Sergeant Stafford equipped Griff and Forbush with down parkas for the short walk to the bungalow where Rappaport was waiting. For Griff, it felt splendid to breathe fresh air again. One of the greatest pleasures of going down was a deep appreciation for the little things after coming back up.
The sun was a pale disc in a placid sky. It would be nearly set by the time he escaped from Kalvesta on his way to the Certain Path Mission in Wichita. Wind from the south whipped across the flat, frozen landscape and sent Griff’s hands scrambling for the lining of his jacket pockets. His footsteps crunched on rime as he and Forbush trudged past the same model VH-60N Whitehawk helicopter that lifted him out of the Florence prison yard just a few days ago.
“Isn’t that the president’s helicopter?” Forbush asked.
“No, it’s just the same model,” Griff said, his voice etched with worry. “But if we don’t figure out an antiviral treatment, it could be the new Marine One for President Rappaport.”
They entered the topside bungalow that functioned as the facility’s conference room. The sharp wind whipped the hinged door closed behind them. A portable kerosene heater in the corner of the room sputtered and gurgled while keeping the rectangular space at a serviceable sixty-five degrees. Griff left his parka on, hoping that the Secretary of Homeland Security would get the hint that there was work to be done below ground.
Four people—three men and a woman—sat waiting at a long foldout table in the center of the room. Griff figured the two men and a woman standing nearby were Rappaport’s assigned Secret Service agents. Husky Sergeant Stafford and three of his team brought the total number present to a baker’s dozen—just above capacity for the space.
A thin man with graying temples, sharply dressed in a tailored suit, rose from his seat at the table. Griff, hardly a newshound, had never seen photos of any of the Cabinet. He assumed the man, who moved like an athlete and looked patrician bred, was Paul Rappaport. The former governor’s bearing and sharply defined features had Griff trying to recall the exact words to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s song “Fortunate Son.”
“Griffin Rhodes,” Griff said. “My associate, Melvin Forbush.”
Griff took a step forward to shake hands. Two of the agents intervened, blocking his path.
“We’ve got to search you first, sir,” the woman said.
Groaning inwardly, Griff dropped his parka to the floor, and lifted his arms for a pat-down. A second agent swept him with a handheld metal detector. Melvin, who had a dreamy expression that Griff took to mean he was imagining himself in any number of movie pat-down scenes, was subjected to the same treatment.
“All clear,” one agent said to Rappaport.
The secretary then met them in the middle of the room. Griff extended his hand. Rappaport took it for a moment. Griff could see mistrust in the man’s gray eyes.
“I’m not the bad guy here,” Griff said in a near whisper.
“I know what you believe, but I also know your history,” Rappaport said.
“So you know that I was framed.”
The secretary did not smile.
“I know that you were arrested for stealing the virus,” he said. “And I know that you’re the man President Allaire has tasked with saving our government. Makes me think of the fox guarding the henhouse.”
Griff’s expression was one of extreme displeasure. Angie’s heroism and current plight continued to dominate his thoughts, along with his impending escape from the lab to Wichita. In addition, Griff had Sylvia Chen’s human experimentation and his own continued failures with Orion adding to his emotional cocktail. His ability to control his simmering anger was hanging by the strand of a spider’s web.
“Mr. Secretary, what is it you want from me?” he said. “Did you just fly a thousand miles to put me in my place?”
Rappaport’s grin held no mirth.
“Well, what I want, Dr. Rhodes, is to make absolutely certain you are doing what you have promised to do. I am ready to become president if I must, but I’d prefer it not come to that.”
“Pardon my saying so, Mr. Secretary, but to my sense, at least, that statement isn’t exactly oozing sincerity.”
“That’s your interpretation, Rhodes. As secretary of Homeland Security, it’s my sworn duty to protect the president and this country. If that includes monitoring you and your work here, and it does, then that is just what I shall do. If my sworn duty involves taking over for President Allaire, then that is what I will do. But at the moment, all I care about is seeing to it that you do everything in your power to save those poor unfortunates in the Capitol. In that regard, I want to know exactly what you are doing down there in that little hole of yours. Because, let us be honest with each other—”
“Yes, let’s.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“So, I’ve gathered.”
“I have brought with me some folks who will make absolutely certain I can keep a very close eye on you and your activities.”
Rappaport turned and motioned to one of the men seated at the conference table behind them. The man stood slightly taller than Rappaport, and appeared equally as fit. He wore a blue blazer over an oxford shirt. The jacket had a ten-point buck emblazoned on the pocket. Unlike Rappaport, he was interested in shaking Griff’s hand.
“I’m Roger Corum,” he said, “CEO of Staghorn Security Technologies.”
Forbush’s expression suddenly became that of a child viewing a fireworks display.
“Wow! That’s so great,” he said, with his typical enthusiasm, as he gave Corum’s hand a prolonged, vigorous pumping. “I’ve been wanting to get in touch with you guys about some security tape I have from the system you upgraded a couple of years ago. Talk about a lucky break!”
Rappaport interrupted before Corum could reply. Clearly, the secretary had no interest in communicating with Griff’s associate.
“I asked Roger to accompany me here as a personal favor. I will allow him to explain our intentions.”
“Why don’t we all sit first,” Corum said, his speech gently Southern, and his manner much more agreeable than Rappaport’s.
“If it’s okay with you, I prefer to stand,” Griff said. “Because if we’re standing, this meeting will be shorter. And every second we’re not working is another second we’re not working.”
“Understood,” Corum said. “Secretary Rappaport is interested in monitoring the activities down below in real time. Since it is impractical for him to be physically present there, he has asked that Staghorn install state-of-the-art communications equipment to allow him, and through him, the president, to remain in constant voice and video contact with your team.”
“By my team you mean Mr. Forbush and myself. Because that’s all we have.”
Corum smiled genuinely at the image.
“I’ve worked with teams of a hundred that are probably not as effective or efficient as the two of you,” he said. “Dr. Rhodes, what we’ll do is replace some of our existing cameras and equipment with newer models that allow for encrypted, wireless streaming over a secure satellite network. That way we can broadcast your activity to any location on earth.”
“You won’t get a signal that far below ground,” Forbush said.
“True as things stand,” Corum replied. “Presently, the cameras are hardwired to the hub in the communications building here at the facility. We’ll replace that hub with our newer model as well. With the cameras connected to the new hub we’ll be able to transmit signal from the building to our satellite network. Which brings me to our next effort, videoconferencing.”
“We have that already,” Griff said.
“But you don’t have mobile conferencing.” Corum took out a device from his blazer pocket that was no bigger than a cell phone. “This is the TX-Mobile Communicator. We developed it for Uncle Sam. It’s a handheld, private networked videoconferencing system. Inside the casing is a stand-alone sophisticated GPS tracker, built into a disc that’s not much bigger than a silver dollar. It will allow us to pinpoint your exact location, even underground.”
“You want us to carry that gadget around like some sort of parolee ankle bracelet?”
Griff’s disgust was evident. Rappaport stepped forward.
“I expect you to do what you are told, Rhodes,” he said.
“Well, perhaps you’ve forgotten, Mr. Secretary, but what I’ve been told to do is save this country, not answer to you.”
“Don’t get so high on yourself,” Rappaport replied. “This country will continue on no matter the outcome of what you do. In a worst-case scenario, it will be incumbent on me to form an interim government. And I promise you, we’ll emerge from those ashes stronger and more resolved to combat terror than ever before.”
“By that do you mean all the personal freedoms you’re going to revoke?” Forbush blurted out. Griff shot his friend a stunned but simultaneously appreciative look. “I’ve read up on your policy positions,” Forbush then went on. “The walls and moats between the U.S. and Mexico. The wiretapping. The computer monitoring. The cameras. The profiling. The—”
“That is sheer nonsense,” Rappaport said, speaking at least as much to the others in the room as to Forbush. “I am not going to take away any freedoms granted by our Constitution. I am committed to protecting this country and the American way of life. And if doing so requires stronger security at the borders, more use of surveillance technology, photo ID cards, profiling, and an expansion of the Patriot Act in any way necessary to combat terrorists 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, that Matrix.”
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.”