Authors: Michael Palmer
CHAPTER 45
DAY 6
2:30 A.M. (EST)
Ellis checked that Gladstone’s BlackBerrry was powered on and set to capture video. She was keyed up and tense in all the best sense of the words. Jim Allaire had kept her in the dark long enough. It was time she documented what was really going on, and just how much they all had to fear from this virus.
Beside her, O’Neil looked as if his legs were about to betray him. His complexion mirrored the white of the marble floor.
Inches away, the clamor and the scraping sound on the other side of the door continued.
The Secret Service agent uncoiled the length of chain securing the Senate Chamber doors. The steel links slid through his hands and clattered into a heap at his feet. Ellis cupped her ear and listened against the door.
“Nothing,” she said. “I have no idea what that sound could have been, but it’s gone now.”
“I think you’re crazy to go in there.”
“
We,
dearest.
We
are going in there. And
we’re
going to be quick about it, too. In and out with a little video in between. That will be all I need. Judging from Dr. Townsend’s containment suit over there, these people are infected with something pretty horrible.”
“Whatever it is, we’ve been exposed, too.”
“But I’m betting that whatever it is, these poor souls got a mega dose. It’s time to see just how much your boss has been holding out on us all. Don’t you want to know? I mean, it is your life, too.”
“I … don’t know.”
“O’Neil, I promise you. If we stay only a minute, just enough time to let me gather the video I need, we’ll both be fine—especially if we hold our breath. Now, let’s go.”
O’Neil sighed, and pulled the door open.
The first thing Ellis noticed as she stepped forward into the main aisle of the Senate Chamber was the smell. It was a foul stench of blood, bodily waste, and vomit, unlike anything she had experienced before. Her throat immediately tightened as her gag reflex kicked in. She wondered if the standing fans installed throughout the room were somehow keeping the powerful odor from escaping through the door cracks. The room lights were on full, and what Ellis saw as she fumbled for her camera made her cry out in fright.
The golden damask above the marbled wainscot was stained with blood and fecal matter. White marble busts of past Senate presidents, normally set in bowl niches in the gallery level, were either smashed, missing, or lying on the floor. But even more disturbing was that the one hundred mahogany senators’ desks had been ripped from their footings and thrown aside, replaced by a number of cots—at least twenty or twenty-five of them, mostly occupied, and many by people she knew, now barely recognizable to her.
Some of those in the chamber wore the comfortable clothing that had been delivered to the Capitol. But there were a few others—the most debilitated—who were still wearing what remained of their tuxedoes and designer gowns. They were lying listlessly, or vomiting congealing blood into blue plastic buckets wired to the bedframes. Some were writhing in pain. Others were propped on one elbow, moaning piteously.
For half a minute, Ellis stood transfixed, the purpose of her mission forgotten.
She heard a terrible shriek and turned in that direction. The senior senator from Missouri, a genteel, dignified man in his seventies, was pressing his hands on either side of his head, groaning for the pain to stop. Blood, from a nosebleed or perhaps his stomach, stained the sheet beneath him. He screamed again, and slapped at his expansive abdomen, as though trying to put out a fire burning inside. Then, suddenly, he turned his head and vomited into the bucket—black blood, thick as oil.
Ellis managed to raise her camera and pan the scene. This was not the flu. Nor was it any other virus she could imagine.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she said, her voice barely able to form the words.
O’Neil was rooted. Many of these dignitaries were also people he knew well. Finally, he managed a few baby steps back toward the door. Ellis stayed close to him. Then they turned to run, but Admiral Archibald Jakes had materialized in the center of the aisle and was blocking their only way out. He was a grotesquerie. His stained dress whites were ripped in many places. The rows of service ribbons over his left breast had gaps resembling a hockey player’s teeth. The sclerae of his eyes were bloodred. His cheeks were sunken and his lower jaw was in constant motion—a gnawing skull.
The admiral lifted his hands to prevent O’Neil and her from passing, and Ellis gasped.
His palms were a swirl of crimson, concentric circles, giving the appearance of having had the design branded on. On the surface of the swirls were hundreds of tiny, raised blisters, many of them broken and oozing.
“Home … please take me home…,” Jakes moaned.
His voice was a coarse whisper, and his breath was foul.
“Admiral, what’s going on in here?” O’Neil managed to ask. “What’s happening to you? Who’s helping you all?”
“Dying … we’re all dying.” Each word the admiral spoke emerged like a hiss of steam. “Why did you do this to me?”
“No, it wasn’t us,” O’Neil said. “It was Genesis. It’s some sort of virus.”
“You lie! You lie!”
Ellis sensed movement behind her and turned to see that others in the room were now gathering behind her like zombies, blocking their only retreat from Jakes. Some of them had been friends and colleagues of hers for many years. All of them were ill—terribly, terribly ill. It was also impossible not to see the bright red patterns on their palms.
“Admiral Jakes, please,” O’Neil pleaded, “let us by. We’ll get you help. I promise.”
The navy man’s eyes were wild.
“No help. You lie! You lie!”
Jakes drove forward with surprising quickness and wrapped his fingers around O’Neil’s throat. The Secret Service agent batted Jakes’s hands aside, but in an instant the admiral lunged again, clawing at his face, drawing blood.
“Stop!” O’Neil shouted.
“Die! Die like me!”
Jakes continued flailing at the much younger man. Blood from the angry gouges ran down O’Neil’s cheek, soaking his shirt collar.
Ellis screamed as the small crowd began folding in around them.
At that instant, the scene was frozen by a gunshot. Smoke rose from the pistol at O’Neil’s waist. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff dropped to his knees, then toppled in slow motion onto his back, staring sightlessly at the high, ornate ceiling. A scarlet stain instantly began expanding from the bullet hole in his jacket. The advancing crowd pulled back as the pistol in O’Neil’s hand smoked. The stench of gunpowder merged with the other odors in the room.
“Let’s go! Now!” he barked at Ellis.
Clutching her BlackBerry, the speaker grasped O’Neil’s coat sleeve and allowed herself to be dragged outside the Senate Chamber. The dying men and women were again moving in when O’Neil pushed the doors closed. Ellis looped the chain tightly through the handles and leaned against the doors with all her strength as O’Neil snapped the lock.
Then, gasping for air, exhausted, and rattled, the two of them slumped against the wall. The din and scratching from within had resumed, but with a difference. Somewhere amidst the mob on the other side of the door lay the body of the chief of the United States Navy.
Ellis checked her phone.
She had recorded everything.
CHAPTER 46
DAY 6
5 A.M. (CST)
“Rhodes, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. Listen, Angie’s been hurt. Genesis somehow followed her to New York, and tried to kill her. I haven’t called the hospital where she is because I really don’t trust that this line is secure. It doesn’t seem like anything is down here. I want you to have the FBI find out where she is and send some people to watch out for her. I’m not giving you the details, but send some men over to the Riverside Nursing Home. They’ll know where she is and what name she’s been admitted under. But do it quick. And make sure she has the best doctors.”
“What in the hell is she doing in New York?”
“I’ll tell you soon. I don’t have time for this right now.”
“Okay, I’ll call you back.”
Twenty minutes later, the video conference was renewed.
“We’ve got her,” Allaire said. “She’s in the ICU. Subdural hematoma—that’s bleeding between the skull and the brain. I have people on the way over there now.”
“Surgery?”
“I don’t think yet. Some subdurals don’t ever require it. She’s in a good hospital for trauma, but I’ll get a neurosurgeon over there right away.”
“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate that. So, what’s going on there?”
“The situation is getting worse here by the minute,” Allaire said. “What have you got for us?”
“Unfortunately, I still have lots of questions and few answers. But we’re working around the clock.”
The high-definition video transmission put Allaire’s raddled appearance in sharp focus. Dark stubble on his characteristically clean-shaven face made his ashen complexion and gaunt expression all the more disconcerting. Griff’s own image, as it was shown to him in a small square at the screen’s top left corner, looked no less bleak than Allaire’s.
“What’s your status?” the president asked.
“As of this moment, Angie’s made more progress than I have—or you, for that matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“She figured out that Sylvia Chen might be in New York, and she was right. Only Genesis must have somehow picked up on where she was going. Don’t ask me how they knew. They seem to know everything. They sent a man after Angie and tried to kill her.”
“What about Chen? Did Angie actually find her?”
Griff nodded.
“I believe so, but she’s dead. I have no details yet as to how or when. The guy Genesis sent is dead, too. It seems as if Angie managed to take him down before she lost consciousness.”
“We need to ID that body ASAP.”
“I assume the New York police have it.”
“I’ll alert the FBI right away. It might be the break we’ve been looking for to figure out who’s behind all this. She was supposed to be there in Kansas, watching you. Why couldn’t you have let me get the FBI on this?”
Griff could feel himself beginning to boil.
“Dr. Allaire,” he said, with forced control, “Angela Fletcher risked her life for you and the others in the Capitol. She just accomplished in a couple of days what all those FBI agents couldn’t do in a year. Let’s leave it at that. I just want to make sure that she’s protected.”
Allaire calmed himself with a deep breath, but his eyes flashed.
“Of course,” he said.
“Remember what Genesis has accomplished so far. It’s like they’re everywhere.”
Allaire sighed audibly.
“The FBI will be at Ms. Fletcher’s hospital room within the hour.”
“And, I want—”
“Enough, Rhodes! How are you progressing with your work?”
Griff brushed a knot of matted hair from his forehead. He tensed as he readied himself to break the news.
“I’m afraid at this moment I’m not much closer to a solution than I was before my arrest. This virus is from hell. Maybe we should rename it Genesis because it’s always a step ahead of us.”
With Griff’s weak attempt at levity, Allaire snapped.
His pallid complexion turned crimson in a blink. His mouth contorted, teeth bared. Glaring at the camera, he snatched up a glass of water from the Hard Room’s conference table. Griff watched with growing astonishment as the man with his finger on the nuclear trigger cocked his arm back, and then sent the glass shattering against a wall.
“You cannot fail!” Allaire screamed, his face a foot from the camera. “Do you hear me, Rhodes? Do you frigging understand me. I can put you back in prison right now. Right goddamn now! I’ll get someone else down there. Someone who has a clue. Give me some promise, some positive results, or I’ll destroy you. Do you understand me?”
His body was shaking, his eyes wild with rage.
“Sir!” Griff pleaded. “Please! Calm down. You need to calm yourself.”
Gary Salitas stepped in front of the camera, and Griff watched him place his hands on Allaire’s shoulders. The president grabbed his defense secretary by one wrist and rotated it until the man cried out in pain and released his hold.
Bethany Townsend suddenly burst into view, followed by a pair of Secret Service agents. With the camera angle and all the commotion it was impossible for Griff to follow the action. When the bodies cleared, Townsend was leaning over the conference table looking directly into the camera. The slightly built physician was breathless and flushed.
“Dr. Rhodes, we are going to have to reschedule this call,” she said. “The president is in no condition at the moment to continue. Secretary Salitas and I will see to it that Ms. Fletcher is looked after.”
“Wait! Wait!” Griff heard Allaire shout from off camera.
Moments later, the president returned to his seat. Townsend hovered close by, as did the agents. Allaire was still hyperventilating, but quickly his breathing slowed and his color became more sanguine. He straightened his tie, and used his hands as a comb—small gestures, but enough to restore some of his lost demeanor.
“Rhodes, I’m terrified my outburst is just the virus at work,” he said in a panicky, whispered voice. “It’s happening in small pockets in both A and B Groups. Irritability beyond what should be expected under the circumstances. Uncontrolled outbursts. Arguments. Even fistfights.”
“Sir, can you please hold your palms up to the camera?”
Griff breathed a relieved sigh when he saw they were unremarkable.
“We’re running out of time, Rhodes,” Allaire continued. “It’s getting worse. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I.”