A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [112]
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,