CHAPTER 65
Angie checked her watch and paced about the dimly lit living room like a caged lioness. She drew in several calming breaths, but could do little to slow her excitement. She passed the time by mentally drafting her story, featuring Griff as the hero and Paul Rappaport as the mastermind behind Genesis. The prize at stake: the presidency of the most powerful nation on Earth.
The brownstone, she was told, was one of several safe houses in the metro D.C. area used by the FBI, the ATF, and the CIA. The understatedly elegant building, situated on a quiet street in the Adams Morgan neighborhood, had been used in the past to bait and trap spies, extortionists, arms dealers, child molesters, and con artists. Every room was bugged, and there were high-tech hidden cameras throughout. A few blocks away, a surveillance van would be serving as backup.
Angie would be safe, they assured her, but she had her doubts, especially when she was given a pistol—a Glock 19, they said, and a brief course in its use. The gun, a perfect fit for her, was somewhat reassuring. She had seen what Genesis was capable of, and believed that no place was truly safe from them.
For the thousandth time, she wondered about Griff. No one had told her anything. This was his plan, but he wasn’t there. He had requested that Allaire call him as soon as he had read the fax. What, exactly, had he told the president in that conversation? Was the story of the serum needing modification one that he had conjured up, or was it the truth? At the moment, it seemed to be at least a half truth, in which case, Griff might already be dead.
Rappaport believed he was transporting the serum that, when modified in the laboratory upstairs, was the last hope for the president and all those trapped inside the Capitol. If he was Genesis, he would either appear with a story of having been forced at gunpoint to give up the serum, or he would fail to show up altogether. Either way, according to the Constitution, he would be next in line for the presidency. Another possibility was that he had already made a switch, and that what he was delivering was a well-concocted sham, short in one crucial ingredient, but a good enough replica to mislead the biochemists upstairs. After all, nobody but Griff knew what he and his computer model had put together.
The furnishings in the richly appointed rooms were well suited for an upscale sting—armchairs upholstered with plush fabrics, a bedazzling chandelier made of brass and crystal, and fine oriental rugs that framed a deep fieldstone fireplace. This was a home that could have belonged to any high-ranking diplomat or well-connected politician.
Angie fingered the compact pistol in the pocket of her skirt. She had little experience with guns, but she also had a fierce love of life and suspected that she would use this one if hers depended upon it.
A panel of one wall opened up silently, and the three FBI agents whom she had been with since being brought to the house returned to the room.
“They’re here,” one of them said.
Through the tall bay windows, Angie watched a black Lincoln Town Car pull to an abrupt stop at the curb outside. Three Secret Service agents quickly exited the vehicle. One of them opened the Town Car’s rear door and Paul Rappaport stepped onto the curb. The Homeland Security secretary, wearing a stylish overcoat, held one handle of a large, blue cooler. A muscular agent had taken hold of the other. Angie took a few photos with her new digital SLR camera as the two men made their way up the cement outside stairway. The other two agents took up positions near the Town Car.
Angie waited behind the brown leather sofa, which faced the room’s only door. The door opened without a knock and the Secret Service agent stepped inside, his gun drawn. After a check of the room, he holstered his weapon and signaled for Rappaport to enter. The secretary spotted Angie immediately.
“What’re you doing here?” he asked. “Where are the chemists? The lab?”
Rappaport pulled the cooler tight to his body and took a cautious step backward. Angie snapped a series of pictures.
“Upstairs,” she said, “waiting for you.”
“What are you doing here?” Rappaport went on. “I was told you were in a New York City hospital.”
“I got better,” Angie said. “And now I’m writing this story. Hopefully, it will have a happy ending.”
“Hopefully,” Rappaport said, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Pardon the camera, but people like pictures.”
Angie peered through the camera’s viewfinder and let out a terrified gasp. Two powerfully built men, dressed in black, wearing black ski masks, carrying pistols, had appeared behind Rappaport. High-tech gas masks dangled from their belts.
“Look out! Behind you!” Angie cried out.
But her warning came too late.
One of the men grabbed Rappaport across the throat, and before he could move, had the muzzle of a heavy pistol pressed up against his temple. The agents in the room were a beat too slow to react. Another intruder moved in quickly and snatched away the cooler from Rappaport’s trembling hand, just as three more masked men burst into the room, each carrying a submachine gun.
“Drop your weapons,” the man holding Rappaport demanded, “and no one dies.”
Two of the agents had their guns out, but the numbers were bad. Angie had her hand in her skirt pocket, wrapped around the Glock. It seemed unlikely she could pull it out, fire it, and hit anyone before she was blown to bits.
“We have what we want,” one of the intruders snapped, his accent heavily Hispanic. “Do as we say, or you’ll all die. Weapons over there. On the floor. Lock your fingers behind your heads. Now!”
Angie hesitated. A burst of machine gun fire erupted from close range, the bullets screaming past her head and slamming into the wall. For a moment, she was certain her heart had stopped. She ducked, hands covering her head, and screamed as she dropped to the floor. The other security people and Rappaport were already down, their weapons thrown aside. When she looked back, all five intruders had gas masks on. They were unimaginably quick and well organized.
A canister was dropped on the rug in the center of the room. Angie and the others began to cough as the foul-smelling vapor stung their lungs. Her eyes were watering profusely, and her throat seemed as if it had closed off. Gloved hands grabbed her from behind. Before she could scream again, a patch of duct tape was pulled across her mouth, and her hands were secured behind her. The whole operation had taken less than a minute. Then, the room went completely black.
Angie came to almost as rapidly as she had gone out. She felt the acidy burn of bile as it worked its way up her throat, and shuddered with a new fear that the tape covering her mouth would cause her to choke to death on vomit.
She rolled to one side, breathed slowly and deeply through her nose, and focused her thoughts on an image of Griff that she had conjured up during their phone conversation from her hospital room. She pictured him down in the Kalvesta lab, bravely and confidently injecting himself with a virus as deadly as any he had hunted down in Africa. From his courage, Angie found strength of her own to remain calm.
All around her, agents were gagging and coughing. Moments later, there was a commotion from the doorway. Her hands were untied, and the numbness in them began to abate. The room was crowded now with police, soldiers, and FBI agents, so numerous that they struggled to move about freely.
“I can’t believe we blew this,” one of the agents who had been with Angie said. “They moved like frigging Delta Force. How in the hell did they get in so easily?”
“The two guards outside are dead, both shot in the head, probably with silencers. We didn’t hear a thing until a volley of machine gun fire from up here. By the time we left the surveillance truck and made it over, they were gone.”
“Rappaport!” Angie coughed out the words when an FBI agent pulled off the tape covering her mouth. “Where is Paul Rappaport?”
“He’s right here,” the agent said. “He was tied up like the rest of you.”
