A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [17]
“Is that why the broadcast went dark?”
“I didn’t know it had.”
With her phone tucked beneath her ear, Angie rubbed on some ChapStick, scribbled some notes in a shorthand only she could decipher, and turned the television back on. CNN was reporting only that something had occurred inside the House Chamber and they were working hard to get more information. Someone’s grainy, shaky cell phone transmission filled the screen.
Angie heard sirens blaring in the background and watched with widening eyes as the commotion unfolding within the camera’s view intensified. She remembered having the same sickening feeling when the first reports of the 9/11 attacks began trickling in. Something truly horrible was taking place now as it did back then.
“Where are you exactly, John?” she asked. “What sort of attack was it? Is anybody hurt? When did it happen?”
“Slow down, Angie. Slow down.”
“Are you sure it was Genesis?”
“Angie, I’m afraid I’m going to die. I’m afraid we’re all going to die.”
Angie’s heart beat faster.
“I want to help you, John. Just try and help me help you.”
“O … okay.”
“How did the attack occur? How was the virus delivered? Did you see it?”
Davis coughed. Angie shivered at the sound. Was that a symptom of the infection?
“I saw it. There were like misty plumes of smoke coming out of people’s bags and briefcases and purses, from some sort of microbomb, it sounded like. Massachusetts Congresswoman Dawn Bloom, two rows in front of me, had one go off right beside her.”
Angie stuffed her gloves inside her laptop case, and dropped in the ChapStick, half a dozen pens, and another notebook.
“What’s happening now?”
Davis partially stifled another cough.
“The president has ordered everybody back to their original seats. He’s blocked the doors with armed guards. Angie, I’m really scared. You know more about bioweapons than anybody I know. What the hell could it be? Oh, shit, I think they’ve spotted my phone. I’m going to keep talking as long as I can.”
“John, I’ll do whatever I can to find out and help.” Davis coughed again—deep, moist, and racking. “John, are you okay? Talk to me!”
“They’re here for my phone.… Listen, you bastards! This is America. We have laws. You can’t do this!”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 7
DAY 1
11:00 P.M. (EST)
The small group remaining in the Hard Room exchanged surprised looks except for Gary Salitas, whose attention remained fixed on Allaire.
The friendship between the two men dated back nearly twenty-five years, to the meeting of a select presidential commission on drug abuse in the inner city. The meeting, one of a number of such showcases to which Salitas had been invited over the years, was also among the more frustrating, with each of the political and academic lights determined to impress or outdo the others in terms of their rhetoric and posture.
Just when Salitas had been wondering if he could endure the rest of the afternoon, a lean, angular man stood up without asking to be recognized and began to speak. His name plaque read JAMES ALLAIRE, M.D.; CLEVELAND, OHIO, and he was angry. He was angry that people were speaking of Latin American cartels and minimum prison terms, of deposing dictators and passing stiffer new laws; of more presidential select commissions. But not once had anyone mentioned the abject hopelessness of inner-city children. Not once had anyone suggested a connection between drug use and classroom size. Not once had anyone offered the blueprint for a partnership between business, industry, and programs designed to provide every one of those children with a computer.
Allaire spoke for less than five minutes that day, but his eloquence, conviction, and the power of his words were unforgettable. And by the time the physician from Ohio had finished his remarks, gathered his notes, and strode from the room, Gary Salitas had vowed to hitch his wagon to the man’s star.
To this day, not once had Salitas regretted that