A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [66]
“Are you doing okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. This is what my brain feels like most of the time. I sort of like the rush.”
As Angie waited, once again her thoughts focused on Sylvia Chen. Griff had given her a capsule summary of the woman and her life. Born in China, and brought to the U.S. by her mother at a young age. Now speaks with minimal or no accent. No mention of her father. Graduated from Yale at twenty. Ph.D. from Columbia at twenty-six. Tenured by age thirty-eight. Briefly married. No children. Tireless researcher. Driven by ambition. Passed over for what would have made her the youngest department chief at Columbia, and so took her research on WRX3883 to the government. Author of literally hundreds of books, articles, and scientific papers. The anti-Griff in terms of her belief in the importance of using animals for her research—primarily chimpanzees or other smaller primates. Nevertheless, she had great belief and trust in Griff and his work. An opera buff and chess master. Meticulous, serious, intense. Owned a black Porsche, and in the wide, flat spaces of southwest Kansas, drove it extremely fast. Coveted a Nobel Prize, and had hitched her wagon in that regard to WRX3883, but believed it was bad luck to dwell on that desire.
The airlock door opened and closed, depositing Forbush behind her. Together, they entered the hot zone identified by a wall-mounted placard as the Kitchen.
“Do you want a tour?” Forbush offered.
“Later, maybe. I want to see Dr. Chen’s office and lab.”
“I tell you, it’s already been gone over several times.”
“Then this shouldn’t take too long.”
Next to the placard were detailed instructions on how to handle an exposure event. Beside the instructions was a sign reading simply BLACK ZONE, with an arrow pointing straight down.
“Explain,” she said.
“We never used it, but it’s a small bunker down below near the animal facility, with a couple of beds and a TV. If you get exposed to WRX, that’s where you would go to die.”
“Nice.”
“Sort of like the submarine in Das Boot.”
“Chen’s office?”
“Down the hall.”
“Favor, Melvin. Can I do this myself?”
“I suppose. What do you think you’re looking for?”
“I have no idea. Something … anything. Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes.”
“Miss Marple.”
“Pardon?”
“Agatha Christie’s detective—Murder at the Gallop; Murder Most Foul. That’s who you remind—”
“Ten minutes, Melvin.”
She thanked him with a pat on the shoulder.
Sylvia Chen had gone to great lengths to insert some hominess into her windowless space. The walls were whitewashed plaster, with either Chinese artwork or bookshelves filled with scientific tomes. There was a wooden desk in the corner—perhaps walnut—and incandescent lamps designed to mimic natural sunlight. The largest painting, framed in black, was an appealing watercolor of Angel Falls in Venezuela, and across from it was a small table, featuring an inactive water fountain made of bronze. The floor was foot-square off-white tiles, largely covered by a circular oriental rug in rich blues and reds.
After a slow inspection of each wall and shelf, Angie stood in the center of the rug and closed her eyes. Sylvia Chen was there. This was a woman who cared desperately about her appearance and her surroundings—a woman who needed to be appreciated.
When Forbush returned, Angie was seated at Chen’s desk, gazing first at one wall, then at the next.
“Are you done, yet, Miss Marple?”
“Not yet. I’m just getting a sense of Sylvia.”
“Not much here, is there?”
“More than you might think,” Angie said over the rush of air in her helmet.
Griff appeared to Forbush’s right.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Oh, hi, there, Doctor. How’s it going?”
“Looks like we’re live. We’ve got virus and we’ve got cells to grow ’em in, and the two seem to be getting along.”
“So let the games begin,” Angie said. “Have you budgeted