then he put it on speaker and set his feet up on the desk.
“Secretary Rappaport,” he announced.
“Paul, it’s Jim. We need to talk.”
Rappaport felt himself tense.
“I may have some important news for you as well,” he said.
Allaire went on as if he hadn’t heard.
“A few minutes ago, I called Dr. Rhodes to check on his progress.”
“And you learned that he had dosed himself with the WRX virus.”
“You know?”
“Sir, I’ve been preparing a report for you. A few hours ago, Staghorn Technologies intercepted a lengthy, unauthorized communication from the Kalvesta labs to the cell phone of Angela Fletcher, the reporter who disappeared from here. She’s—”
“In Manhattan. I know.” Allaire’s voice had a weakness to it—an odd quaver, as if he had aged.
At that moment, there was a knock on Rappaport’s door.
“Excuse me for just a moment, sir,” he said. “Someone’s at the door. Come in.”
One of the day-shift agents stepped inside and announced that Roger Corum was there, that he had been checked over next door, and that it was important. Rappaport nodded to show him in.
The head of Staghorn entered, holding up another transmission.
“It’s Roger Corum, sir, the CEO of Staghorn Security.”
“I suspect what he is there for has something to do with why I’m calling. Mr. Corum, is this regarding the conversation I just had with Dr. Rhodes?”
“Yes, sir, it is. I have a transcript of it in my hand.”
