A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [28]
“How many did you find, solider?” the ranking officer barked.
“Five canisters total, sir,” she replied. “They were in a cubby, hidden behind the basement wall paneling.”
“Secure him,” the captain ordered.
Two soldiers standing behind Griff pulled him upright and pinned his arms to his back. The officer in charge then stepped forward and punched Griff hard in the stomach, not once, but twice. The room began to spin. The soldiers holding his arms in place now had to prop Griff up as well. In addition, they kept shouting at him, demanding to know if they had all the canisters.
“Were there more than five?” he heard them say.
“Sylvia Chen … my boss … speak to her.… I didn’t take those canisters.… Find Sylvia … she’ll vouch for me. I’m just a researcher, I—”
Another fierce punch to the gut cut off his words. He dropped to his knees and retched. Soldiers surrounded him and dragged him outside into a crisp, star-drenched Kansas night. Again, they rudely pulled his arms behind his back. He cried out in pain. Handcuffs closed tightly around his wrists, cutting into his skin.
“Too tight,” Griff said.
“Too bad,” a solider responded.
They pushed him into a camouflage-painted Hummer. Soldiers were seated on either side of him.
“Where are you taking me?” Griff asked.
“To prison,” the solider answered. “Enjoy the trip.”
Nine months with no answers, no explanations. Nine months of isolation and filth and abuse. Nine months of self-regulated push-ups on a concrete floor and yoga positions in the grimy corner. Now, suddenly, an open cell door, a final series of blows from one of the guards, and a helicopter flight at the invitation of the president of the United States. He might have felt exultant. He probably should have.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Griffin Rhodes had a sinking feeling that he might have just replaced one layer of hell for another.
“Sir, I have President Allaire on the sat phone,” Captain Lewis said. “He’s ready to speak with you.”
The marine passed over a bulky, stainless steel case with a satellite phone inside. Griff had to take off his helmet to speak. The constant churn from the rotors made it hard to hear, but not impossible.
“Dr. Griffin Rhodes? This is President Jim Allaire,” the voice, distinguishable despite the background noise, said.
“Mr. President.”
Griff knew all about Allaire’s involvement with Project Veritas. But only Sylvia Chen and a few higher-ups had any direct contact with the man. Griff suspected he might now come to regret having joined the ranks of those accorded the honor.
“Dr. Rhodes, there has been a massive exposure to WRX3883,” Allaire said.
Griff’s jaw tightened. Captain Lewis apparently felt the tension and turned away to look out the window. Bad news could wait, Griff imagined him thinking.
“Where? How bad?”
“We have reason to believe Genesis is behind the attack.”
“Who?”
The president paused.
“You don’t know about Genesis?”
“Well, I haven’t exactly been given a wealth of reading material for the last nine months.”
“Understood. I can explain that later.”
“Where was the exposure?”
“It occurred during my State of the Union Address.”
“Pardon?”
“Yes. You heard correctly. In the chamber of the House of Representatives. Fifteen separate exposures around the hall.”
“How was the virus released?”
“Exploding glass cylinders. Widespread. Somehow, the containers were inserted into purses and briefcases, and then detonated, probably by radio signal.”
“Have you locked down the building?”
“Yes.”
“Tightly?”
“No one in, no one out. The chamber has been sealed and the building as well. Plus there’s an absolute perimeter set up fifty yards outside the Capitol. One man—a senator from Kentucky—tried to sneak out of a little-used exit. He was taken out by a sharpshooter, and his body incinerated.”
Griff