A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [77]
She tried calling him and then lit her flashlight, which had only a brief calming effect. Next she pounded on the trunk’s underside. Nothing. The car motored on, jarring her from side to side as her breathing grew even more rapid and shallow. At one point, they slammed in and out of a huge pothole, snapping her teeth through the inside of her cheek.
More time passed and she began imagining terrible things—being buried alive and smothered to death; being kidnapped, and even raped. When Forbush finally released her from the trunk, she learned that they had traveled less than two miles when they hit the huge pothole, nothing near the five miles she had guessed.
Never again, was all she could think as Forbush helped her to her feet and into the passenger seat. Never again.
Angie fought back the urge to call Griff. They had little doubt that nearly everything they did at the lab was being monitored. She shuddered at the notion of how compressed her world had become. The constant scrutiny, the airlocks, the elevator, the biohazard suit, the trunk. The claustrophobia of what had recently been a carefree existence in one of the most fascinating cities in the world had actually shaken her confidence. She expressed those feelings to Melvin, who did his best to be supportive. But there were obvious limits to the man’s ability for empathy. For now, she would have to gain strength from Griff’s final words to her.
I believe in you.
In contrast to the sleepy Garden City airport, the terminal at JFK was a near gridlock of travelers. Angie was jostled by several of them as she followed the signs to ground transportation. One of them, a lean and swarthy man wearing sunglasses, had been on the flight from Garden City to Denver, as well as on the flight from Denver to New York. He muttered an apology as he passed her, then hurried away, a cell phone pressed to his ear.
From a small television set embedded into the back of the cabby’s seat, Angie watched the latest Fox News report from the Capitol. The broadcast reporter was a sharply dressed woman in her late twenties, and behind her were hundreds of television cameras from other news outlets jockeying for the most eye-catching shot. Despite the reporter’s complete confidence in her story, Angie knew the information she was reporting was woefully inaccurate. Allaire’s PR machine had done a masterful job categorizing the virus threat as flulike and explaining the extensive security measures as precautionary only.
Angie turned the volume off, unwilling to listen to any more misinformation. She knew the truth—hell, she had the story of the century to report. All she had to do was direct the driver to any of a number of media outlets in New York, and in no time she’d be given her choice of plum jobs and probably a seven-figure book deal as well. But the country was at stake, and for the first time in her professional life, she opted for perpetuating a lie over printing the truth.
When she arrived at her Midtown destination, Angie paid the fare plus tip in cash. Genesis had found ways to frame Griff and to bypass the security system at the State of the Union Address. There was no reason at this point to underestimate their resources, creativity, or viciousness. It was hard to believe her credit card transactions were already being monitored, especially given that Genesis had no reason to know who she was or how she was involved with Kalvesta, but there was no sense in taking chances.
Angie had never lived in New York City, but she always felt at home there. Once on Broadway, she located Sliplitz’s number, and rang the buzzer to apartment 3E. Seconds later, she heard the intercom click on.
“Da?” said a man’s voice.
“Gottfried, it’s me.”
“Ah, zis gloomy day is suddenly brighter,” replied the heavy German accent.
Angie quickly opened the outside and inner doors, entering the dreary foyer before the buzzer shut off.