Outbreak

“I think it is an animal disease,” said Colonel Woolbert. “I think it will eventually be isolated to some equatorial African monkey and is therefore a zoonosis, or a disease of vertebrate animals that occasionally gets transmitted to man.”

“So you agree with the current CDC official position about these recent U.S. outbreaks?” asked Marissa.

“Of course,” said Colonel Woolbert. “What other position is there?”

Marissa shrugged. “Do you have any Ebola here?”

“No,” said Colonel Woolbert. “But I know where we can get it.”

“I know, too,” said Marissa. Well, that wasn’t quite true, she thought. Tad had said that it was in the maximum containment lab, but exactly where, she did not know. When they’d made their covert visit, she’d forgotten to ask.

7

April 17

THE PHONE MUST HAVE been ringing for some time before Marissa finally rolled over to pick up the receiver. The CDC operator instantly apologized for waking her from such a deep sleep. As Marissa struggled to sit up, she learned that a call had come through from Phoenix, Arizona, and that the operator wanted permission to patch it through. Marissa agreed immediately.

While she waited for the phone to ring again, she slipped on her robe and glanced at the time. It was 4:00 A.M.; that meant it was 2:00 A.M. in Phoenix. There was little doubt in her mind that someone had discovered another suspected case of Ebola.

The phone jangled again. “Dr. Blumenthal,” said Marissa.

The voice on the other end of the wire was anything but calm. The caller introduced himself as Dr. Guy Weaver, the Arizona State Epidemiologist. “I’m terribly sorry to be phoning at such an hour,” he said, “but I’ve been called in on a severe problem at the Medical Hospital in Phoenix. I trust you are familiar with the Medica Hospital.”

“Can’t say I am.”

“It’s part of a chain of for-profit hospitals which have contracted with the Medica Medical Group to provide prepaid, comprehensive care in this part of Arizona. We’re terrified that the hospital’s been hit with Ebola.”

“I trust that you’ve isolated the patient,” said Marissa. “We’ve found that-“

“Dr. Blumenthal,” interrupted Dr. Weaver. “It’s not one case. It’s eighty-four cases.”

“Eighty-four!” she exclaimed in disbelief.

“We have forty-two doctors, thirteen RN’s, eleven LPN’s, four lab techs, six of the administrative staff, six food service personnel and two maintenance men.”

“All at once?” asked Marissa.

“All this evening,” said the epidemiologist.

At that time of night, there was no convenient service to Phoenix, though Delta promised the most direct flight available. As soon as she dressed, Marissa called the duty officer at the CDC to say that she was leaving for Phoenix immediately and to please brief Dr. Dubchek as soon as he came into the Center.

After writing a note to the Judsons asking them to please collect Taffy and pick up her mail, Marissa drove to the airport. The fact that the new outbreak had started with eighty-four cases overwhelmed her. She hoped Dubchek and his team would arrive by the afternoon.

The flight was uneventful, despite two stops, and was certainly not crowded. When it landed, Marissa was met by a short, round man, who nervously introduced himself as Justin Gardiner, the assistant director of the Medica Hospital.

“Here, let me take your bag,” he said. But his hand was shaking so, the bag fell to the floor. Bending down to retrieve it, he apologized, saying that he was a bit upset.

“I can understand,” said Marissa. “Have there been any further admissions?”

“Several, and the hospital is in a panic,” said Mr. Gardiner, as they started down the concourse. “Patients started checking out-staff were leaving, too-until the State Health Commissioner declared a quarantine. The only reason I could meet you was that I was off yesterday.”

Marissa’s mouth felt dry with fear as she wondered what she was getting herself into. Pediatrics began to look a lot more attractive than this.

The hospital was another elaborate modern structure. It occurred to Marissa that Ebola favored such contemporary edifices. The clean, almost sterile lines of the building hardly seemed the proper setting for such a deadly outbreak.

Despite the early hour, the street in front of the hospital was

crowded with TV trucks and reporters. In front of them stood a line of uniformed police, some of whom were actually wearing surgical masks. In the early light, the whole scene had a surreal look.

Mr. Gardiner pulled up behind one of the TV trucks. “You’ll have to go inside and find the director,” he said. “My orders are to stay outside to try to control the panic. Good luck!”

As she walked toward the entrance, Marissa got out her identification card. She showed it to one of the policemen, but he had to call over to his sergeant to ask if it was okay to let her pass. A group of the reporters, hearing that she was from the CDC, crowded around and asked for a statement.

“I have no direct knowledge of the situation,” protested Marissa, as she felt herself buffeted by the surging journalists. She was grateful for the policeman, who shoved the press aside, then pulled one of the barricades open and allowed her through.

Unfortunately things on the inside of the hospital were even more chaotic. The lobby was jammed with people, and as Marissa entered, she was again mobbed. Apparently she was the first person to pass either in or out of the building for several hours.

A number of the people pressing in on her were patients, dressed in pajamas and robes. They were all simultaneously asking questions and demanding answers.

“Please!” shouted someone to Marissa’s right. “Please! Let me through.” A heavyset man with bushy eyebrows pushed his way to Marissa’s side. “Dr. Blumenthal?”

“Yes,” said Marissa with relief.

The heavyset man took her by the arm, ignoring the fact that she was carrying both a suitcase and briefcase. Pushing his way back through the crowd, he led her across the lobby to a door that he locked behind them. They were in a long, narrow hallway.

“I’m terribly sorry about all this turmoil,” said the man. “I’m Lloyd Davis, director of the hospital, and we seem to have a bit of a panic on our hands.”

Marissa followed Davis to his office. They entered through a side door, and Marissa noticed the main door was barricaded from the inside with a ladder-back chair, making her believe that the “bit of panic” had been an understatement.

“The staff is waiting to talk with you,” said Mr. Davis, taking Marissa’s belongings and depositing them next to his desk. He breathed heavily, as if the effort of bending over had exhausted him.

“What about the patients with suspected Ebola?” asked Marissa.

“For the moment they’ll have to wait,” said the director, motioning Marissa to return to the hallway.

“But our first priority has to be the proper isolation of the patients.”

“They are well isolated,” Mr. Davis assured her. “Dr. Weaver has taken care of that.” He pressed his hand against the small of Marissa’s back, propelling her toward the door. “Of course we’ll follow any additional suggestions you have, but right now I would like you to talk with the staff before I’m faced with mutiny.”

“I hope it’s not that bad,” said Marissa. It was one thing if the inpatients were upset, quite another if the professional staff was hysterical as well.

Mr. Davis closed his office door and led the way along another corridor. “A lot of people are terrified at being forced to stay in the hospital.”

“How many more presumed cases have been diagnosed since you called the CDC?”

“Sixteen. No more staff; all the new cases are Medica Plan subscribers.

That suggested that the virus was already into its second generation, having been spread by the initially infected physicians. At least that was what had happened in the two previous outbreaks. Marissa herself quaked at the idea of being locked up in the same building with such a contagion, making her question how much consolation she would be able to extend to the staff. With so many people infected, she wondered if they would be able to contain the problem as they had in L.A. and St. Louis. The horror of the thought of Ebola passing into the general community was almost beyond comprehension.

“Do you know if any of the initial cases had been mugged recently?” asked Marissa, as much to distract herself as in hope of a positive answer. Davis just glanced at her and raised his eyebrows as if she were crazy. That seemed as much of a response he felt the question merited. So much for that observation, thought Marissa, remembering Ralph’s response.

They stopped in front of a locked door. Davis took out his keys, unlocked the door and led Marissa onto the hospital auditorium’s stage. It was not a big room: There was seating for approximately one hundred and fifty people. Marissa noticed all the seats were occupied, with still more people standing in the back. There was the buzz of a dozen simultaneous conversations. They trailed off into silence as Marissa nervously walked toward the podium, all eyes upon her. A tall, exceptionally thin man stood up from a chair behind the podium and shook her hand. Mr. Davis introduced him as Dr. Guy Weaver, the man she’d spoken to on the phone.

“Dr. Blumenthal,” said Dr. Weaver, his deep voice a sharp contrast to his scrawny frame, “you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

Marissa felt that uncomfortable sense of being an imposter. And it got worse. After tapping the microphone to make certain it was “live,” Dr. Weaver proceeded to introduce Marissa.

He did so in such glowing terms that she felt progressively more and more uneasy. From his comments, it was as if she were synonymous with the CDC, and that all the triumphs of the CDC were her triumphs. Then, with a sweep of his long arm, he turned the microphone over to Marissa.

Never feeling comfortable talking to a large group under the best of circumstances, Marissa was totally nonplussed in the current situation. She had no idea of what was expected of her, much less of what to say. She took the few moments required to bend the microphone down to her level, to think.

Glancing out at the audience, Marissa noted that about half were wearing surgical masks. She also noticed that a large portion of the people, both men and women, were ethnic appearing, with distinctive features and coloring. There was also a wide range of ages, making Marissa realize that what Mr. Davis meant by staff was anybody working for the hospital, not just physicians. They were all watching her expectantly, and she wished she had more confidence in her ability to affect what was happening at the hospital.

“The first thing we will do is ascertain the diagnosis,” began Marissa in a hesitant voice several octaves above her normal pitch. As she continued speaking, not sure of which direction she would go, her voice became more normal. She introduced herself in reasonable terms, explaining her real function at the CDC. She also tried to assure the audience, even though she wasn’t sure herself, that the outbreak would be controlled by strict isolation of the patients, complete barrier nursing, and reasonable quarantine procedures.

“Will we all get sick?” shouted a woman from the back of the room. A murmur rippled through the audience. This was their major concern.

“I have been involved in two recent outbreaks,” said Marissa, “and I have not been infected, though I’ve come into contact with patients who had.” She didn’t mention her own continuing fear. “We have determined that close personal contact is necessary to spread Ebola. Airborne spread is apparently not a factor.” Marissa noticed that a few of the people in the audience removed their masks. She glanced around at Dr. Weaver, who gave her an encouraging thumbs-up sign.

“Is it really necessary for us to remain within the hospital?” demanded a man in the third row. He was wearing a physician’s long white coat.

“For the time being,” said Marissa diplomatically. “The quarantine procedure that we followed in the previous outbreaks involved separating the contacts into primary and secondary groups.” Marissa went on to describe in detail what they had done in L.A. and St. Louis. She concluded by saying that no one who’d been quarantined had come down with the illness unless they had previously had direct, hands-on contact with someone already ill.

Marissa then fielded a series of questions about the initial symptoms and the clinical course of Ebola Hemorrhagic Fever. The latter either terrified the audience into silence or satisfied their curiosity-Marissa couldn’t decide which-but there were no further questions.

While Mr. Davis got up to talk to his staff, Dr. Weaver led Marissa out of the auditorium. As soon as they were in the narrow hallway, she told him that she wanted to see one of the initial cases before she called the CDC. Dr. Weaver said he’d assumed as much and offered to take her himself. En route he explained that they had placed all the cases on two floors of the hospital, moving out the other patients and isolating the ventilation system. He had every reason to believe they’d made it a self-contained area. He also explained that the staff employed to man the floors were all specifically trained by his people, that laboratory work had been restricted to what could be done in a hastily set up unit on one of the isolated floors and that everything used by the patients was being washed with sodium hypochlorite before being directly incinerated.

As for the quarantine situation, he told Marissa that mattresses had been brought in from the outside and the outpatient department had been turned into a huge dormitory, separating primary and secondary contacts. All food and water was also being brought in. It was at that point that Marissa learned that Dr. Weaver had been an EIS officer at the CDC six years previously.

“Why did you introduce me as the expert?” asked Marissa, remembering his embarrassing exaggerations. Obviously he knew as much as or more than she did about quarantine procedures.

“For effect,” admitted Dr. Weaver. “The hospital personnel needed something to believe in.”

Marissa grunted, upset at being misrepresented, but impressed with Dr. Weaver’s efficiency. Before entering the floor, they gowned. Then, before entering one of the rooms, they double gowned, adding hoods, goggles, masks, gloves and booties.

The patient Dr. Weaver brought Manssa to see was one of the clinic’s general surgeons. He was an Indian, originally from Bombay. All Marissa’s fears of exposure came back in a rush as she looked down at the patient. The man appeared moribund, even though he’d been sick for only twenty-four hours. The clinical picture mirrored the terminal phase of the cases in L.A. and St. Louis. There was high fever along with low blood pressure, and the typical skin rash with signs of hemorrhage from mucous membranes. Marissa knew the man would not last another twenty-four hours.

To save time, she drew her viral samples immediately, and Dr. Weaver arranged to have them properly packed and shipped overnight to Tad Schockley.

A glance at the man’s chart showed the history to be fairly sketchy, but with eighty-four admissions in less than six hours she could hardly have hoped for a textbook writeup. She saw no mention of foreign travel, monkeys, or contact with the L.A. or St. Louis outbreaks.

Leaving the floor, Marissa first requested access to a telephone, then said she wanted to have as many physician volunteers as she could get to help her interview the patients. If many patients were as sick as the Indian doctor, they would have to work quickly if they were going to get any information at all.

Marissa was given the phone in Mr. Davis’s office. It was already after eleven in Atlanta, and Marissa reached Dubchek immediately. The trouble was, he was irritated.

“Why didn’t you call me as soon as the aid request came in? I didn’t know you had gone until I got into my office.”

Marissa held her tongue. The truth was that she’d told the CDC operators that she should be called directly if a call came in suggestive of an Ebola outbreak. She assumed Dubchek could have done the same if he’d wanted to be called immediately, but she certainly wasn’t going to antagonize him further by pointing out the fact.

“Does it look like Ebola?”

“It does,” said Marissa, anticipating Dubchek’s reaction to her next bomb. “The chief difference is in number of those infected. This outbreak involves one hundred cases at this point.”

“I hope that you have instituted the proper isolation,” was Dubchek’s only reply.

Marissa felt cheated. She’d expected Dubchek to be overwhelmed. “Aren’t you surprised by the number of cases?” she asked.

“Ebola is a relatively unknown entity,” said Dubchek. “At this

point, nothing would surprise me. I’m more concerned about containment; what about the isolation?”

“The isolation is fine,” said Marissa.

“Good,” said Dubchek. “The Vickers Lab is ready and we will be leaving within the hour. Make sure you have viral samples for Tad as soon as possible.”

Marissa found herself giving assurances to a dead phone. The bastard had hung up. She hadn’t even had a chance to warn him that the entire hospital was under quarantine-that if he entered, he’d not be allowed to leave. “It’ll serve him right,” she said aloud as she got up from the desk.

When she left the office, she discovered that Dr. Weaver had assembled eleven doctors to help take histories: five women and six men. All of them voiced the same motivation: as long as they had to be cooped up in the hospital, they might as well work.

Marissa sat down and explained what she needed: good histories on as many of the initial eighty-four cases as possible. She explained that in both the L.A. and the St. Louis incidents there had been an index case to which all other patients could be traced. Obviously, there in Phoenix it was different. With so many simultaneous cases there was the suggestion of a food-or waterborne disease.

“If it were waterborne, wouldn’t more people have been infected?” asked one of the women.

“If the entire hospital supply was involved,” said Marissa. “But perhaps a certain water fountain…” Her voice trailed off. “Ebola had never been a water-or food-borne infection,” she admitted. “It is all very mysterious, and it just underlines the need for complete histories to try to find some area of commonality. Were all the patients on the same shifts? Were they all in the same areas of the hospital? Did they all drink coffee from the same pot, eat the same food, come in contact with the same animal?”

Pushing back her chair, Marissa went to a blackboard and began outlining a sequence of questions that each patient should be asked. The other doctors rose to the challenge and began giving suggestions. When they were done, Marissa added as an afterthought that they might ask if any of the patients had attended the eyelid surgery conference in San Diego that had been held about three months before.

Before the group disbanded, Marissa reminded everyone to adhere carefully to all the isolation techniques. Then she thanked them again and went to review the material that was already available.

As she had done in L.A., Marissa commandeered the chart room behind the nurses’ station on one of the isolation floors as her command post. As the other doctors finished their history taking, they brought their notes to Marissa, who had begun the burdensome task of collating them. Nothing jumped out of the data except the fact that all the patients worked at the Medica Hospital, something that was already well known.

By midday, fourteen more cases had been admitted, which made Marissa extremely fearful that they had a full-blown epidemic on their hands. All the new patients, save one, were Medica subscribers who had been treated by one of the original forty-two sick physicians before the physicians developed symptoms. The other new case was a lab tech who had done studies on the first few cases before Ebola was suspected.

Just as the evening shift was coming on duty, Marissa learned that the other CDC physicians had arrived. Relieved, she went to meet them. She found Dubchek helping to set up the Vickers Lab.

“You might have told me the damn hospital was quarantined,” he snapped when he caught sight of her.

“You didn’t give me a chance,” she said, skirting the fact that he had hung up on her. She wished there was something she could do to improve their relationship, which seemed to be getting worse instead of better.

“Well, Paul and Mark are not very happy,” said Dubchek. “When they learned all three of us would be trapped for the length of the outbreak, they turned around and went back to Atlanta.”

“What about Dr. Layne?” asked Marissa guiltily.

“He’s already meeting with Weaver and the hospital administration. Then he will see if the State Health Commissioner can modify the quarantine for the CDC.”

“I suppose I can’t talk to you until you get the lab going,” said Marissa.

“At least you have a good memory,” said Dubchek, bending over to lift a centrifuge from its wooden container. “After I finish here and I’ve seen Layne about the isolation procedures, I’ll go over your findings.”

As Marissa headed back to her room, she mulled over a number of nasty retorts, all of which only would have made things worse. That was why she had said nothing.

After a meal of catered airplane food eaten in an area of the outpatient clinic reserved for staff in direct contact with the presumed Ebola patients, Marissa returned to her chart work. She now had histories on most of the initial eighty-four cases.

She found Dubchek leafing through her notes. He straightened up on seeing her. “I’m not sure it was a good idea to use the regular hospital staff to take these histories.”

Marissa was caught off guard. “There were so many cases,” she said defensively. “I couldn’t possibly interview all of them quickly enough. As it is, seven people were too sick to speak and three have subsequently died.”

“That’s still not reason enough to expose doctors who aren’t trained epidemiologists. The Arizona State Health Department has trained staff that should have been utilized. If any of these physicians you’ve drafted become ill, the CDC might be held responsible.”

“But they-” protested Marissa.

“Enough!” interrupted Dubchek. “I’m not here to argue. What have you learned?”

Marissa tried to organize her thoughts and control her emotions. It was true that she’d not considered the legal implications, but she was not convinced there was a problem. The quarantined physicians were already considered contacts. She sat down at the desk and searched for the summary page of her findings. When she found it, she began reading in a flat monotone, without glancing up at Dubchek: “One of the initial patients is an ophthalmologist who attended the same San Diego conference as Drs. Richter and Zabriski. Another of the initial cases, an orthopedic surgeon, went on safari to East Africa two months ago. Two of the initial cases have used monkeys in their research but have not suffered recent bites.

“As a group, all eighty-four cases developed symptoms within a six-hour period, suggesting that they all were exposed at the same time. The severity of the initial symptoms suggests that they all received an overwhelming dose of the infective agent. Everyone worked at the Medica Hospital but not in the same area, which suggests the air-conditioning system was probably not the source. It seems to me we are dealing with a food-or waterborne infection, and in that regard, the only commonality that has appeared in the data is that all eighty-four people used the hospital cafeteria. In fact, as nearly as can be determined, all eighty-four people had lunch there three days ago.”

Marissa finally looked up at Dubchek, who was staring at the ceiling. When he realized that she had finished speaking, he said, “What about contact with any of the patients in the L.A. or St. Louis episodes?”

“None,” said Marissa. “At least none that we can discover.”

“Have you sent blood samples to Tad?”

“Yes,” said Marissa.

Cyril headed for the door. “I think you should redouble your efforts to associate this outbreak with one of the other two. There has to be a connection.”

“What about the cafeteria?” asked Marissa.

“You’re on your own there,” said Dubchek. “Ebola has never been spread by food, so I can’t see how the cafeteria could be associated

.” He pulled open the door. “Still, the coincidence is curious, and I suppose you’ll follow your own instincts no matter what I recommend. Just be sure you exhaust the possibilities of a connection with L.A. or St. Louis.”

For a moment Marissa stared at the closed door. Then she looked back at her summary sheet and the huge pile of histories. It was depressing.

Almost as if Cyrill’s last words had been a challenge, Marissa decided to visit the cafeteria, which had been built as a separate wing over a garden courtyard. The double doors leading to the large room were closed, and on the right one a notice had been tacked up stating: CLOSED BY ORDER OF STATE HEALTH COMMISSIONER. Marissa tried the door. It was unlocked.

Inside, the room was spotlessly clean and furnished in stainless steel and molded plastic. Directly ahead of Marissa was the steam table, with stacks of trays at one end and a cash register at the other.

A second set of double doors, with little round windows, was located behind the steam table and led to the kitchen. Just as Marissa was deciding whether to go through or not, they opened, and a stout but attractive middle-aged woman appeared and called out to Marissa that the cafeteria was closed. Marissa introduced herself and asked if she could ask the woman a few questions.

“Certainly,” replied the woman, who explained with a faint Scandinavian accent that her name was Jana Beronson and that she was the cafeteria manager. Marissa followed her into her office, a windowless cubicle whose walls were filled with schedules and menus.

After some polite conversation, Marissa asked to see the lunch menu for three days ago. Miss Beronson got it out of the file, and Marissa scanned the page. It was a usual cafeteria menu, with three entrées, two soups and a selection of desserts.

“Is this all the food offered?”

“Those are all the specials,” answered Miss Beronson. “Of course we always offer a selection of sandwiches and salads and beverages.”

Marissa asked if she could have a copy of the menu, and Miss

Beronson took the paper and left the office to Xerox it. Marissa decided that she would go back to each of the initial cases and ask what they had eaten for lunch three days ago. She would also question a control group made up of people who ate from the same menu but who did not become ill.

Miss Beronson returned with the copy. As she folded the paper, Marissa said, “One of your employees was stricken, wasn’t she?”

“Maria Gonzales,” said Miss Beronson.

“What was her job here?”

“She worked either the steam table or the salad bar,” answered Miss Beronson.

“Could you tell me what she did on the day in question?” asked Marissa.

Getting up, Miss Beronson went over to one of the large scheduling boards on her wall. “Desserts and salads,” she told Marissa.

Marissa wondered if they should test the whole cafeteria staff for Ebola antibodies. Although Ralph had been joking when he’d suggested an “Ebola Mary,” perhaps it was possible, although it had not been the case in Africa.

“Would you like to see our facility?” asked Miss Beronson, trying to be helpful.

For the next thirty minutes Marissa was given a grand tour of the cafeteria, including both the kitchen and the dining area. In the kitchen, she saw the walk-in cooler, the food preparation area and the huge gas ranges. In the dining area, she walked along the steam table, peering into silverware bins and lifting the covers of the salad-dressing canisters.

“Would you like to see the stock rooms?” Miss Beronson asked, when they were done.

Marissa declined, deciding it was time to start checking to see what the initial Ebola patients had chosen from the menu in her purse.

Marissa rocked back in the swivel chair and rubbed her eyes. It was 11:00A.M. of her second day in Phoenix, and she’d only managed four hours of sleep the previous night. She’d been assigned one of the examination alcoves in the OB-GYN clinic, and every time someone went by, she’d been awakened.

Behind her, Marissa heard the door open. She turned and saw Dubchek holding up the front page of a local newspaper. The headline read: CDC BELIEVES HIDDEN SOURCE OF EBOLA IN U.S.A.

Looking at his expression, Marissa guessed that he was, as usual, angry.

“I told you not to talk to the press.”

“I haven’t.”

Dubchek smacked the paper. “It says right here that Dr. Blumenthal of the CDC said that there is a reservoir of Ebola in the U.S.A., and that the outbreak in Phoenix was spread by either contaminated food or water. Marissa, I don’t mind telling you that you are in a lot of trouble!”

Marissa took the paper and read the article quickly. It was true that her name was mentioned, but only at second hand. The source of the information was a Bill Freeman, one of the doctors who’d helped take patient histories. She pointed this fact out to Dubchek.

“Whether you talk directly to the press, or to an intermediary who talks to the press, is immaterial. The effect is the same. It suggests that the CDC supports your opinions, which is not the case. We have no evidence of a food-related problem, and the last thing we want to do is cause mass hysteria.”

Marissa bit her lower lip. It seemed that every time the man spoke to her, it was to find fault. If only she’d been able to handle the episode in the hotel room in L.A. in a more diplomatic way, perhaps he wouldn’t be so angry. After all, what did he expect-that she wouldn’t talk to anyone? Any team effort meant communication.

Controlling her temper, Marissa handed Dubchek a paper. “I think you should take a look at this.”

“What is it?” he asked irritably.

“It’s the result of a second survey of the initially infected patients. At least those who were able to respond. You’ll notice that one fact jumps out. Except for two people who couldn’t remember, all the patients had eaten custard in the hospital cafeteria four days ago. You’ll remember that in my first survey, lunch in the cafeteria on that day was the only point of commonality. You’ll also see that a group of twenty-one people who ate in the cafeteria on the same day but did not eat the custard remained healthy.”

Dubchek put the paper down on the counter top. “This is a wonderful exercise for you, but you are forgetting one important fact:

Ebola is not a food-borne disease.”

“I know that,” said Marissa. “But you cannot ignore the fact that this outbreak started with an avalanche of cases, then slowed to a trickle with isolation.”

Dubchek took a deep breath. “Listen,” he said condescendingly, “Dr. Layne has confirmed your finding that one of the initial patients had been to the San Diego conference with Richter and Zabriski. That fact forms the basis of the official position: Richter brought the

virus back from its endemic habitat in Africa and spread it to other doctors in San Diego, including the unfortunate ophthalmologist here at the Medica Hospital.”

“But that position ignores the known incubation period for hemorrhagic fever.”

“I know there are problems,” admitted Dubchek tiredly, “but at the moment that’s our official position. I don’t mind you following up the food-borne possibility, but for God’s sake stop talking about it. Remember that you are here in an official capacity. I don’t want you conveying your personal opinions to anyone, particularly the press. Understood?”

Marissa nodded.

“And there are a few things I’d like you to do,” continued Dubchek. “I’d like you to contact the Health Commissioner’s Office and ask that they impound the remains of some of the victims. We’ll want some gross specimens to be frozen and sent back to Atlanta.”

Marissa nodded again. Dubchek started through the door, then hesitated. Looking back he said more kindly, “You might be interested to know that Tad has started to compare the Ebola from the L.A., St. Louis and Phoenix outbreaks. His preliminary work suggests that they are all the same strain. That does support the opinion that it is really one related outbreak.” He gave Marissa a brief, self-satisfied expression, then left.

Marissa closed her eyes and thought about what she could do. Unfortunately, no custard had been left over from the fatal lunch. That would have made things too easy. Instead, she decided to draw blood on all the food staff to check for Ebola antibodies. She also decided to send samples of the custard ingredients to Tad to check for viral contamination. Yet something told her that even if the custard were involved she wasn’t going to learn anything from the ingredients. The virus was known to be extremely sensitive to heat, so it could only have been introduced into the custard after it had cooled. But how could that be? Marissa stared at her stacks of papers. The missing clue had to be there. If she’d only had a bit more experience, perhaps she’d be able to see it.

8

May 16

IT WAS NEARLY A month later, and Marissa was finally back in Atlanta in her little office at the CDC. The epidemic in Phoenix had finally been contained, and she, Dubchek and the other CDC doctors in the hospital had been allowed to leave, still without any final answers as to what caused the outbreak or whether it could be prevented from reoccurring.

As the outbreak had wound down, Marissa had become eager to get home and back to work at the Center. Yet now that she was there, she was not happy. With tear-filled eyes, due to a mixture of discouragement and anger, she was staring down at the memo which began, “I regret to inform you…” Once again Dubchek had turned down her proposal to work with Ebola in the maximum containment lab, despite her continued efforts to develop laboratory skills in relation to handling viruses and tissue cultures. This time she felt truly discouraged. She still felt that the outbreak in Phoenix had been connected to the custard dessert, and she desperately wanted to vindicate her position by utilizing animal systems. She thought that if she could understand the transmission of the virus she might develop an insight into where it came from in the first place.

Marissa glanced at the large sheets of paper that traced the transmission of the Ebola virus from one generation to another in all three U.S. outbreaks. She had also constructed less complete but similar diagrams concerning the transmission of Ebola in the first two outbreaks in 1976. Both had occurred almost simultaneously, one in Yambuku, Zaire, and the other in Nzara, Sudan. She’d gotten the material from raw data stored in the CDC archives.

One thing that interested her particularly about the African experience was that a reservoir had never been found. Even the discovery that the virus causing Lassa Hemorrhagic Fever resided in a particular species of domestic mouse had not helped in locating Ebola’s reservoir. Mosquitoes, bedbugs, monkeys, mice, rats-all sorts of creatures were suspected and ultimately ruled out. It was a mystery in Africa just as it was in the United States.

Marissa tossed her pencil onto her desk with a sense of frustration. She had not been surprised by Dubchek’s letter, especially since he had progressively distanced her from his work in Phoenix and had sent her back to Atlanta the day the quarantine had been lifted. He seemed determined to maintain the position that the Ebola virus had been brought back from Africa by Dr. Richter, who had then passed it on to his fellow ophthalmologists at the eyelid surgery conference in San Diego. Dubchek was convinced that the long incubation period was an aberration.

Impulsively, Marissa got to her feet and went to find Tad. He’d helped her write up the proposal, and she was confident he’d allow her to cry on his shoulder now that it had been shot down.

After some protest, Marissa managed to drag him away from the virology lab to get an early lunch.

“You’ll just have to try again,” Tad said when she told him the bad news straight off.

Marissa smiled. She felt better already. Tad’s naiveté was so endearing.

They crossed the catwalk to the main building. One benefit of eating early was that the cafeteria line was nonexistent.

As if to further torment Marissa, one of the desserts that day was caramel custard. When they got to a table and began unloading their trays, Marissa asked if Tad had had a chance to check the custard ingredients that she’d sent back from Arizona.

“No Ebola,” he said laconically.

Marissa sat down, thinking how simple it would have been to find some hospital food supply company was the culprit. It would have explained why the virus repeatedly appeared in medical settings.

“What about the blood from the food service personnel?”

“No antibodies to Ebola,” Tad said. “But I should warn you:

Dubchek came across the work and he was pissed. Marissa, what’s going on between you two? Did something happen in Phoenix?”

Marissa was tempted to tell Tad the whole story, but again she decided it would only make a bad situation worse. To answer his question, she explained that she’d been the inadvertent source of a news story that differed from the official CDC position.

Tad took a bite of his sandwich. “Was that the story that said there was a hidden reservoir of Ebola in the U.S.?”

Marissa nodded. “I’m certain the Ebola was in the custard. And I’m convinced that we’re going to face further outbreaks.”

Tad shrugged. “My work seems to back up Dubchek’s position. I’ve been isolating the RNA and the capsid proteins of the virus from all three outbreaks, and astonishingly enough, they are all identical. It means that the exact same strain of virus is involved, which in turn means that what we are experiencing is one outbreak. Normally, Ebola mutates to some degree. Even the two original African outbreaks, in Yambuku and Nzara, which were eight hundred fifty kilometers apart, involved slightly different strains.”

“But what about the incubation period?” protested Marissa. “During each outbreak, the incubation period of new cases was always two to four days. There were three months between the conference in San Diego and the problem in Phoenix.”

“Okay,” said Tad, “but that is no bigger a stumbling block than figuring out how the virus could have been introduced into the custard, and in such numbers.”

“That’s why I sent you the ingredients.”

“But Marissa,” said Tad, “Ebola is inactivated even at sixty degrees centigrade. Even if it had been in the ingredients the cooking process would have made it noninfective.”

“The lady serving the dessert got sick herself. Perhaps she contaminated the custard.”

“Fine,” said Tad, rolling his pale blue eyes. “But how did she get a virus that lives only in darkest Africa.”

“I don’t know,” admitted Marissa. “But I’m sure she didn’t attend the San Diego eye meeting.”

They ate in exasperated silence for a few minutes.

“There is only one place I know the dessert server could have gotten the virus,” said Marissa at last.

“And where’s that?”

“Here at the CDC.”

Tad put down the remains of his sandwich and looked at Marissa with wide eyes. “Good God, do you know what you’re suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Marissa. “I’m merely stating a

fact. The only known reservoir for Ebola is in our own maximum containment lab.”

Tad shook his head in disbelief.

“Tad,” said Marissa in a determined tone, “I’d like to ask you for a favor. Would you get a printout from the Office of Biosafety of all the people going in and out of the maximum containment lab for the last year?”

“I don’t like this,” said Tad, leaning back in his seat.

“Oh, come on,” said Marissa. “Asking for a printout won’t hurt anyone. I’m sure you can think up a reason to justify such a request.”

“The printout is no problem,” said Tad. “I’ve done that in the past. What I don’t like is encouraging your paranoid theory, much less getting between you and the administration, particularly Dubchek.”

“Fiddlesticks,” said Marissa. “Getting a printout hardly puts you between me and Dubchek. Anyway, how will he know? How will anybody know?”

“True,” said Tad reluctantly. “Provided you don’t show it to anybody.”

“Good,” said Marissa, as if the matter had been decided. “I’ll stop over at your apartment this evening to pick it up. How’s that?”

“Okay, I guess.”

Marissa smiled at Tad. He was a wonderful friend, and she had the comfortable feeling that he’d do almost anything for her, which was reassuring, because she had yet another favor to ask him. She wanted to get back into the maximum containment lab.

After giving the emergency brake a good yank, Marissa alighted from her red Honda. The incline of the street was steep, and she’d taken the precaution of turning the wheels against the curb. Although she and Tad had gone out any number of times, Marissa had never been to his apartment. She climbed the front steps and struggled to make out the appropriate buzzer. It was almost 9:00 P.M. and was already dark.

The moment she saw Tad, Marissa knew that he had gotten what she wanted. It was the way he smiled when he opened the door.

Marissa plopped herself into an overstuffed sofa and waited expectantly as Tad’s big tabby rubbed sensuously against her leg.

With a self-satisfied grin, Tad produced the computer printout. “I told them that we were doing an internal audit of frequency of entry,” said Tad. “They didn’t raise an eyebrow.”

Turning back the first page, Marissa noted that there was an entry for each visit to the maximum containment lab, with name, time in

and time out all duly noted. She traced down the list with her index finger, recognizing only a few of the names. The one that appeared most often was Tad’s.

“Everybody knows I’m the only one who works at the CDC,” he said with a laugh.

“I never expected the list to be so long,” complained Marissa, flipping through the pages. “Does everyone on here still have access?”

Tad leaned against Marissa’s shoulder and scanned the pages. “Go back to the beginning.”

“That guy,” said Tad, pointing to the name, “Gaston Dubois no longer has access. He was from the World Health Organization and was in town only for a short visit. And this fellow”-Tad pointed to an entry for one Harry Longford-“was a graduate student from Harvard, and he had access only for a specific project.”

Marissa noticed Colonel Woolbert’s name listed a number of times, as well as that of a man called Heberling, who seemed to have visited fairly regularly until September. Then his name disappeared. Marissa asked about him.

“Heberling used to work here,” explained Tad. “He took another job six months ago. There’s been a bit of mobility in academic virology of late because of the huge grants generated by the AIDS scare.”

“Where’d he go?” asked Marissa, going on to the next page.

Tad shrugged. “Darned if I know. I think he wanted to go to Ft. Detrick, but he and Woolbert never hit it off. Heberling’s smart but not the easiest guy in the world to get along with. There was a rumor he wanted the job Dubchek got. I’m glad he didn’t get it. He could have made my life miserable.”

Marissa flipped through the list to January and pointed at a name that appeared several times over a two-week period: Gloria French. “Who’s she?” asked Marissa.

“Gloria’s from parasitic diseases. She uses the lab on occasion for work on vector-borne viral problems.”

Marissa rolled up the list.

“Satisfied?” asked Tad.

“It’s a little more than I expected,” admitted Marissa. “But I appreciate your effort. There is another thing, though.”

“Oh, no,” said Tad.

“Relax,” said Marissa. “You told me that the Ebola in L.A., St. Louis and Phoenix were all the identical strains. I’d sure like to see exactly how you determined that.”

“But all that data is in the maximum containment lab,” said Tad weakly.

“So?” said Marissa.

“But you haven’t gotten clearance,” Tad reminded her. He knew what was coming.

“I don’t have clearance to do a study,” said Marissa. “That means I can’t go in by myself. But it’s different if I’m with you, especially if there is no one else there. There wasn’t any problem after my last visit, was there?”

Tad had to agree. There hadn’t been any trouble, so why not do it again? He’d never been specifically told that he could not take other staff members into the lab, so he could always plead ignorance. Although he knew he was being manipulated, it was hard to withstand Marissa’s charm. Besides, he was proud of his work and wanted to show it off. He was confident she’d be impressed.

“All right,” he said. “When do you want to go?”

“How about right now?” said Marissa.

Tad looked at his watch. “I suppose it’s as good a time as any.”

“Afterwards we can go for a drink,” said Marissa. “It’ll be my treat.”

Marissa retrieved her purse, noting that Tad’s keys and his access card were on the same shelf by the door.

En route to the lab in Marissa’s car, Tad began a complicated description of his latest work. Marissa listened, but just barely. She had other interests in the lab.

As before, they signed in at the front entrance of the CDC and took the main elevators as if they were going up to Marissa’s office. They got off on her floor, descended a flight of stairs, then crossed the catwalk to the virology building. Before Tad had a chance to open the huge steel door, Marissa repeated his code number: 43-23-39.

Tad looked at her with respect. “God, what a memory!”

“You forget,” said Marissa. “Those are my measurements.”

Tad snorted.

When he switched on the lights and the compressors in the outer staging area, Marissa felt the same disquiet she’d felt on her first visit. There was something frightening about the lab. It was like something out of a science-fiction movie. Entering the dressing rooms, they changed in silence, first donning the cotton scrub suits, then the bulky plastic ones. Following Tad’s lead, Marissa attached her air hose to the manifold.

“You’re acting like an old pro,” said Tad as he turned on the

interior lights in the lab, then motioned for Marissa to detach her air hose and step into the next chamber.

As Marissa waited for Tad in the small room where they would get their phenolic-disinfectant shower on the way out, she experienced an uncomfortable rush of claustrophobia. She fought against it, and it lessened as they entered the more spacious main lab. Her practical work with viruses helped since a lot of the equipment was more familiar. She now recognized the tissue culture incubators and even the chromatography units.

“Over here,” called Tad, after they’d both hooked up to an appropriate manifold. He took her to one of the lab benches, where there was a complicated setup of exotic glassware, and began explaining how he was separating out the RNA and the capsid proteins from the Ebola virus.

Marissa’s mind wandered. What she really wanted to see was where they stored the Ebola. She eyed the bolted insulated door. If she had to guess, she’d guess someplace in there. As soon as Tad paused, she asked if he would show her where they kept it.

He hesitated for a moment. “Over there,” he said, pointing toward the insulated door.

“Can I see?” asked Marissa.

Tad shrugged. Then he motioned for her to follow him. He waddled over to the side of the room and pointed out an appliance next to one of the tissue-culture incubators. He wasn’t pointing at the insulated door.

“In there?” questioned Marissa with surprise and disappointment. She’d expected a more appropriate container, one that would be safely locked away behind a bolted door.

“It looks just like my parents’ freezer.”

“It is,” said Tad. “We just modified it to take liquid-nitrogen coolant.” He pointed to the intake and exhaust hoses. “We keep the temperature at minus seventy degrees centigrade.”

Around the freezer and through the handle was a link chain secured by a combination lock. Tad lifted the lock and twirled the dial. “Whoever set this had a sense of humor. The magic sequence is

6-6-6.”

“It doesn’t seem very secure,” said Marissa.

Tad shrugged. “Who’s going to go in here, the cleaning lady?”

“I’m serious,” said Marissa.

“No one can get in the lab without an access card,” said Tad, opening the lock and pulling off the chain.

Big deal, thought Marissa.

Tad lifted the top of the freezer, and Marissa peered within, half expecting something to jump out at her. What she saw through a frozen mist were thousands upon thousands of tiny plastic-capped vials in metal trays.

With his plastic-covered hand, Tad wiped the frost off the inside of the freezer’s lid, revealing a chart locating the various viruses. He found the tray number for Ebola, then run-imaged in the freezer like a shopper looking for frozen fish.

“Here’s your Ebola,” he said, selecting a vial and pretending to toss it at Marissa.

In a panic, she threw her hands out to catch the vial. She heard Tad’s laughter, which sounded hollow and distant coming from within his suit. Marissa felt a stab of irritation. This was hardly the place for such antics.

Holding the vial at arm’s length, Tad told Marissa to take it, but she shook her head no. An irrational fear gripped her.

“Doesn’t look like much,” he said, pointing at the bit of frozen material, “but there’s about a billion viruses in there.”

“Well, now that I’ve seen it, I guess you may as well put it away.” She didn’t talk as he replaced the vial in the metal tray, closed the freezer and redid the bicycle lock. Marissa then glanced around the lab. It was an alien environment, but the individual pieces of equipment seemed relatively commonplace.

“Is there anything here that’s not in any regular lab?”

“Regular labs don’t have air locks and a negative pressure system,” he said.

“No, I meant actual scientific equipment.”

Tad looked around the room. His eyes rested on the protective hoods over the workbenches in the center island. “Those are unique,” he said, pointing. “They’re called type 3 HEPA filter systems. Is that what you mean?”

“Are they only used for maximum containment labs?” asked Marissa.

“Absolutely. They have to be custom constructed.”

Marissa walked over to the hood in place over Tad’s setup. It was like a giant exhaust fan over a stove. “Who makes them?” she asked.

“You can look,” said Tad, touching a metal label affixed to the side. It said: Lab Engineering, South Bend, Indiana. Marissa wondered if anyone had ordered similar hoods lately. She knew the idea in the back of her mind was crazy, but ever since she’d decided that the Phoenix episode had been related to the custard, she hadn’t been able to stop wondering if any of the outbreaks had been deliberately

caused. Or, if not, whether any physician had been doing some research which had gotten out of control.

“Hey, I thought you were interested in my work,” said Tad suddenly.

“I am,” insisted Marissa. “I’m just a little overwhelmed by this place.”

After a hesitation for Tad to remember where he was in his lecture, he recommenced. Marissa’s mind wandered. She made a mental note to write to Lab Engineering.

“So what do you think?” asked Tad when he finally finished.

“I’m impressed,” said Marissa, “… and very thirsty. Now let’s go get those drinks.”

On the way out, Tad took her into his tiny office and showed her how closely all his final results matched each other, suggesting that all the outbreaks were really one and the same.

“Have you compared the American strain with the African ones?” she asked him.

“Not yet,” admitted Tad.

“Do you have the same kind of charts or maps for them?”

“Sure do,” said Tad. He stepped over to his file cabinet and pulled out the lower drawer. It was so full that he had trouble extracting several manila folders. “Here’s the one for Sudan and here’s Zaire.” He stacked them on the desk and sat back down.

Marissa opened the first folder. The maps looked similar to her, but Tad pointed out significant differences in almost all of the six Ebola proteins. Then Marissa opened the second folder. Tad leaned forward and picked up one of the Zaire maps and placed it next to the ones he’d just completed.

“I don’t believe this.” He grabbed several other maps and placed them in a row on his desk.

“What?” asked Marissa.

“I’m going to have to run all these through a spectrophotometer tomorrow just to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“There’s almost complete structural homology here,” said Tad.

“Please,” said Marissa. “Speak English! What are you saying?”

“The Zaire ‘76 strain is exactly the same as the strain from your three outbreaks.”

Marissa and Tad stared at one another for a few moments. Finally Marissa spoke. “That means there’s been just one outbreak from Zaire 1976 through Phoenix 1987.”

“That’s impossible,” said Tad, looking back at the maps.

“But that’s what you’re saying,” said Marissa.

“I know,” said Tad. “I guess it’s just a statistical freak.” He shook his head, his pale blue eyes returning to Marissa. “It’s amazing, that’s all I can say.”

After they crossed the catwalk to the main building, Marissa made Tad wait in her office while she sat and typed a short letter.

“Who’s so important that you have to write him tonight?” asked Tad.

“I just wanted to do it while it was on my mind,” said Marissa. She pulled the letter out of the machine and put it in an envelope. “There. It didn’t take too long, did it?” She searched her purse for a stamp. The addressee was Lab Engineering in South Bend, Indiana.

“Why on earth are you writing to them?” Tad asked.

“I want some information about a type 3 HEPA filtration system.” Tad stopped. “Why?” he asked with a glimmer of concern. He knew Marissa was impulsive. He wondered if taking her back into the maximum containment lab had been a mistake.

“Come on!” laughed Marissa. “If Dubchek continues to refuse me authorization to use the maximum containment lab, I’ll just have to build my own.”

Tad started to say something, but Marissa grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the elevators.

9

May 17

MARISSA GOT UP EARLY with a sense of purpose. It was a glorious spring morning, and she took full advantage of it by going jogging with Taffy. Even the dog seemed to revel in the fine weather, running circles about Marissa as they crisscrossed the neighborhood.

Back home again, Marissa showered, watched a portion of the Today Show while she dressed, and was on her way to the Center by eight-thirty. Entering her office, she deposited her purse in her file cabinet and sat down at her desk. She wanted to see if there was enough information available on Ebola viruses for her to calculate the statistical probability of the U.S. strain being the same as the 1976 Zairean strain. If the chances were as infinitesimally small as she guessed, then she’d have a scientific basis for her growing suspicions.

But Marissa did not get far. Centered on her green blotter was an interoffice memo. Opening it, she found a terse message telling her to come to Dr. Dubchek’s office immediately.

She crossed to the virology building. At night the enclosed catwalk made Marissa feel safe, but in the bright sun the wire mesh made her feel imprisoned. Dubchek’s secretary had not come in yet, so Marissa knocked on the open door.

The doctor was at his desk, hunched over correspondence. When he looked up he told her to close the door and sit down. Marissa did as she was told, conscious the whole time of Dubchek’s onyx eyes following her every move.

The office was as disorganized as ever, with stacks of reprinted scientific articles on every surface. Clutter was obviously Dubchek’s style even though he personally was always impeccably dressed.

“Dr. Blumenthal,” he began, his voice low and controlled. “I understand that you were in the maximum containment lab last night.”

Marissa said nothing. Dubchek wasn’t asking her a question; he was stating fact.

“I thought I made it clear that you were not allowed in there until you’d been given clearance. I find your disregard for my orders upsetting, to say the least, especially after getting Tad to do unauthorized studies on food samples from Medica Hospital.”

“I’m trying to do my job as best I can,” said Marissa. Her anxiety was fast changing to anger. It seemed Dubchek never intended to forget that she’d snubbed him in L.A.

“Then your best is clearly not good enough,” snapped Dubchek. “And I don’t think you recognize the extent of the responsibility that the CDC has to the public, especially given the current hysteria over AIDS.”

“Well, I think you are wrong,” said Marissa, returning Dubchek’s glare. “I take our responsibility to the public very seriously, and I believe that minimizing the threat of Ebola is a disservice. There is no scientific reason to believe that we’ve seen the end of the Ebola outbreaks, and I’m doing my best to trace the source before we face another.”

“Dr. Blumenthal, you are not in charge here!”

“I’m well aware of that fact, Dr. Dubchek. If I were, I surely wouldn’t subscribe to the official position that Dr. Richter brought Ebola back from Africa and then experienced an unheard of six-week incubation period. And if Dr. Richter didn’t bring back the virus, the only known source of it is here at the CDC!”

“It is just this sort of irresponsible conjecture that I will not tolerate.”

“You can call it conjecture,” said Marissa, rising to her feet. “I call it fact. Even Ft. Detrick doesn’t have any Ebola. Only the CDC has the virus, and it is stored in a freezer closed with an ordinary bicycle lock. Some security for the deadliest virus known to man! And if you think the maximum containment lab is secure, just remember that even I was able to get into it.”

Marissa was still trembling when she entered the University Hospital a few hours later and asked directions to the cafeteria. As she walked down the hallway she marveled at herself, wondering where

she’d gotten the strength. She’d never been able to stand up to any authority as she’d just done. Yet she felt terrible, remembering Dubchek’s face as he’d ordered her out of his office. Uncertain what to do and sure that her EIS career had come to an end, Marissa had left the Center and driven aimlessly around until she remembered Ralph and decided to ask his advice. She’d caught him between surgical cases, and he’d agreed to meet her for lunch.

The cafeteria at the University Hospital was a pleasant affair with yellow-topped tables and white tiled floor. Marissa saw Ralph waving from a corner table.

In typical style, Ralph stood as Marissa approached, and pulled out her chair. Although close to tears, Marissa smiled. His gallant manners seemed at odds with his scrub clothes.

“Thanks for finding time to see me,” she said. “I know how busy you are.”

“Nonsense,” said Ralph. “I always have time for you. Tell me what’s wrong. You sounded really upset on the phone.”

“Let’s get our food first,” said Marissa.

The interruption helped; Marissa was in better control of her emotions when they returned with the trays. “I’m having some trouble at the CDC,” she confessed. She told Ralph about Dubchek’s behavior in Los Angeles and the incident in the hotel room. “From then on things have been difficult. Maybe I didn’t handle things as well as I could have, but I don’t think it was all my responsibility. After all, it was a type of sexual harassment.”

“That doesn’t sound like Dubchek,” said Ralph with a frown.

“You do believe me, don’t you?” asked Marissa.

“Absolutely,” Ralph assured her. “But I’m still not sure you can blame all your problems on that unfortunate episode. You have to remember that the CDC is a government agency even if people try to ignore the fact.” Ralph paused to take a bite of his sandwich. Then he said, “Let me ask you a question.”

“Certainly,” said Marissa.

“Do you believe that I am your friend and have your best interests at heart?”

Marissa nodded, wondering what was coming.

“Then I can speak frankly,” said Ralph. “I have heard through the grapevine that certain people at the CDC are not happy with you because you’ve not been ‘toeing the official line.’ I know you’re not asking my advice, but I’m giving it anyway. In a bureaucratic system, you have to keep your own opinions to yourself until the right time.

To put it baldly, you have to learn to shut up. I know, because I spent some time in the military.”

“Obviously you are referring to my stand on Ebola,” said Marissa defensively. Even though she knew Ralph was right, what he’d just said hurt. She’d thought that in general she’d been doing a good job.

“Your stand on Ebola is only part of the problem. You simply haven’t been acting as a team player.”

“Who told you this?” asked Marissa challengingly.

“Telling you isn’t going to solve anything,” Ralph said.

“Nor is my staying silent. I cannot accept the CDC’s position on Ebola. There are too many inconsistencies and unanswered questions, one of which I learned only last night during my unauthorized visit to the maximum containment lab.”

“And what was that?”

“It’s known that Ebola mutates constantly. Yet we are faced with the fact that the three U.S. strains are identical, and more astounding, they are the same as the strain in an outbreak in Zaire, in 1976. To me, it doesn’t sound as if the disease is spreading naturally.”

“You may be right,” said Ralph. “But you are in a political situation and you have to act accordingly. And even if there is another outbreak, which I hope there won’t be, I have full confidence that the CDC will be capable of controlling it.”

“That is a big question mark,” said Marissa. “The statistics from Phoenix were not encouraging. Do you realize there were three hundred forty-seven deaths and only thirteen Survivors?”

“I know the stats,” said Ralph. “But with eighty-four initial cases, I think you people did a superb job.”

“I’m not sure you’d think it was so superb if the outbreak had been in your hospital,” said Marissa.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Ralph. “The idea of further Ebola outbreaks terrifies me. Maybe that’s why I want to believe in the official position myself. If it’s correct, the threat may be over.”

“Damn,” said Marissa with sudden vehemence. “I’ve been so concerned about myself, I completely forgot about Tad. Dubchek must know it was Tad who took me into the maximum containment lab. I’d better get back and check on him.”

“I’ll let you go on one condition,” said Ralph. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Let me take you to dinner.”

“You are a dear. Dinner tomorrow night would be a treat.” Marissa leaned forward and kissed Ralph’s forehead. He was so kind. She wished she found him more attractive.

As Marissa drove back to the CDC she realized her anger at Dubchek had been replaced by fear for her job and guilt about her behavior. Ralph was undoubtedly correct: She’d not been acting as a team player.

She found Tad in the virology lab, back at work on a new AIDS project. AIDS was still the Center’s highest priority. When he caught sight of Marissa he shielded his face with his arms in mock defensiveness.

“Was it that bad?” asked Marissa.

“Worse,” said Tad.

“I’m sorry,” said Marissa. “How did he find out?”

“He asked me,” said Tad.

“And you told him?”

“Sure. I wasn’t about to lie. He also asked if I was dating you.”

“And you told him that, too?” asked Marissa, mortified.

“Why not?” said Tad. “At least it reassured him that I don’t take just anybody off the street into the maximum containment lab.”

Marissa took a deep breath. Maybe it was best to have everything out in the open. She put her hand on Tad’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry I’ve caused you trouble. Can I try to make it up to you by fixing supper tonight?”

Tad’s face brightened. “Sounds good to me.”

At six o’clock Tad came by Marissa’s office and then followed her in his car to the supermarket. Tad voted for double loin lamb chops for their meal and waited while the butcher cut them, leaving Marissa to pick up potatoes and salad greens.

When the groceries were stashed in Marissa’s trunk, Tad insisted that he stop and pick up some wine. He said he’d meet her back at her house, giving her a chance to get the preparations going.

It had begun to rain, but as Marissa listened to the rhythm of the windshield wipers, she felt more hopeful than she had all day. It was definitely better to have everything out in the open, and she’d talk to Dubchek first thing Monday and apologize. As two adults, they surely could straighten things out.

She stopped at a local bakery and picked up two napoleons. Then, puffing in behind her house, she backed up toward the kitchen door to have the least distance to carry the groceries. She was pleased that she’d beat Tad. The sun had not set yet, but it was as dark as if it had. Marissa had to fumble with her keys to put the proper one in the lock. She turned on the kitchen light with her elbow before dumping the two large brown bags on the kitchen table. As she deactivated the alarm, she wondered why Taffy hadn’t rushed to greet her. She called out for the dog, wondering if the Judsons had taken her for some reason. She called again, but the house remained unnaturally still.

Walking down the short hall to the living room, she snapped on the light next to the couch. “Ta-a-a-affy,” she called, drawing out the dog’s name. She started for the stairs in case the dog had inadvertently shut herself into one of the upstairs bedrooms as she sometimes did. Then she saw Taffy lying on the floor near the window, her head bent at a strange and alarming angle.

“Taffy!” cried Marissa desperately, as she ran to the dog and sank to her knees. But before she could touch the animal she was grabbed from behind, her head jerked upright with such force that the room spun. Instinctively, she reached up and gripped the arm, noticing that it felt like wood under the cloth of the suit. Even with all her strength she could not so much as budge the man’s grip on her neck. There was a ripping sound as her dress tore. She tried to twist around to see her attacker, but she couldn’t.

The panic button for the alarm system was in her jacket pocket. She reached in and juggled it in her fingers, desperately trying to depress the plunger. Just as she succeeded, a blow to her head sent her sprawling to the floor. Listening to the ear-splitting noise, Marissa tried to struggle to her feet. Then she heard Tad’s voice shouting at the intruder. She turned groggily, to see him struggling with a tall, heavyset man.

Covering her ears against the incessant screech of the alarm, she rushed to the front door and threw it open, screaming for help from the Judsons. She ran across the lawn and through the shrubs that divided the properties. As she neared the Judsons’ house, she saw Mr. Judson opening his front door. She yelled for him to call the police but didn’t wait to explain. She turned on her heel and ran back to her house. The sound of the alarm echoed off the trees that lined the street. Bounding up the front steps two at a time, she returned to her living room, only to find it empty. Panicked, she rushed down the hail to the kitchen. The back door was ajar. Reaching over to the panel, she turned the alarm off.

“Tad,” she shouted, going back to the living room and looking into the first-floor guest room. There was no sign of him.

Mr. Judson came running through the open front door, brandishing a poker. Together they went through the kitchen and out the back door.

“My wife is calling the police,” said Mr. Judson.

“There was a friend with me,” gasped Marissa, her anxiety increasing. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Here comes someone,” said Mr. Judson, pointing.

Marissa saw a figure approaching through the evergreen trees. It was Tad. Relieved, she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, asking him what had happened.

“Unfortunately, I got knocked down,” he told her, touching the side of his head. “When I got up, the guy was outside. He had a car waiting.”

Marissa took Tad into the kitchen and cleaned the side of his head with a wet towel. It was only a superficial abrasion.

“His arm felt like a club,” said Tad.

“You’re lucky you’re not hurt worse. You never should have gone after him. What if he’d had a gun?”

“I wasn’t planning on being a hero,” said Tad. “And all he had with him was a briefcase.”

“A briefcase? What kind of burglar carries a briefcase?”

“He was well dressed,” said Tad. “I’d have to say that about him.”

“Did you get a good enough look at him to identify him?” asked Mr. Judson.

Tad shrugged. “I doubt it. It all happened so quickly.”

In the distance, they heard the sound of a police siren approaching. Mr. Judson looked at his watch. “Pretty good response time.”

“Taffy!” cried Marissa, suddenly remembering the dog. She ran back into the living room, with Tad and Mr. Judson close behind.

The dog had not moved, and Marissa bent down and gingerly lifted the animal. Taffy’s head dangled limply. Her neck had been broken.

Up until that moment Marissa had maintained cool control of her emotions. But now she began to weep hysterically. Mr. Judson finally coaxed her into releasing the dog. Tad put his arms around her, trying to comfort her as best he could.

The police car pulled up with lights flashing. Two uniformed policemen came inside. To their credit, Marissa found them sensitive and efficient. They found the point of entry, the broken living room window, and explained to Marissa the reason why the alarm hadn’t sounded initially: The intruder had knocked out the glass and had climbed through without lifting the sash.

Then, in a methodical fashion, the police took all the relevant information about the incident. Unfortunately, neither Marissa nor Tad could give much of a description of the man, save for his stiff arm. When asked if anything was missing, Marissa had to say that she had not yet checked. When she told them about Taffy, she began to cry again.

The police asked her if she’d like to go to the hospital, but she declined. Then, after saying they’d be in touch, the police left. Mr. Judson also departed, telling Marissa to call if she needed anything and not to concern herself about Taffy’s remains. He also said he’d see about getting her window repaired tomorrow.

Suddenly Marissa and Tad found themselves alone, sitting at the kitchen table with the groceries still in their bags.

“I’m sorry about all this,” said Marissa, rubbing her sore head.

“Don’t be silly,” protested Tad. “Why don’t we just go out for dinner?”

“I really am not up to a restaurant. But I don’t want to stay here either. Would you mind if I fixed the meal at your place?”

“Absolutely not. Let’s go!”

“Just give me a moment to change,” said Marissa.

r

10

May 20

IT WAS MONDAY MORNING, and Marissa was filled with a sense of dread. It had not been a good weekend. Friday had been the worst day of her life, starting with the episode with Dubchek, then being attacked and losing Taffy. Right after the assault, she’d minimized the emotional impact, only to pay for it later. She’d made dinner for Tad and had stayed at his house, but it had been a turbulent evening filled with tears and rage at the intruder who’d killed her dog.

Saturday had found her equally upset, despite first Tad’s and then the Judsons’ attempts to cheer her up. Saturday night she’d seen Ralph as planned, and he’d suggested she ask for some time off. He even offered to take her to the Caribbean for a few days. He felt that a short vacation might let things at the CDC cool down. When Marissa insisted that she go back to work, he suggested she concentrate on something other than Ebola, but Marissa shook her head to that, too. “Well at least don’t make more waves,” Ralph counseled. In his opinion, Dubchek was basically a good man who was still recovering from the loss of the wife he’d adored. Marissa should give him another chance. On this point at least, Marissa agreed.

Dreading another confrontation with Dubchek, but resolved to try her best to make amends, Marissa went to her office only to find another memorandum already waiting for her on her desk. She assumed it was from Dubchek, but when she picked up the envelope, she noticed it was from Dr. Carbonara, the administrator of the EIS program and hence Marissa’s real boss. With her heart pounding, she opened the envelope and read the note which said that she should come to see him immediately. That didn’t sound good.

Dr. Carbonara’s office was on the second floor, and Marissa used the stairs to get there, wondering if she were about to be fired. The office was large and comfortable, with one wall dominated by a huge map of the world with little red pins indicating where EIS officers were currently assigned. Dr. Carbonara was a fatherly, soft-spoken man with a shock of unruly gray hair. He motioned for Marissa to sit while he finished a phone call. When he hung up, he smiled warmly. The smile made Marissa relax a little. He didn’t act as though he were about to terminate her employment. Then he surprised her by commiserating with her about the assault and the death of her dog. Except for Tad, Ralph and the Judsons, she didn’t think anyone knew.

“I’m prepared to offer you some vacation time,” continued Dr. Carbonara. “After such a harrowing experience a change of scene might do you some good.”

“I appreciate your consideration,” said Marissa. “But to tell you the truth, I’d rather keep working. It will keep my mind occupied, and I’m convinced the outbreaks are not over.”

Dr. Carbonara took up a pipe and went through the ritual of lighting it. When it was burning to his satisfaction he said, “Unfortunately, there are some difficulties relating to the Ebola situation. As of today we are transferring you from the Department of Virology to the Department of Bacteriology. You can keep your same office. Actually it’s closer to your new assignment than it was to your old one. I’m certain you will find this new position equally as challenging as your last.” He puffed vigorously on his pipe, sending up clouds of swirling gray smoke.

Marissa was devastated. In her mind the transfer was tantamount to being fired.

“I suppose I could tell you all sorts of fibs,” said Dr. Carbonara, “but the truth of the matter is that the head of the CDC, Dr. Morrison, personally asked that you be moved out of virology and away from the Ebola problem.”

“I don’t buy that,” snapped Marissa. “It was Dr. Dubchek!”

“No, it wasn’t Dr. Dubchek,” said Dr. Carbonara with emphasis. Then he added: “… although he was not against the decision.”

Marissa laughed sarcastically.

“Marissa, I am aware that there has been an unfortunate clash of personalities between you and Dr. Dubchek, but-“

“Sexual harassment is more accurate,” interjected Marissa. “The man has made it difficult for me ever since I stepped on his ego by resisting his advances.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” said Dr. Carbonara calmly. “Perhaps it would be in everyone’s best interests if I told you the whole story. You see, Dr. Morrison received a call from Congressman Calvin Markham, who is a senior member of the House Appropriations Subcommittee for the Department of Health and Human Services. As you know, that subcommittee handles the CDC’s annual appropriations. It was the congressman who insisted that you be put off the Ebola team, not Dr. Dubchek.”

Marissa was again speechless. The idea of a United States Congressman calling the head of the CDC to have her removed from the Ebola investigation seemed unbelievable. “Congressman Markham used my name specifically?” asked Marissa, when she found her voice.

“Yes,” said Dr. Carbonara. “Believe me, I questioned it, too.”

“But why?” asked Marissa.

“There was no explanation,” said Dr. Carbonara. “And it was more of an order than a request. For political reasons, we have no choice. I think you can understand.”

Marissa shook her head. “That’s just it, I don’t understand. But it does make me change my mind about that vacation offer. I think I need the time after all.”

“Splendid,” said Dr. Carbonara. “I’ll arrange it-effective immediately. After a rest you can make a fresh start. I want to reassure you that we have no quarrel with your work. In fact we have been impressed by your performance. Those Ebola outbreaks had us all terrified. You’ll be a significant addition to the staff working on enteric bacteria, and I’m sure you will enjoy the woman who heads the division, Dr. Harriet Samford.”

Marissa headed home, her mind in turmoil. She’d counted on work to distract her from Taffy’s brutal death; and while she’d thought there’d been a chance she’d be fired, she’d never considered she’d be given a vacation. Vaguely she wondered if she should ask Ralph if he was serious about that Caribbean trip. Yet such an idea was not without disadvantages. While she liked him as a friend, she wasn’t sure if she were ready for anything more.

Her empty house was quiet without Taffy’s exuberant greeting. Marissa had an overwhelming urge to go back to bed and pull the covers over her head, but she knew that would mean yielding to the

depression she was determined to fight off. She hadn’t really accepted Dr. Carbonara’s story as an excuse for shuffling her off the Ebola case. A casual recommendation from a congressman usually didn’t produce such fast results. She was sure if she checked she would discover Markham was a friend of Dubchek’s. Eyeing her bed with its tempting ruffled pillows, she resolved not to give in to her usual pattern of withdrawal. The last reactive depression, after Roger left, was too fresh in her mind. Instead of just giving in and accepting the situation, which was what she’d done then, she told herself that she had to do something. The question was what.

Sorting her dirty clothes, intending to do a therapeutic load of wash, she spotted her packed suitcase. It was like an omen.

Impulsively, she picked up the phone and called Delta to make a reservation for the next flight to Washington, D.C.

“There’s an information booth just inside the door,” said the knowledgeable cab driver as he pointed up the stairs of the Cannon Congressional Office Building.

Once inside, Marissa went through a metal detector while a uniformed guard checked the contents of her purse. When she asked for Congressman Markham’s office she was told that it was on the fifth floor. Following the rather complicated directions-it seemed that the main elevators only went to the fourth floor-Marissa was struck by the general dinginess of the interior of the building. The walls of the elevator were actually covered with graffiti.

Despite the circuitous route, she had no trouble finding the office. The outer door was ajar, so she walked in unannounced, hoping an element of surprise might work in her favor. Unfortunately, the congressman was not in.

“He’s not due back from Houston for three days. Would you like to make an appointment?”

“I’m not sure,” said Marissa, feeling a little silly after having flown all the way from Atlanta without checking to see if the man would be in town, let alone available.

“Would you care to talk with Mr. Abrams, the congressman’s administrative assistant?”

“I suppose,” said Marissa. In truth she hadn’t been certain how to confront Markham. If she merely asked if he had tried to do Dubchek a favor by figuring out a way to remove her from the Ebola case, obviously he would deny it. While she was still deliberating, an earnest young man came up to her and introduced himself as Michael Abrams. “What can I do for you?” he asked, extending a hand. He

looked about twenty-five, with dark, almost black, hair and a wide grin that Marissa suspected could not be as sincere as it first seemed.

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” she asked him. They were standing directly in front of the secretary’s desk.

“By all means,” said Michael. He guided her into the congressman’s office, a large, high-ceilinged room with a huge mahogany desk flanked by an American flag on one side and a Texas state flag on the other. The walls were covered with framed photos of the congressman shaking hands with a variety of celebrities including all the recent presidents.

“My name is Dr. Blumenthal,” began Marissa as soon as she was seated. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

Michael shook his head. “Should it?” he asked in a friendly fashion.

“Perhaps,” said Marissa, unsure of how to proceed.

“Are you from Houston?” asked Michael.

“I’m from Atlanta,” said Marissa. “From the CDC.” She watched to see if there was any unusual response. There wasn’t.

“The CDC,” repeated Michael. “Are you here in an official capacity?”

“No,” admitted Marissa. “I’m interested in the congressman’s association with the Center. Is it one of his particular concerns?”

“I’m not sure ‘particular’ is the right word,” said Michael warily. “He’s concerned about all areas of health care. In fact Congressman Markham has introduced more health-care legislation than any other congressman. He’s recently sponsored bills limiting the immigration of foreign medical school graduates, a bill for compulsory arbitration of malpractice cases, a bill establishing a federal ceiling on malpractice awards and a bill limiting federal subsidy of HMO-Health Maintenance Organization-development…” Michael paused to catch his breath.

“Impressive,” said Marissa. “Obviously he takes a real interest in American medicine.”

“Indeed,” agreed Michael. “His daddy was a general practitioner, and a fine one at that.”

“But as far as you know,” continued Marissa, “he does not concern himself with any specific projects at the CDC.”

“Not that I know of,” said Michael.

“And I assume that not much happens around here without your knowing about it.”

Michael grinned.

“Well, thank you for your time,” said Marissa, getting to her feet.

Intuitively, she knew she wasn’t going to learn anything more from Michael Abrams.

Returning to the street, Marissa felt newly despondent. Her sense of doing something positive about her situation had faded. She had no idea if she should hang around Washington for three days waiting for Markham’s return, or if she should just go back to Atlanta.

She wandered aimlessly toward the Capitol. She’d already checked into a hotel in Georgetown, so why not stay? She could visit some museums and art galleries. But as she gazed at the Capitol’s impressive white dome, she couldn’t help wondering why a man in Markham’s position should bother with her, even if he were a friend of Dubchek’s. Suddenly, she got the glimmer of an idea. Flagging a cab, she hopped in quickly and said, “Federal Elections Commission; do you know where that is?”

The driver was a handsome black who turned to her and said, “Lady, if there’s some place in this city that I don’t know, I’ll take you there for nothin’.”

Satisfied, Marissa settled back and let the man do the driving. Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of a drab semi-modern office building in a seedy part of downtown Washington. A uniformed guard paid little heed to Marissa other than to indicate she had to sign the register before she went in. Uncertain which department she wanted, Marissa ended up going into a first-floor office. Four women were typing busily behind gray metal desks.

As Marissa approached, one looked up and asked if she could be of assistance.

“Maybe,” said Marissa with a smile. “I’m interested in a congressman’s campaign finances. I understand that’s part of the public record.”

“Certainly is,” agreed the woman, getting to her feet. “Are you interested in contributions or disbursements?”

“Contributions, I guess,” said Marissa with a shrug.

The woman gave her a quizzical look. “What’s the congressman’s name?”

“Markham,” said Marissa. “Calvin Markham.”

The woman padded over to a round table covered with black loose-leaf books. She found the appropriate one and opened it to the M’s, explaining that the numbers following the congressman’s name referred to the appropriate microfilm cassettes. She then led Marissa to an enormous cassette rack, picked out the relevant one and loaded it into the microfilm reader. “Which election are you interested in?” she asked, ready to punch in the document numbers.

“The last one, I suppose,” said Marissa. She still wasn’t sure what she was after-just some way to link Markham either to Dubchek or the CDC.

The machine whirred to life, documents flashing past on the screen so quickly that they appeared as a continuous blur. Then the woman pressed a button and showed Marissa how to regulate the speed. “It’s five cents a copy, if you want any. You put the money in here.” She pointed to a coin slot. “If you run into trouble, just yell.”

Marissa was intrigued by the apparatus as well as the information available. As she reviewed the names and addresses of all the contributors to Markham’s considerable reelection coffers, Marissa noted that he appeared to get fiscal support on a national scale, not just from his district in Texas. She did not think that was typical, except perhaps for the Speaker of the House or the Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. She also noted that a large percentage of the donors were physicians, which made sense in light of Markham’s record on health legislation.

The names were alphabetized, and though she carefully scanned the D’s, she failed to find Dubchek’s name. It had been a crazy idea anyway, she told herself. Where would Cyrill get the money to influence a powerful congressman? He might have some hold on Markham, but not a financial one. Marissa laughed. To think she considered Tad naive!

Still, she made a copy of all the contributors, deciding to go over the list at her leisure. She noticed that one doctor with six children had donated the maximum amount allowable for himself and for each member of his family. That was real support. At the end of the individual contributors was a list of corporate supporters. One called the “Physicians’ Action Congress Political Action Committee” had donated more money than any number of Texas oil companies. Going back to the previous election, Marissa found the same group. Clearly it was an established organization, and it had to be high on Markham.

After thanking the woman for her help, Marissa went outside and hailed a cab. As it inched through rush-hour traffic, Marissa looked again at the list of individual names. Suddenly, she almost dropped the sheets. Dr. Ralph Hempston’s name leapt out from the middle of a page. It was a coincidence, to be sure, and made her feel what a small world it was, but thinking it over she was not surprised. One of the things that had always troubled her about Ralph was his conservatism. It would be just like him to support a congressman like Markham.

It was five-thirty when Marissa crossed the pleasant lobby of her hotel. As she passed the tiny newsstand, she saw the Washington Post’s headline: EBOLA STRIKES AGAIN!

Like iron responding to a magnet, Marissa was pulled across the room. She snatched up a paper and read the subhead: NEWEST SCOURGE TERRIFIES THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE.

Digging up change from the bottom of her purse to buy the paper, she continued reading as she walked toward the elevators. There were three presumed cases of Ebola at the Berson Clinic Hospital in Abington, Pennsylvania, just outside of Philadelphia. The article described widespread panic in the suburban town.

As she pressed the button for her floor, Marissa saw that Dubchek was quoted as saying that he believed the outbreak would be contained quickly and that there was no need for concern: The CDC had learned a lot about controlling the virus from the three previous outbreaks.

Peter Carbo, one of Philadelphia’s Gay Rights leaders, was quoted as saying that he hoped Jerry Falwell had noticed that not a single known homosexual had contracted this new and far more dangerous disease that had come from the same area of Africa as AIDS had.

Back in her room, Marissa turned to an inside photo section. The picture of the police barricade at the entrance to the Berson Hospital reminded her of Phoenix. She finished the article and put the paper down on the bureau, looking at herself in the mirror. Although she was on vacation and was officially off the Ebola team, she knew she had to get the details firsthand. Her commitment to the Ebola problem left her with little choice. She rationalized her decision to go by telling herself that Philadelphia was practically next door to Washington; she could even go by train. Turning into the room, Marissa began collecting her belongings.

Leaving the station in Philadelphia, Marissa took a cab to Abington, which turned out to be a far more expensive ride than she’d anticipated. Luckily she had some traveler’s checks tucked in her wallet, and the driver was willing to accept them. Outside the Berson Hospital, she was confronted by the police barricade pictured in the newspaper. Before she attempted to cross, she asked a reporter if the place was quarantined. “No,” said the man, who had been trying to interview a doctor who had just sauntered past. The police were there in case a quarantine was ordered. Marissa flashed her CDC identity card at one of the guards. He admitted her without question.

The hospital was a handsome, new facility much like the sites of the

Ebola outbreaks in L.A. and Phoenix. As Marissa headed toward the information booth, she wondered why the virus seemed to strike these elegant new structures rather than the grubby inner-city hospitals in New York or Boston.

There were a lot of people milling about the lobby, but nothing like the chaos that she’d seen in Phoenix. People seemed anxious but not terrified. The man at the information booth told Marissa that the cases were in the hospital’s isolation unit on the sixth floor. Marissa had started toward the elevators when the man called out, “I’m sorry, but there are no visitors allowed.” Marissa flashed her CDC card again. “I’m sorry, doctor. Take the last elevator. It’s the only one that goes to six.”

When Marissa got off the elevator, a nurse asked her to don protective clothing immediately. She didn’t question Marissa as to why she was there. Marissa was particularly glad to put on the mask; it gave her anonymity as well as protection.

“Excuse me, are any of the CDC doctors available?” she asked, startling the two women gossiping behind the nurses’ station.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t hear you coming,” said the older of the two. “The CDC people left about an hour ago,” said the other. “I think they said they were going down to the administrator’s office. You could try there.”

“No matter,” said Marissa. “How are the three patients?”

“There are seven now,” said the first woman. Then she asked Marissa to identify herself.

“I’m from the CDC,” she said, purposely not giving her name. “And you?”

“Unfortunately, we’re the RN’s who normally run this unit. We’re used to isolating patients with lowered resistance to disease, not cases of fatal contagious disease. We’re glad you people are here.”

“It is a little frightening at first,” commiserated Marissa, as she boldly entered the nurses’ station. “But if it’s any comfort, I’ve been involved with all three previous outbreaks and haven’t had any problems.” Marissa did not admit to her own fear. “Are the charts here or in the rooms?”

“Here,” said the older nurse, pointing to a corner shelf.

“How are the patients doing?”

“Terribly. I know that doesn’t sound very professional, but I’ve never seen sicker people. We’ve used round-the-clock special-duty nursing, but no matter what we try, they keep getting worse.”

Marissa well understood the nurse’s frustration. Terminal patients generally depressed the staff.

“Do either of you know which patient was admitted first?” The older nurse came over to where Marissa was sitting and pushed the charts around noisily before pulling out one and handing it to Marissa. “Dr. Alexi was the first. I’m surprised he’s lasted the day.”

Marissa opened the chart. There were all the familiar symptoms but no mention of foreign travel, animal experiments or contact with any of the three previous outbreaks. But she did learn that Alexi was the head of ophthalmology! Marissa was amazed; was Dubchek right after all?

Unsure of how long she dared stay in the unit, Marissa opted to see the patient right away. Donning an extra layer of protective clothing, including disposable goggles, she entered the room.

“Is Dr. Alexi conscious?” she asked the special-duty nurse, whose name was Marie. The man was lying silently on his back, mouth open, staring at the ceiling. His skin was already the pasty yellow shade that Marissa had learned to associate with near-death.

“He goes in and out,” said the nurse. “One minute he’s talking, the next he’s unresponsive. His blood pressure has been falling again. I’ve been told that he’s a ‘no code.’”

Marissa swallowed nervously. She’d always been uncomfortable with the order not to resuscitate.

“Dr. Alexi,” called Marissa, gingerly touching the man’s arm. Slowly he turned his head to face her. She noticed a large bruise beneath his right eye.

“Can you hear me, Dr. Alexi?”

The man nodded.

“Have you been to Africa recently?”

Dr. Alexi shook his head “no.”

“Did you attend an eyelid surgery conference in San Diego a few months back?”

The man mouthed the word “yes.”

Perhaps Dubchek really was right. It was too much of a coincidence: each outbreak’s primary victim was an ophthalmologist who’d attended that San Diego meeting.

“Dr. Alexi,” began Marissa, choosing her words carefully. “Do you have friends in L.A., St. Louis or Phoenix? Have you seen them recently?”

But before Marissa had finished, he’d slipped back into unconsciousness.

“That’s what he’s been doing,” said the nurse, moving to the opposite side of the bed to take another blood-pressure reading.

Marissa hesitated. Perhaps she’d wait a few minutes and try to question him again. Her attention returned to the bruise beneath the man’s eye, and she asked the nurse if she knew how he’d gotten it.

“His wife told me he’d been robbed,” said the nurse. Then she added, “His blood pressure is even lower.” She shook her head in dismay as she put down the stethoscope.

“He was robbed just before he got sick?” asked Marissa. She wanted to be sure she’d heard correctly.

“Yes. I think the mugger hit him in the face even though he didn’t resist.”

An intercom sputtered to life. “Marie, is there a doctor from the CDC in your room?”

The nurse looked from the speaker to Marissa, then back to the speaker again. “Yes, there is.”

Over the continued crackle of static, indicating that the line was still open, Marissa could hear a woman saying, “She’s in Dr. Alexi’s room.” Another voice said, “Don’t say anything! I’ll go down and talk with her.”

Marissa’s pulse raced. It was Dubchek! Frantically, she looked around the room as if to hide. She thought of asking the nurse if there were another way out, but she knew it would sound ridiculous, and it was too late. She could already hear footsteps in the hall.

Cyrill walked in, adjusting his protective goggles.

“Marie?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the nurse.

Marissa started for the door. Dubchek grabbed her by the arm. Marissa froze. It was ridiculous to have a confrontation of this sort in the presence of a dying man. She was scared of Dubchek’s reaction, knowing how many rules she had probably broken. At the same time, she was angry at having been forced to break them.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled. He would not let go of her arm.

“Have some respect for the patient, if not for anyone else,” said Marissa, finally freeing herself and leaving the room. Dubchek was right behind her. She pulled off the goggles, the outer hood and gown, then the gloves, and deposited them all in the proper receptacle. Dubchek did the same.

“Are you making a career out of flouting authority?” he demanded, barely controlling his fury. “Is this all some kind of game to you?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” said Marissa. She could tell that Dubchek, for the moment, was beyond any reasonable discussion. She started toward the elevators.

“What do you mean, you’d ‘rather not talk about it’?” yelled Dubchek. “Who do you think you are?”

He grabbed Marissa’s arm again and yanked her around to face

“I think we should wait until you are a little less upset,” Marissa managed to say as calmly as she could.

“Upset?” exploded Dubchek. “Listen, young lady, I’m calling Dr. Morrison first thing in the morning to demand that he make you take a forced leave of absence rather than a vacation. If he refuses, I’ll demand a formal hearing.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Marissa maintaining a fragile control. “There is something extraordinary about these Ebola outbreaks, and I think you don’t want to face it. Maybe a formal hearing is what we need.”

“Get out of here before I have you thrown out,” snapped Dubchek.

“Gladly,” said Marissa.

As she left the hospital, Marissa realized she was shaking. She hated confrontations, and once again she was torn between righteous anger and guilty humiliation. She was certain she was close to the real cause of the outbreaks, but she still could not clearly formulate her suspicions-not even to her own satisfaction, much less someone else’s.

Marissa tried to think it through on her way to the airport, but all she could think of was her ugly scene with Dubchek. She couldn’t get it out of her head. She knew she had taken a risk by going into the Berson Hospital when she was specifically unauthorized to do so. Cyril! had every right to be enraged. She only wished she had been able to talk to him about the strange fact that each of the index cases had been mugged just before becoming ill.

Waiting for her plane back to Atlanta, Marissa went to a pay phone to call Ralph. He answered promptly, saying he’d been so worried about her that he’d gone to her house when she had failed to answer the phone. He asked her where she’d been, pretending to be indignant that she’d left town without telling him.

“Washington and now Philadelphia,” explained Marissa, “but I’m on my way home.”

“Did you go to Philly because of the new Ebola outbreak?”

“Yes,” said Marissa. “A lot has happened since we talked last. It’s a long story, but the bottom line is that I wasn’t supposed to go, and when Dubchek caught me, he went crazy. I may be out of a job. Do you know anybody who could use a pediatrician who’s hardly been used?”

“No problem,” said Ralph with a chuckle. “I could get you a job right here at the University Hospital. What’s your flight number? I’ll drive out to the airport and pick you up. I’d like to hear about what was so important that you had to fly off without telling me you were going.”

“Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” said Marissa. “My Honda is waiting for me.”

“Then stop over on your way home.”

“It might be late,” said Marissa, thinking that it might be more pleasant at Ralph’s than in her own empty house. “I’m planning on stopping by the CDC. There is something I’d like to do while Dubchek is out of town.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good idea,” said Ralph. “What are you up to?”

“Believe me, not much,” said Marissa. “I just want one more quick visit to the maximum containment lab.”

“I thought you didn’t have authorization.”

“I can manage it, I think,” she told him.

“My advice is to stay away from the CDC,” said Ralph. “Going into that lab is what caused most of your problems in the first place.”

“I know,” admitted Marissa, “but I’m going to do it anyway. This Ebola affair is driving me crazy.”

“Suit yourself, but stop over afterwards. I’ll be up late.”

“Ralph?” Marissa said, screwing up her courage to ask the question. “Do you know Congressman Markham?”

There was a pause. “I know of him.”

“Have you ever contributed to his campaign fund?”

“What an odd question, particularly for a long-distance call.”

“Have you?” persisted Marissa.

“Yes,” said Ralph. “Several times. I like the man’s position on a lot of medical issues.”

After promising again to see him that night, Marissa hung up feeling relieved. She was pleased she’d broached the subject of Markham and was even happier that Ralph had been so forthright about his contributions.

Once the plane took off, though, her sense of unease returned. The theory still undeveloped in the back of her mind was so terrifying, she was afraid to try to flesh it out.

More horrifying yet, she was beginning to wonder if her house being broken into and her dog killed was something more than the random attack she’d taken it for.

11

May 20-Evening

MARISSA LEFT THE AIRPORT and headed directly for Tad’s house. She’d not called, thinking it would be better just to drop in, even though it was almost nine.

She pulled up in front of his house, pleased to see lights blazing in the living room on the second floor.

“Marissa!” said Tad, opening the front door of the building, a medical journal in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d like to see the man of the house,” said Marissa. “I’m doing a home survey on peanut butter preference.”

“You’re joking.”

“Of course I’m joking,” said Marissa with exasperation. “Are you going to invite me in or are we going to spend the night standing here?” Marissa’s new assertiveness surprised even herself.

“Sorry,” said Tad, stepping aside. “Come on in.”

He’d left his apartment door open, so after climbing the stairs Marissa entered ahead of him. Glancing at the shelf in the foyer, she saw that his lab access card was there.

“I’ve been calling you all day,” said Tad. “Where have you been?”

“Out,” said Marissa vaguely. “It’s been another interesting day.”

“I was told you’d been transferred from Special Pathogens,” said Tad. “Then I heard a rumor that you were on vacation. What’s happening?”

“I wish I knew,” said Marissa, dropping onto Tad’s low-slung sofa.

His cat materialized out of nowhere and leaped into her lap. “What about Philadelphia? Is it Ebola?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Tad, sitting down next to her. “The call came in on Sunday. I got samples this morning and they’re loaded with the virus.”

“Is it the same strain?”

“I won’t know that for some time,” said Tad.

“You still think it’s all coming from that San Diego eye meeting?” she asked him.

“I don’t know,” said Tad with a slight edge to his voice. “I’m a virologist, not an epidemiologist.”

“Don’t be cross,” said Marissa. “But you don’t have to be an epidemiologist to recognize that something strange is happening. Do you have any idea why I’ve been transferred?”

“I’d guess that Dubchek requested it.”

“Nope,” said Marissa. “It was a U.S. Congressman from Texas named Markham. He called Dr. Morrison directly. He sits on the appropriations committee that decides on the CDC budget, so Morrison had to comply. But that’s pretty weird, isn’t it? I mean I’m only an EIS officer.”

“I suppose it is,” agreed Tad. He was becoming more and more nervous.

Marissa reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“All this worries me,” said Tad. “I like you; you know that. But trouble seems to follow you around, and I don’t want to be drawn into it. I happen to like my job.”

“I don’t want to involve you, but I need your help just one last time. That’s why I came here so late.”

Tad shook off her hand. “Please don’t ask me to break any more rules.”

“I have to get back into the maximum containment lab,” said Marissa. “Only for a few minutes.”

“No!” said Tad decisively. “I simply can’t take the risk. I’m sorry.”

“Dubchek is out of town,” said Marissa. “No one will be there at this hour.”

“No,” said Tad. “I won’t do it.”

Marissa could tell he was adamant. “Okay,” she said. “I understand.”

“You do?” said Tad, surprised that she’d given in so easily.

“I really do, but if you can’t take me into the lab, at least you could get me something to drink.”

“Of course,” said Tad, eager to please. “Beer, white wine. What’s your pleasure?”

“A beer would be nice,” said Marissa.

Tad disappeared into the kitchen. When she heard the sound of the refrigerator opening, Marissa stood and quickly tiptoed to the front door. Glancing at the shelf, she was pleased to see Tad had two access cards. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice that she’d borrowed one, she thought to herself, as she slipped one of the two into her jacket pocket. She was back on the couch before Tad returned with the beers.

Tad handed Marissa a bottle of Rolling Rock, keeping one for himself. He also produced a package of potato chips that he popped open and set on the coffee table. To humor him, Marissa asked about his latest research, but it was obvious she wasn’t paying close attention to his answers.

“You don’t like Rolling Rock?” asked Tad, noticing that she’d hardly touched hers.

“It’s fine,” said Marissa, yawning. “I guess I’m more tired than thirsty. I suppose I ought to be going.”

“You’re welcome to spend the night,” said Tad.

Marissa pushed herself to her feet. “Thanks, but I really should go home.”

“I’m sorry about the lab,” said Tad, bending to kiss her.

“I understand,” said Marissa. She headed out the door before he could get his arms around her.

Tad waited until he heard the outer door close before going back inside his apartment. On the one hand, he was glad that he’d had the sense to resist her manipulations. On the other, he felt badly that he’d disappointed her.

From where Tad was standing he was looking directly at the shelf where he’d left his access card and keys. Still thinking about Marissa, he realized that one of his cards was gone. He carefully looked through all the junk he’d removed from his pockets and then searched the shelves above and below. His spare card was gone.

“Damn!” said Tad. He should have expected a trick when she’d given up so easily. Opening the door, he ran down the stairs and out into the street, hoping to catch her, but the street was empty. There wasn’t even a breath of air in the humid night. The leaves on the trees hung limp and still.

Tad went back to his apartment, trying to decide what to do. He checked the time, then went to the phone. He liked Marissa, but she’d gone too far. He picked up the phone and began dialing.

Driving to the Center, Marissa hoped Dubchek hadn’t warned the guards she was no longer working in virology. But when she flashed her identity card the guard on duty just smiled and said, “Working late again?”

So far so good; but as a precaution, Marissa first went to her own office in case the man decided to follow her. She turned her light on and sat behind her desk, waiting, but there were no footsteps in the hall.

There were a few letters on her blotter: two advertisements from pharmaceutical houses and a third from Lab Engineering in South Bend. Marissa ripped this third one open. A salesman thanked her for her inquiry concerning their type 3 HEPA Containment Hoods and went on to say that such equipment was only built to custom specifications. If she was interested, she should retain an architectural firm specializing in health-care construction. He ended by answering the question that had prompted her letter: Lab Engineering had built only one system in the last year and that had been for Professional Labs in Grayson, Georgia.

Marissa looked at a map of the United States that her office’s previous occupant had left hanging and which she’d never bothered to take down. Poring over Georgia, she tried to find Grayson. It wasn’t there. She searched through her drawers, thinking she had a Georgia road map somewhere. Finally she found it in the file cabinet. Grayson was a small town a few hours east of Atlanta. What on earth were they doing with a type 3 HEPA Containment Hood?

After putting the road map back in the file cabinet and the letter in her blazer pocket, Marissa checked the hallway. It was quiet, and the elevator was still at her floor; it had not been used. She decided that the time was right to make her move.

Taking the stairs to descend one floor, Marissa left the main building and crossed to the virology building by the catwalk. She was pleased that there were no lights on in any of the offices. When she passed Dubchek’s door, she stuck out her tongue. It was childish but satisfying. Turning the corner, she confronted the airtight security door. Involuntarily, she held her breath as she inserted Tad’s card and tapped out his access number: 43-23-39. There was a resounding mechanical click and the heavy door swung open, Marissa caught a whiff of the familiar phenolic disinfectant.

Marissa felt her pulse begin to race. As she crossed the threshold, she had the uncomfortable feeling she was entering a house of horrors. The dimly lit cavernous two-story space, filled with its confusion of pipes and their shadows, gave the impression of a gigantic spider web.

As she’d seen Tad do on her two previous visits, Marissa opened the small cabinet by the entrance and threw the circuit breakers, turning on the lights, and activating the compressors and ventilation equipment. The sound of the machinery was much louder than she’d recalled, sending vibrations through the floor.

Alone, the futuristic lab was even more intimidating than Marissa remembered. It took all her courage to proceed, knowing in addition that she was breaking rules when she was already on probation. Every second, she feared that someone would discover her.

With sweaty palms, she grasped the releasing wheel on the airtight door to the dressing rooms and tried to turn it. The wheel would not budge. Finally, using all her strength, she got it to turn. The seal broke with a hiss and the door swung outward. She climbed through, hearing the door close behind her with an ominous thud.

She felt her ears pop as she scrambled into a set of scrub clothes. The second door opened more easily, but the fewer problems she encountered, the more she worried about the real risks she was taking.

Locating a small plastic isolation suit among the twenty or so hanging in the chamber, Marissa found it much harder to get into without Tad’s help. She was sweaty by the time she zipped it closed.

At the switch panel, she only turned on the lights for the main lab; the rest were unnecessary. She had no intention of visiting the animal area. Then, carrying her air hose, she crossed the disinfecting chamber and climbed through the final airtight door into the main part of the lab.

Her first order of business was to hook up to an appropriately positioned manifold and let the fresh air balloon out her suit and clear her mask. She welcomed the hissing sound. Without it the silence had been oppressive. Orienting herself in relation to all the high-tech hardware, she spotted the freezer. She was already sorry that she’d not turned on all the lights. The shadows at the far end of the lab created a sinister backdrop for the deadly viruses, heightening Marissa’s fear.

Swinging her legs wide to accommodate the inflated and bulky isolation suit, Marissa started for the freezer, again marveling that with all the other “high-tech,” up-to-the-minute equipment, they had settled for an ordinary household appliance. Its existence in the maximum containment lab was as unlikely as an old adding machine at a computer convention.

Just short of the freezer, Marissa paused, eyeing the insulated bolted door to the left. After learning the viruses were not stored behind it, she had wondered just what it did protect. Nervously, she reached out and drew the bolt. A cloud of vapor rushed out as she opened the door and stepped inside. For a moment she felt as if she had stepped into a freezing cloud. Then the heavy door swung back against her air hose, plunging her into darkness.

When her eyes adjusted, she spotted what she hoped was a light switch and turned it on. Overhead lights flicked on, barely revealing a thermometer next to the switch. Bending over she was able to make out that it registered minus fifty-one degrees centigrade.

“My God!” exclaimed Marissa, understanding the source of the vapor: as soon as the air at room temperature met such cold, the humidity it contained sublimated to ice.

Turning around and facing the dense fog, Marissa moved deeper into the room, fanning the air with her arms. Almost immediately a ghastly image caught her eye. She screamed, the sound echoing horribly within her suit. At first she thought she was seeing ghosts. Then she realized that, still more horrible, she was facing a row of frozen, nude corpses, only partially visible through the swirling mist. At first she thought they were standing on their own in a row, but it turned out they were hung like cadavers for an anatomy course-caliper-like devices thrust into the ear canals. As she came closer, Marissa recognized the first body. For a moment she thought she was going to pass out: it was the Indian doctor whom Marissa had seen in Phoenix, his face frozen into an agonized death mask.

There were at least a half-dozen bodies. Marissa didn’t count. To the right, she saw the carcasses of monkeys and rats, frozen in equally grotesque positions. Although Marissa could understand that such freezing was probably necessary for the viral study of gross specimens, she had been totally unprepared for the sight. No wonder Tad had discouraged her from entering.

Marissa backed out of the room, turning off the light, and closing and bolting the door. She shivered both from distaste and actual chill.

Chastised for her curiosity, Marissa turned her attention to the freezer. In spite of the clumsiness afforded by the plastic suit and her own tremulousness, she worked the combination on the bicycle lock and got it off with relative ease. The link chain was another story. It was knotted, and she had to struggle to get it through the handle. It took longer than she would have liked, but at last it was free and she lifted the lid.

Rubbing the frost off the inner side of the lid, Marissa tried to

decipher the index code. The viruses were in alphabetical order. “Ebola, Zaire ‘76” was followed by “97, E11-E48, F1-F12.” Marissa guessed that the first number referred to the appropriate tray and that the letters and numbers that followed located the virus within the tray. Each tray held at least one thousand samples, which meant that there were fifty individual vials of the Zaire ‘76 strain.

As carefully as possible, Marissa lifted tray 97 free and set it on a nearby counter top while she scanned the slots. Each was filled with a small black-topped vial. Marissa was both relieved and disappointed. She located the Zaire ‘76 strain and lifted out sample Eli. The tiny frozen ball inside looked innocuous, but Marissa knew that it contained millions of tiny viruses, any one or two of which, when thawed, were capable of killing a human being.

Slipping the vial back in its slot, Marissa lifted the next, checking to see if the ice ball appeared intact. She continued this process without seeing anything suspicious until finally she reached vial E39. The vial was empty!

Quickly, Marissa went through the rest of the samples: All were as they should be. She held vial E39 up to the light, squinting through her face mask to make sure she wasn’t making a mistake. But there was no doubt: there was definitely nothing in the vial. Although one of the scientists might have misplaced a sample, she could think of no reason a vial might be empty. All her inarticulated fears that the outbreaks had stemmed from accidental or even deliberate misuse of a CDC vial filled with an African virus seemed to be confirmed.

A sudden movement caught Marissa’s attention. The wheel to the door leading into the disinfecting chamber was turning! Someone was coming in!

Marissa was gripped with a paralyzing panic. For a moment she just stared helplessly. When she’d recovered enough to move, she put the empty vial back in the tray, returned it to the freezer and closed the lid. She thought about running, but there was no place to go. Maybe she could hide. She looked toward the darkened area by the animal cages. But there was no time. She heard the seal break on the door and two people entered the lab, dressed anonymously in plastic isolation suits. The smaller of the two seemed familiar with the lab, showing his larger companion where he should plug in his air hose.

Terrified, Marissa stayed where she was. There was always the faint chance that they were CDC scientists checking on some ongoing experiment. That hope faded quickly when she realized they were coming directly toward her. It was at that point she noticed that the smaller individual was holding a syringe. Her eyes flicked to his companion, who lumbered forward, his elbow fixed at an odd angle, stirring an unpleasant memory.

Marissa tried to see their faces, but the glare off the face plates made it impossible.

“Blumenthal?” asked the smaller of the two in a harsh, masculine voice. He reached out and rudely angled Marissa’s mask against the light. Apparently he recognized her, because he nodded to his companion, who reached for the zipper on her suit.

“No!” screamed Marissa, realizing these men were not security. They were about to attack her just as she’d been attacked in her house. Desperately, she snatched the bicycle lock from the freezer and threw it. The confusion gave Marissa just enough time to detach her air hose and run toward the animal area.

The larger man was after her in less than a second, but as he was about to grab her, he was pulled up short by his air hose, like a dog on a leash.

Marissa moved as quickly as she could into the dark corridors between the stacked animal cages, hearing the frightened chatter of monkeys, rats, chickens and God knew what else. Trapped within the confines of the lab, she was desperate. Hoping to create a diversion, she began opening the monkey cages. The animals who weren’t too sick to move, immediately fled. Soon, her breathing became labored.

Finding an air manifold, which was not easy in the darkness, Marissa plugged in, welcoming the rush of cool, dry air. It was obvious the larger man was unaccustomed to being in the lab, but she didn’t really see that it would give her much of an advantage. She moved down the line of cages to where she could see into the main area of the room. Silhouetted against the light, he was moving toward her. She had no idea if he could see her or not, but she stayed still, mentally urging the man down a different aisle. But he was unswerving. He was walking right at her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Reaching up, she detached her air hose and tried to move around the far end of the row of cages. Before she could, the man caught her left arm.

Marissa looked up at her assailant. All she could see was the slight gleam of his face plate. The strength of his grip made resistance seem useless, but over his shoulder she glimpsed a red handle marked Emergency Use Only.

In desperation, Marissa reached up with her free hand and pulled the lever down. Instantly an alarm sounded, and a sudden shower of

phenolic disinfectant drenched the whole lab, sending up clouds of mist and reducing the visibility to zero. Shocked, the man released Marissa’s arm. She dropped to the floor. Discovering that she could slither beneath the row of cages, she crawled away from the man, hoping she was headed back toward the main lab. She got to her feet, moving forward by feel. The disinfectant shower was apparently going to continue until someone replaced the lever. Her breathing was becoming painfully labored. She needed fresh air.

Something jumped in front of her, and she nearly screamed. But it was only one of the monkeys, tortured by the lethal atmosphere. The animal held onto her for a minute, then slid off her plastic-covered shoulder and disappeared.

Gasping, Marissa reached up and ran her hand along the pipes. Touching an air manifold, she connected her line.

Over the sound of the alarm, Marissa heard a commotion in the next aisle, then muffled shouts. She guessed that her pursuer could not find a manifold.

Gambling that the second man would go to the aid of his accomplice, Marissa detached her own air hose and moved toward the light, her arms stretched out in front of her like a blind man. Soon the illumination was uniform and she guessed she had reached the main part of the lab. Moving toward the wall, she banged into the freezer and remembered seeing a manifold just above it. She hooked up for several quick breaths. Then she felt her way to the door. The second she found it, she released the seal and pulled it open. A minute later she was standing in the disinfecting room.

Having already been drenched with phenolic disinfectant, she didn’t wait through the usual shower. In the next room, she struggled out of her plastic suit, then ran into the room beyond, where she tipped the lockers holding the scrub clothes over against the pressure door. She didn’t think it would stop the door from being opened, but it might slow her pursuers down.

Racing into her street clothes, she flicked all the circuit breakers, throwing even the dressing rooms into darkness and turning off the ventilation system.

Once outside the maximum containment lab, Marissa ran the length of the virology building, across the catwalk, and to the stairs to the main floor, which she bounded down two at a time. Taking a deep breath, she tried to look relaxed as she went through the front lobby. The security guard was sitting at his desk to the left. He was on the phone, explaining to someone that a biological alarm had gone off, not a security door alarm.

Even though she doubted her pursuers would have enlisted security’s help after having tried to kill her, she’d trembled violently while signing out. She heard the guard hang up after he explained to the person he was talking to that the operators were busy searching for the head of the virology department.

“Hey!” yelled the guard, as Marissa started for the door. Her heart leapt into her mouth. For a moment, she thought about fleeing; she was only six feet from the front door. Then she heard the guard say, “You forgot to put the time.”

Marissa marched back and dutifully filled in the blank. A second later she was outside, running to her car.

She was halfway to Ralph’s before she was able to stop shaking and think about her terrible discovery. The missing ball of frozen Ebola couldn’t have been a coincidence. It was the same strain as each of the recent outbreaks across the country. Someone was using the virus, and whether intentionally or by accident, the deadly disease was infecting doctors and hospitals in disparate areas at disparate times.

That the missing sample from vial E39 was the mysterious reservoir for the Ebola outbreaks in the United States was the only explanation that answered the questions posed by the apparently long incubation periods and the fact that, though the virus tended to mutate, all of the outbreaks involved the same strain. Worse yet, someone did not want that information released. That was why she’d been taken off the Ebola team and why she had just been nearly killed. The realization that frightened her most was that only someone with maximum containment lab access-presumably someone on the CDC staff-could have found her there. She cursed herself for not having had the presence of mind to look in the log book as she signed out to see who’d signed in.

She had already turned down Ralph’s street, anxious to tell him her fears, when she realized that it wasn’t fair to involve him. She’d already taken advantage of Tad’s friendship, and by the next day, when he saw her name on the log, she would be a total pariah. Her one hope was that her two assailants would not report her presence in the lab, since they would then be implicated in the attempt on her life. Even so, she couldn’t count on their not devising a plausible lie about what had gone on. It would be their word against hers, and by tomorrow, her word wouldn’t mean much at the CDC. Of that she was sure. For all she knew the Atlanta police might be looking for her by morning.

Remembering her suitcase was still in the trunk of her car, Marissa headed for the nearest motel. As soon as she reached the room assigned her, she put in a call to Ralph. He answered sleepily on the fifth ring.

“I stayed up as long as I could,” he explained. “Why didn’t you come by?”

“It’s a long story,” said Marissa. “I can’t explain now, but I’m in serious trouble. I may even need a good criminal lawyer. Do you know of one?”

“Good God,” said Ralph, suddenly not sleepy. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t want to drag you into it,” said Marissa. “All I can say is that the whole situation has become decidedly serious and, for the moment, I’m not ready to go to the authorities. I guess I’m a fugitive!” Marissa laughed hollowly.

“Why don’t you come over here?” said Ralph. “You’d be safe here.”

“Ralph, I’m serious about not wanting to involve you. But I do need a lawyer. Could you find me one?”

“Of course,” said Ralph. “I’ll help you any way I can. Where are you?”

“I’ll be in touch,” said Marissa evasively. “And thanks for being my friend.”

Marissa disconnected by pushing the button on top of the phone, trying to build up her courage to call Tad and apologize before he found out from someone else that she’d taken his access card. Taking a deep breath, she dialed. When there was no answer after several rings, she lost her nerve and decided not to wake him up.

Marissa took the letter from Lab Engineering from her pocket and smoothed it out. Grayson was going to be her next stop.

12

May 21

ALTHOUGH SHE WAS EXHAUSTED, Marissa slept poorly, tortured by nightmares of being chased through alien landscapes. When the early light coming through the window awakened her, it was a relief. She looked out and saw a man filling the coin-operated newspaper dispenser. As soon as he left, she ran out and bought the Atlanta Journal and Constitution.

There was nothing in it about the CDC, but halfway through the morning television news, the commentator said that there had been a problem at the Center. There was no mention of the maximum containment lab, but it was repeated that a technician had been treated at Emory University Hospital after inhaling phenolic disinfectant and then released. The segment continued with a phone interview with Dr. Cyrill Dubchek. Marissa leaned forward and turned up the volume.

“The injured technician was the only casualty,” Cyrill said, his voice sounding metallic. Marissa wondered if he was in Philadelphia or Atlanta. “An emergency safety system was triggered by accident. Everything is under control, and we are searching for a Dr. Marissa Blumenthal in relation to the incident.”

The anchorperson capped the segment with the comment that if anyone knew the whereabouts of Dr. Blumenthal, they should notify the Atlanta police. For about ten seconds they showed the photograph that had accompanied her CDC application.

Marissa turned off the TV. She’d not considered the possibility of seriously hurting her pursuers and she was upset, despite the fact that the man had been trying to harm her. Tad was right when he’d said that trouble seemed to follow her.

Although Marissa had joked about being a fugitive, she’d meant it figuratively. Now, having heard the TV announcer request information about her whereabouts, she realized the joke had become serious. She was a wanted person; at least by the Atlanta police.

Quickly getting her things together, Marissa went to check out of the motel. The whole time she was in the office, she felt nervous since her name was there in black and white for the clerk to see. But all he said was: “Have a nice day.”

She grabbed a quick coffee and donut at a Howard Johnson’s, and drove to her bank, which luckily had early hours that day. Although she tried to conceal her face at the drive-in window in case the teller had seen the morning news, the man seemed as uninterested as usual. Marissa extracted most of her savings, amounting to $4,650.

With the cash in her purse, she relaxed a little. Driving up the ramp to Interstate 78, she turned on the radio. She was on her way to Grayson, Georgia.

The drive was easy, although longer than she’d expected, and not terribly interesting. The only sight of note was that geological curiosity called Stone Mountain. It was a bubble of bare granite sticking out of the wooded Georgia hills, like a mole on a baby’s bottom. Beyond the town of Snellville, Marissa turned northeast on 84, and the landscape became more and more rural. Finally she passed a sign: WELCOME TO GRAYSON. Unfortunately it was spotted with holes, as if someone had been using it for target practice, reducing the sincerity of the message.

The town itself was exactly as Marissa had imagined. The main street was lined with a handful of brick and wood-frame buildings. There was a bankrupt movie theater, and the largest commercial establishment was the hardware and feed store. On one corner, a granite-faced bank sported a large clock with Roman numerals. Obviously it was just the kind of town that needed a type 3 HEPA Containment Hood!

The streets were almost empty as Marissa slowly cruised along. She saw no new commercial structures and realized that Professional Labs was probably a little ways from town. She would have to inquire, but whom could she approach? She was not about to go to the local police.

At the end of the street, she made a U-turn and drove back. There was a general store that also boasted a sign that read U.S. Post Office.

“Professional Labs? Yeah, they’re out on Bridge Road,” said the proprietor. He was in the dry-goods section, showing bolts of cotton to a customer. “Turn yourself around and take a right at the firehouse. Then after Parsons Creek, take a left. You’ll find it. It’s the only thing out there ‘cept for cows.”

“What do they do?” asked Marissa.

“Darned if I know,” said the storekeeper. “Darned if I care. They’re good customers and they pay their bills.”

Following the man’s directions, Marissa drove out of the town. He was right about there being nothing around but cows. After Parsons Creek the road wasn’t even paved, and Marissa began to wonder if she were on a wild-goose chase. But then the road entered a pine forest, and up ahead she could see a building.

With a thump, Marissa’s Honda hit asphalt as the road widened into a parking area. There were two other vehicles: a white van with Professional Labs, Inc., lettered on the side, and a cream-colored Mercedes.

Marissa pulled up next to the van. The building had peaked roofs and lots of mirror glass, which reflected the attractive tree-lined setting. The fragrant smell of pine surrounded her as she walked to the entrance. She gave the door a pull, but it didn’t budge. She tried to push, but it was as if it were bolted shut. Stepping back, she searched for a bell, but there was none. She knocked a couple of times, but realized she wasn’t making enough noise for anyone inside to hear. Giving up on the front door, Marissa started to walk around the building. When she got to the first window, she cupped her hands and tried to look through the mirror glass. It was impossible.

“Do you know you are trespassing?” said an unfriendly voice.

Marissa’s hands dropped guiltily to her sides.

“This is private property,” said a stocky, middle-aged man dressed in blue coveralls.

“Ummm… ,” voiced Marissa, desperately trying to think of an excuse for her presence. With his graying crew cut and florid complexion, the man looked exactly like a red-neck stereotype from the fifties.

“You did see the signs?” asked the man, gesturing to the notice by the parking lot.

“Well, yes,” admitted Marissa. “But you see, I’m a doctor…” She hesitated. Being a physician didn’t give her the right to violate someone’s privacy. Quickly she went on: “Since you have a viral lab here, I was interested to know if you do viral diagnostic work.”

“What makes you think this is a viral lab?” questioned the man.

“I’d just heard it was,” said Marissa.

“Well, you heard wrong. We do molecular biology here. With the worry of industrial espionage, we have to be very careful. So I think that you’d better leave unless you’d like me to call the police.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Marissa. Involving the police was the last thing she wanted. “I certainly apologize. I don’t mean to be a bother. I would like to see your lab, though. Isn’t there some way that could be arranged?”

“Out of the question,” the man said flatly. He led Marissa back to her car, their footsteps crunching on the crushed-stone path.

“Is there someone that I might contact to get a tour?” asked Marissa as she slid behind the wheel.

“I’m the boss,” said the man simply. “I think you’d better go.” He stepped back from the car, waiting for Marissa to leave.

Having run out of bright ideas, Marissa started the engine. She tried smiling good-bye, but the man’s face remained grim as she drove off, heading back to Grayson.

He stood waiting until the little Honda was lost in the trees. With an irritated shake of his head, he turned and walked back to the building. The front door opened automatically.

The interior was as contemporary as the exterior. He went down a short tiled corridor and entered a small lab. At one end was a desk, at the other was an airtight steel door like the one leading into the CDC’s maximum containment lab, behind which was a lab bench equipped with a type 3 HEPA filtration system.

Another man was sitting at the desk, torturing a paper clip into grotesque shapes. He looked up: “Why the hell didn’t you let me handle her?” Speaking made him cough violently, bringing tears to his eyes. He raised a handkerchief to his mouth.

“Because we don’t know who knows she was here,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Use a little sense, Paul. Sometimes you scare me.” He picked up the phone and punched the number he wanted with unnecessary force.

“Dr. Jackson’s office,” answered a bright, cheerful voice.

“I want to talk to the doctor.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s with a patient.”

“Honey, I don’t care if he’s with God. Just put him on the phone.”

“Who may I say is calling?” asked the secretary coolly.

“Tell him the Chairman of the Medical Ethics Committee. I don’t care; just put him on!”

“One moment, please.”

Turning to the desk, he said: “Paul, would you get my coffee from the counter.”

Paul tossed the paper clip into the wastebasket, then heaved himself out of his chair. It took a bit of effort because he was a big man and his left arm was frozen at the elbow joint. He’d been shot by a policeman when he was a boy.

“Who is this?” demanded Dr. Joshua Jackson at the other end of the phone.

“Heberling,” said the man in the blue coveralls. “Dr. Arnold Heberling. Remember me?”

Paul gave Arnold his coffee, then returned to the desk, taking another paper clip out of the middle drawer. He pounded his chest, clearing his throat.

“Heberling!” said Dr. Jackson. “I told you never to call me at my office!”

“The Blumenthal girl was here,” said Heberling, ignoring Jackson’s comment. “She drove up pretty as you please in a red car. I caught her looking through the windows.”

“How the hell did she find out about the lab?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Heberling. “The fact of the matter is that she was here, and I’m coming into town to see you. This can’t go on. Something has to be done about her.”

“No! Don’t come here,” said Jackson frantically. “I’ll come there.”

“All right,” said Heberling. “But it has to be today.”

“I’ll be there around five,” said Jackson, slamming down the receiver.

Marissa decided to stop in Grayson for lunch. She was hungry, and maybe someone would tell her something about the lab. She stopped in front of the drugstore, went in and sat down at the old-fashioned soda fountain. She ordered a hamburger, which came on a freshly toasted roll with a generous slice of Bermuda onion. Her Coke was made from syrup.

While Marissa ate, she considered her options. They were pretty meager. She couldn’t go back to the CDC or the Berson Clinic Hospital. Figuring out what Professional Labs was doing with a sophisticated 3 HEPA filtration system was a last resort, but the chances of getting in seemed slim: the place was built like a fortress. Perhaps it was time to call Ralph and ask if he’d found a lawyer, except..

Marissa took a bite of her dill pickle. In her mind’s eye she pictured the two vehicles in the lab’s parking lot. The white van had had Professional Labs, Inc., printed on its side. It was the Inc. that interested her.

Finishing her meal, Marissa walked down the street to an office building she remembered passing. The door was frosted glass: RONALD DAVIS, ATI’ORNEY AND REALTOR, was stenciled on it in gold leaf. A bell jangled as she entered. There was a cluttered desk, but no secretary.

A man dressed in a white shirt, bow tie and red suspenders, came out from an inside room. Although he appeared to be no more than thirty, he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses that seemed almost grandfatherly. “Can I help you?” he asked, with a heavy Southern accent.

“Are you Mr. Davis?” asked Marissa.

“Yup.” The man hooked his thumbs through his suspenders.

“I have a couple of simple questions,” said Marissa. “About corporate law. Do you think you could answer them?”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Davis. He motioned for Marissa to come in.

The scene looked like a set for a 1930s movie, complete with the desk-top fan that slowly rotated back and forth, rustling the papers. Mr. Davis sat down and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. Then he said: “What is it you want to know?”

“I want to find out about a certain corporation,” began Marissa. “If a business is incorporated, can someone like myself find out the names of the owners?”

Mr. Davis tipped forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Maybe and maybe not,” he said, smiling.

Marissa groaned. It seemed that a conversation with Mr. Davis was going to be like pulling teeth. But before she could rephrase her question, he continued: “If the company in question is a public corporation, it would be hard to find out all the stockholders, especially if a lot of the stock is held in trust with power of attorney delegated to a third party. But if the company is a partnership, then it would be easy. In any case, it is always possible to find out the name of the service agent if you have in mind to institute some sort of litigation. Is that what you have in mind?”

“No,” said Marissa. “Just information. How would I go about finding out if a company is a partnership or a public corporation?”

“Easy,” said Mr. Davis, leaning back once more. “All you have to do is go to the State House in Atlanta, visit the Secretary of State’s office and ask for the corporate division. Just tell the clerk the name

of the company, and he can look it up. It’s a matter of public record, and if the company is incorporated in Georgia, it will be listed there.”

“Thank you,” said Marissa, seeing a glimmer of light at the end of the dark tunnel. “How much do I owe you?”

Mr. Davis raised his eyebrows, studying Marissa’s face. “Twenty dollars might do it, unless..

“My pleasure,” said Marissa, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and handing it over.

Marissa returned to her car and drove back toward Atlanta. She was pleased to have a goal, even if the chances of finding significant information were not terribly good.

She stayed just under the speed limit. The last thing she wanted was to be stopped by the police. She made good time and was back in the city by 4:00. Parking in a garage, she walked to the State House.

Distinctly uncomfortable in the presence of the capitol police, Marissa sweated nervously as she started up the front steps, certain she would be recognized.

“Dr. Blumenthal,” called a voice.

For a split second, Marissa considered running. Instead, she turned to see one of the CDC secretaries, a bright young woman in her early twenties, walking toward her.

“Alice MacCabe, Doctor Carbonara’s office. Remember me?”

Marissa did, and for the next few nerve-racking minutes was forced to engage in small talk. Luckily, Miss MacCabe was oblivious to the fact that Marissa was a “wanted” person.

As soon as she could, Marissa said good-bye and entered the building. More than ever, she just wanted to get whatever information she could and leave. Unfortunately, there was a long line at the corporate division. With dwindling patience, Marissa waited her turn, keeping a hand to her face with the mistaken notion that it might keep her from being recognized.

“What can I do for you?” asked the white-haired clerk when it was finally Marissa’s turn.

“I’d like some information about a corporation called Professional Labs.”

“Where is it located?” asked the clerk. He slipped on his bifocals and entered the name at a computer terminal.

“Grayson, Georgia,” said Marissa.

“Okay,” said the clerk. “Here it is. Incorporated just last year. What would you like to know?”

“Is it a partnership or a public corporation?” asked Marissa, trying to remember what Mr. Davis had said.

“Limited partnership, subchapter S.”

“What does that mean?” asked Marissa.

“It has to do with taxes. The partners can deduct the corporate losses, if there are any, on their individual returns.”

“Are the partners listed?” asked Marissa, excitement overcoming her anxiety for the moment.

“Yup,” said the clerk. “There’s Joshua Jackson, Rodd Becker..

“Just a second,” said Marissa. “Let me write this down.” She got out a pen and began writing.

“Let’s see,” said the clerk, staring at the computer screen. “Jackson, Becker; you got those?”

“Yes.”

“There’s Sinclair Tieman, Jack Krause, Gustave Swenson, Duane Moody, Trent Goodridge and the Physicians’ Action Congress.”

“What was that last one?” asked Marissa, scribbling furiously.

The clerk repeated it.

“Can an organization be a limited partner?” She had seen the name Physicians’ Action Congress on Markham’s contributions list.

“I’m no lawyer, lady, but I think so. Well, it must be so or it wouldn’t be in here. Here’s something else: a law firm by the name of Cooper, Hodges, McQuinllin and Hanks.”

“They’re partners too?” asked Marissa, starting to write down the additional names.

“No,” said the clerk. “They’re the service agent.”

“I don’t need that,” said Marissa. “I’m not interested in suing the company.” She erased the names of Cooper and Hodges.

Thanking the clerk, Marissa beat a hasty retreat and hurried back to the parking garage. Once inside her car, she opened her briefcase and took out the photocopies of Markham’s contributors list. Just as she’d remembered, the Physicians’ Action Congress (PAC) was listed. On the one hand it was a limited partner in an economic venture, on the other, a contributor to a conservative politician’s reelection campaign.

Curious, Marissa looked to see if any of the other partners of Professional Labs were on Markham’s list. To her surprise, they all were. More astonishing, the partners, like Markham’s contributors, came from all over the country. From Markham’s list, she had all their addresses.

Marissa put her key in the ignition, then hesitated. Looking back at Markham’s list she noted that the Physicians’ Action Congress was listed under corporate sponsors. Much as she hated to tempt fate by passing the capitol police again, she forced herself to get out of the

car and walk back. She waited in line for the second time, for the same clerk, and asked him what he could tell her about the Physicians’ Action Congress.

The clerk punched in the name on his terminal, waited for a moment, then turned to Marissa. “I can’t tell you anything. It’s not in here.”

“Does that mean it’s not incorporated?”

“Not necessarily. It means it’s not incorporated in Georgia.”

Marissa thanked the man again, and again ran out of the building. Her car felt like a sanctuary. She sat for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do next. She really didn’t have all that much information, and she was getting rather far afield from the Ebola outbreaks. But her intuition told her that in some weird way everything she had learned was related. And if that were the case, then the Physicians’ Action Congress was the key. But how could she investigate an organization she’d never heard of?

Her first thought was to visit the Emory Medical School library. Perhaps one of the librarians might know where to look. But then, remembering running into Alice MacCabe, she decided the chance of being recognized was too great. She would do much better to go out of town for a few days. But where?

Starting the car, Marissa had an inspiration: the AMA! If she couldn’t get information about a physicians’ organization at the AMA, then it wasn’t available. And Chicago sounded safe. She headed south toward the airport, hoping the meager supply of clothing in her suitcase would hold up.

Joshua Jackson’s heavy sedan thundered over the wood-planked bridge spanning Parsons Creek, then veered sharply to the left, the tires squealing. The pavement stopped, and the car showered the shoulder of the road with pebbles as it sped down the tree-lined lane. Inside, Jackson’s fury mounted with each mile he traveled. He didn’t want to visit the lab, but he had no intention of being seen in town with Heberling. The man was proving increasingly unreliable, and even worse, unpredictable. Asked to create minor confusion, he resorted to atomic warfare. Hiring him had been a terrible decision, but there wasn’t much any of them could do about the fact now.

Puffing up to the lab, Jackson parked across from Heberling’s Mercedes. He knew that Heberling had bought it with some of the funds he’d been given for technical equipment. What a waste!

Jackson walked up to the front of the building. It was an impressive affair, and Jackson, perhaps better than anyone, knew how much

money it had all cost. The Physicians’ Action Congress had built Dr. Arnold Heberling a personal monument, and for what: a hell of a lot of trouble, because Heberling was a nut.

There was a click, the door opened and Jackson stepped inside.

“I’m in the conference room,” shouted Heberling.

Jackson knew the room Heberling meant, and it was hardly a conference room. Jackson paused at the door, taking in the high ceiling, glass wall and stark furnishings. Two Chippendale couches faced one another on a large Chinese rug. There was no other furniture. Heberling was on one of the couches.

“I hope this is important,” said Jackson, taking the initiative. The two men sat facing each other. Physically, they couldn’t have been more different. Heberling was stocky with a bloated face and coarse features. Jackson was tall and thin with an almost ascetic face. Their clothes helped heighten the contrast: Heberling in coveralls; Jackson in a banker’s pinstripes.

“The Blumenthal girl was right here in the yard,” said Heberling, pointing over his shoulder for effect. “Obviously she didn’t see anything, but just the fact that she was here suggests that she knows something. She’s got to be removed.”

“You had your chance,” snapped Jackson. “Twice! And each time, you and your thugs made a mess of things. First at her house and then last night at the CDC.”

“So we try again. But you’ve called it off.”

“You’re darn right. I found out you were going to give her Ebola.”

“Why not?” said Heberling. “She’s been exposed. There’d be no questions.”

“I don’t want an Ebola outbreak in Atlanta,” shouted Jackson. “The stuff terrifies me. I’ve got a family of my own. Leave the woman to us. We’ll take care of her.”

“Oh, sure,” scoffed Heberling. “That’s what you said when you got her transferred off Special Pathogens. Well, she’s still a threat to the whole project, and I intend to see that she’s eliminated.”

“You are not in charge here,” said Jackson menacingly. “And when it comes to fixing blame, none of us would be in this mess if you’d stuck to the original plan of using influenza virus. We’ve all been in a state of panic since we learned you took it upon yourself to use Ebola!”

“Oh, we’re back to that complaint,” said Heberling disgustedly. “You were pretty pleased when you heard the Richter Clinic was closing. If PAC wanted to undermine the public’s growing confidence in prepaid health clinics, they couldn’t have done better. The

only difference from the original plan was that I got to carry out some field research that will save me years of lab research time.”

Jackson studied Heberling’s face. He’d come to the conclusion the man was a psychopath, and loathed him. Unfortunately the realization was a bit late. Once the project had started, there was no easy way to stop it. And to think that the plan had sounded so simple back when the PAC executive committee had first suggested it.

Jackson took a deep breath, knowing he had to control himself despite his anger. “I’ve told you a dozen times the Physicians’ Action Congress is not pleased and, on the contrary, is appalled at the loss of life. That had never been our intent and you know it, Dr. Heberling!”

“Bullshit!” shouted Heberling. “There would have been loss of life with influenza, given the strains we would have had to use. How many would you have tolerated? A hundred? And what about the loss of life you rich practitioners cause when you turn your backs on unnecessary surgery, or allow incompetent doctors to keep their hospital privileges?”

“We do not sanction unnecessary surgery or incompetence,” snapped Jackson. He’d had about as much of this psychopath as he could tolerate.

“You do nothing to stop them,” said Heberling, with disgust. “I haven’t believed any of this crap you and PAC feed me about your concern for the negative drift of American medicine away from its traditional values. Give me a break! It’s all an attempt to justify your own economic interests. All of a sudden there are too many doctors and not enough patients. The only reason I’ve cooperated with you is because you built me this lab.” Heberling made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “You wanted the image of prepaid health plans tarnished, and I delivered. The only difference is that I did it my way for my own reasons.”

“But we ordered you to stop,” yelled Jackson. “Right after the Richter Clinic outbreak.”

“Halfheartedly, I might add,” said Heberling. “You were pleased with the results. Not only did the Richter Clinic fold, but new subscribers to California health plans have leveled off for the first time in five years. The Physicians’ Action Congress feels an occasional twinge of conscience, but basically you’re all happy. And I’ve vindicated my beliefs that Ebola is a premier biological weapon despite the lack of vaccine or treatment. I’ve shown that it is easily introduced, relatively easy to contain and devastatingly contagious to small populations. Dr. Jackson, we are both getting what we want. We just have to deal with this woman before she causes real trouble.”

“I’m telling you once and for all,” said Jackson. “We want no further use of Ebola. That’s an order!”

Heberling laughed. “Dr. Jackson,” he said, leaning forward, “I have the distinct impression that you are ignoring the facts. PAC is no longer in a position to give me orders. Do you realize what would happen to your careers if the truth gets out? And I’m telling you that it will unless you let me handle Blumenthal in my own way.”

For a moment, Jackson struggled with his conscience. He wanted to grab Heberling by the neck and choke him. But he knew the man was right: PAC’s hands were tied. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “Do whatever you think is best about Dr. Blumenthal. Just don’t tell me about it and don’t use Ebola in Atlanta.”

“Fine.” Heberling smiled. “If that will make you feel better, I’ll give you my word on both accounts. After all, I’m a very reasonable man.”

Jackson stood up. “One other thing. I don’t want you phoning my office. Call me at home on my private line if you have to reach me.”

“My pleasure,” said Heberling.

Since the Atlanta-Chicago run was heavily traveled, Marissa only had to wait half an hour for the next available flight. She bought a Dick Francis novel, but she couldn’t concentrate. Finally, she decided to call Tad and at least attempt an apology. She wasn’t sure how much to tell him about her growing suspicions, but decided to play it by ear. She dialed the lab, and as she suspected, he was working late.

“This is Marissa,” she said when he answered. “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m furious.”

“Tad, I’m sorry..

“You took one of my access cards.”

“Tad, I’m truly sorry. When I see you, I’ll explain everything.”

“You actually went into the maximum containment lab, didn’t you?” Tad said, his voice uncharacteristically hard.

“Well, yes.”

“Marissa, do you know that the lab is a shambles, all the animals are dead, and someone had to be treated at Emory Emergency?”

“Two men came into the lab and attacked me.”

“Attacked you?”

“Yes,” said Marissa. “You have to believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe. Why does everything happen to you?”

“Because of the Ebola outbreaks. Tad, do you know who got hurt?”

“I assume one of the techs from another department.”

“Why don’t you find out. And maybe you could also find out who else went into the lab last night.”

“I don’t think that’s possible. No one will tell me anything right now because they know we’re friends. Where are you?”

“I’m at the airport,” said Marissa.

“If what you say about being attacked is true, then you should come back here and explain. You shouldn’t be running away.”

“I’m not running away,” insisted Marissa. “I’m going to the AMA in Chicago to research an organization called the Physicians’ Action Congress. Ever hear of them? I believe they are involved somehow.”

“Marissa, I think you should come directly back to the Center. You’re in real trouble, in case you don’t know.”

“I do, but for the time being what I’m doing is more important. Can’t you please ask the Office of Biosafety who else went into the maximum containment lab last night?”

“Marissa, I’m in no mood to be manipulated.”

“Tad, I…” Marissa stopped speaking. Tad had hung up. Slowly she replaced the receiver. She couldn’t really blame him.

She glanced at the clock. Five minutes until boarding. Making up her mind, she dialed Ralph’s home number.

He picked up on the third ring. In contrast to Tad, he was concerned, not angry. “My God, Marissa, what is going on? Your name is in the evening paper. You’re in serious trouble, the Atlanta police are looking for you!”

“I can imagine,” said Marissa, thinking that she’d been wise to use a false name and pay cash when she’d bought her airline ticket. “Ralph, have you gotten the name of a good lawyer yet?”

“I’m sorry. When you asked, I didn’t realize it was an emergency.”

“It’s becoming an emergency,” said Marissa. “But I’ll be out of town for a day or two. So if you could do it tomorrow I’d really appreciate it.”

“What’s going on?” asked Ralph. “The paper gave no details.”

“Like I said last night, I don’t want to involve you.”

“I don’t mind,” Ralph insisted. “Why don’t you come over here. We can talk and I can get you a lawyer in the morning.”

“Have you ever heard of an organization called the Physicians’ Action Congress?” asked Marissa, ignoring Ralph’s offer.

“No,” said Ralph. “Marissa, please come over. I think it would be better to face this problem, whatever it is. Running away makes you look bad.”

Marissa heard her flight called.

“I’m going to the AMA to find out about the organization I just mentioned,” said Marissa quickly. “I’ll call tomorrow. I’ve got to run.” She hung up, picked up her briefcase and book and boarded the plane.

13

May 22

ARRIVING IN CHICAGO, MARISSA decided to treat herself to a nice hotel and was happy to find the Palmer House had a room. She risked using her credit card and went straight upstairs to bed.

The next morning, she ordered fresh fruit and coffee from room service. While waiting, she turned on the Today Show and went into the bathroom to shower. She was drying her hair when she heard the anchorman mention Ebola. She rushed into the bedroom, expecting to see the news commentator giving an update on the situation in Philadelphia. Instead, he was describing a new outbreak. It was at the Rosenberg Clinic on upper Fifth Avenue in New York City. A doctor by the name of Girish Mehta had been diagnosed as having the disease. Word had leaked to the press, and a widespread panic had gripped the city.

Marissa shivered. The Philadelphia outbreak was still in progress and another one had already started. She put on her makeup, finished fixing her hair and ate her breakfast. Marissa got the AMA’s address and set out for Rush Street.

A year ago if someone had told her she’d be visiting the association, she never would have believed it. But there she was, going through the front door.

The woman at the information booth directed her to the Public Relations office. The director, a James Frank, happened by as Marissa

was trying to explain her needs to one of the secretaries. He invited her to his office.

Mr. Frank reminded Marissa of her high-school guidance counselor. He was of indeterminate age, slightly overweight and going bald, but his face had a lived-in look that exuded friendliness and sincerity. His eyes were bright, and he laughed a lot. Marissa liked him instantly.

“Physicians’ Action Congress,” he repeated when Marissa asked about the organization. “I’ve never heard of it. Where did you come across it?”

“On a congressman’s contributions list,” said Marissa.

“That’s funny,” said Mr. Frank. “I’d have sworn that I knew all the active political action committees. Let me see what my computer says.”

Mr. Frank punched in the name. There was a slight delay, then the screen blinked to life. “What do you know! You’re absolutely right. It’s right here.” He pointed to the screen. “Physicians’ Action Congress Political Action Committee. It’s a registered separate segregated fund.”

“What does that mean?” asked Marissa.

“Less than it sounds. It just means that your Physicians’ Action Congress is an incorporated membership organization because it has legally set up a committee to dispense funds as campaign contributions. Let’s see who they have been supporting.”

“I can tell you one candidate,” said Marissa. “Calvin Markham.” Mr. Frank nodded. “Yup, here’s Markham’s name along with a number of other conservative candidates. At least we know the political bent.”

“Right wing,” said Marissa.

“Probably very right wing,” said Mr. Frank. “I’d guess they are trying to knock off DRGs-Diagnosis-Related Groups-limit immigration of foreign medical school graduates, stop HMO start-up subsidies and the like. Let me call someone I know at the Federal Elections Commission.”

After some chitchat, he asked his friend about the Physicians’ Action Congress. He nodded a few times while he listened, then hung up and turned to Marissa. “He doesn’t know much about PAC either, except he looked up their Statement of Organization and told me they are incorporated in Delaware.”

“Why Delaware?” questioned Marissa.

“Incorporation is cheapest there.”

“What are the chances of finding out more about the organization?” asked Marissa.

“Like what? Who the officers are? Where the home office is? That kind of stuff?”

“Yes,” said Marissa.

Picking up the phone again, Frank said: “Let’s see what we can learn from Delaware.”

He was quite successful. Although initially a clerk in the Delaware State House said that he’d have to come in person for the information, Mr. Frank managed to get a supervisor to bend the rules.

Mr. Frank was on the line for almost fifteen minutes, writing as he listened. When he was done, he handed Marissa a list of the board of directors. She looked down: President, Joshua Jackson, MD; vice-president, Rodd Becker, MD; treasurer, Sinclair Tieman, MD; secretary, Jack Krause, MD; directors, Gustave Swenson, MD; Duane Moody, MD; and Trent Goodridge, MD. Opening her briefcase, she took out the list of partners for Professional Labs. They were the same names!

Marissa left the AMA with her head spinning. The question that loomed in her mind was almost too bizarre to consider: what was an ultraconservative physicians’ organization doing with a lab that owned sophisticated equipment used only for handling deadly viruses? Purposely, Marissa did not answer her own question.

Her mind churning, Marissa began walking in the direction of her hotel. Other pedestrians jostled her, but she paid no heed.

Trying to pick holes in her own theory, Marissa ticked off the significant facts: each of the outbreaks of Ebola had occurred in a private group prepaid health-care facility; most of the index patients had foreign-sounding names; and in each case where there was an index patient, the man had been mugged just prior to getting sick. The one exception was the Phoenix outbreak, which she still believed was food borne.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a display of Charles Jourdan shoes-her one weakness. Stopping abruptly to glance in the store window, she was startled when a man behind her almost knocked her over. He gave her an angry look, but she ignored him. A plan was forming in her mind. If her suspicions had any merit, and the previous outbreaks had not been the result of chance, then the index patient in New York was probably working for a prepaid health-care clinic and had been mugged a few days previous to becoming ill. Marissa decided she had to go to New York.

Looking around, she tried to figure out where she was in relation to her hotel. She could see the el in front of her and remembered that the train traveled the Loop near the Palmer House.

She began walking briskly when she was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. No wonder she’d been attacked in her home. No wonder the man who’d caught her in the maximum containment lab had tried to kill her. No wonder Markham had had her transferred. If her fears were true, then a conspiracy of immense proportions existed and she was in extreme jeopardy.

Up until that moment she’d felt safe in Chicago. Now, everywhere she looked she saw suspicious characters. There was a man pretending to window-shop she was sure was watching her in the reflection. She crossed the street, expecting the man to follow. But he didn’t.

Marissa ducked into a coffee shop and ordered a cup of tea to calm down. She sat at a window table and stared out at the street. The man who had scared her came out of the store with a shopping bag and hailed a cab. So much for him. It was at that moment that she saw the businessman. It was the way he was carrying his briefcase that caught her attention, his arm at an awkward angle, as though he couldn’t flex his elbow.

In a flash, Marissa was back in her own home, desperately fighting the unseen figure whose arm seemed frozen at the joint. And then there was the nightmare in the lab.

As Marissa watched, the man took out a cigarette and lit it, all with one hand, the other never leaving his briefcase. Marissa remembered that Tad had said the intruder had carried a briefcase.

Covering her face with her hands, Marissa prayed she was imagining things. She sat rubbing her eyes for a minute, and when she looked again, the man was gone.

Marissa finished her tea, then asked directions to the Palmer House. She walked quickly, nervously switching her own briefcase from hand to hand. At the first corner, she looked over her shoulder:

the same businessman was coming toward her.

Immediately changing directions, Marissa crossed the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the man continue to the middle of the block and then cross after her. With a rising sense of panic, she looked for a taxi, but the street was clear. Instead, she turned around and ran back to the elevated train. Hurriedly she climbed the stairs, catching up to a large group. She wanted to be in a crowd.

Once on the platform, she felt better. There were lots of people standing about, and Marissa walked a good distance away from the

entrance. Her heart was still pounding, but at least she could think. Was it really the same man? Had he been following her?

As if in answer to her question, the man popped into her line of vision. He had large features and coarse skin and a heavy five-o’clock shadow. His teeth were square and widely spaced. He coughed into a closed fist.

Before she could move, the train thundered into the station, and the crowd surged forward, taking Marissa along with the rest. She lost sight of the man as she was carried into the car.

Fighting to stay near the door, Marissa hoped she could detrain at the last moment as she’d seen people do in spy movies, but the crush of people hampered her, and the doors closed before she could get to them. Turning, she scanned the faces around her, but she did not see the man with the stiff elbow.

The train lurched forward, forcing her to reach for a pole. Just as she grabbed it, she saw him again. He was right next to her, holding onto the same pole with the hand of his good arm. He was so close, Marissa could smell his cologne. He turned and their eyes met. A slight smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he let go of the pole. He coughed and reached into his jacket pocket.

Losing control, Marissa screamed. Frantically, she tried to push away from the man, but she was again hindered by the crush of people. Her scream died, and no one moved or spoke. They just stared at her. The wheels of the train shrieked as they hit a sharp bend, and Marissa and the man had to grab the pole to keep from falling. Their hands touched.

Marissa let go of the pole as if it were red hot. Then, to her utter relief, a transit policeman managed to shove his way over to her.

“Are you all right?” yelled the policeman over the sounds of the train.

“This man has been following me,” said Marissa, pointing.

The policeman looked at the businessman. “Is this true?”

The man shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

The policeman turned back to Marissa as the train began to slow. “Would you care to file a complaint?”

“No,” yelled Marissa, “as long as he leaves me alone.”

The screech of the wheels and the hiss of the air brakes made it impossible to hear until the train stopped. The doors opened instantly.

“I’ll be happy to get off if it would make the lady feel better,” said the businessman.

A few people got off. Everyone else just stared. The policeman kept the door from closing with his body and looked questioningly at Marissa.

“I would feel better,” said Marissa, suddenly unsure of her reactions.

The businessman shrugged his shoulders and got off. Almost immediately, the doors closed and the train lurched forward once again.

“You all right now?” asked the policeman.

“Much better,” said Marissa. She was relieved the businessman was gone, but afraid the cop might ask for her identification. She thanked him then looked away. He took the hint and moved on.

Realizing that every eye within sight was still on her, Marissa was acutely embarrassed. As soon as the train pulled into the next station, she got off. Descending to the street, and irrationally afraid the man had found a way to follow her, she caught the first cab she could to take her to the Palmer House.

Within the security of the taxi, Marissa was able to regain a degree of control. She knew she was in over her head, but she had no idea to whom in authority she could go. She was presupposing a conspiracy but had no idea of its extent. And worst of all, she had no proof; nothing-just a few highly suggestive facts.

She decided she might as well continue on to New York. If her suspicions about that outbreak proved to be correct, she’d decide there who to contact. Meanwhile, she hoped that Ralph had found her a good lawyer. Maybe he could handle the whole thing.

As soon as she got back to the hotel, Marissa went directly to her room. With her present paranoia, she wanted out as soon as possible, criticizing herself for having used a credit card and, hence, her own name. She’d used an assumed name and paid cash for the flight from Atlanta to Chicago, and she should have done the same at the hotel.

Going up in the elevator, Marissa had decided she would pack her few things and go right to the airport. She opened her door and headed straight for the bathroom, tossing her purse and briefcase onto the desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement and ducked automatically. Even so, she was struck so hard she was knocked forward over the nearest twin bed, ending up on the floor between them. Looking up, she saw the man from the train coming toward her.

Frantically, she tried to scramble beneath one of the beds, but the man got ahold of her skirt with his good arm and yanked her back.

Marissa rolled over, kicking furiously. Something fell out of the

man’s hand and hit the floor with a metallic thud. A gun, thought Marissa, compounding her terror.

The man bent to retrieve the gun, and Marissa slithered beneath the bed closest to the door. The man returned, checking first under one bed, then under the one where Marissa was cowering. His large hand reached for her. When he couldn’t grab her, he got down on his knees and lunged under the bed, catching Marissa by an ankle and pulling her toward him.

For the second time that day, Marissa screamed. She kicked again and loosened the man’s grip. In a flash she was back under the bed.

Tiring of the tug of war, he dropped his gun onto the bed and came after her. But Marissa rolled out the other side. She scrambled to her feet and ran for the door. She had just wrenched it open when the man leaped across the bed and caught her hair. Whipping her around, he threw her against the bureau with such force that the mirror fell with a crash.

The man checked the hall quickly, then closed and secured the door. Marissa ran to the bathroom, grabbing what she thought was the gun off the far bed. She had almost managed to get the bathroom door closed before the man reached it.

Marissa wedged her back against the sink and tried to keep her attacker from opening the door further. But, little by little, his greater strength prevailed. The door cracked open, enabling him to get the arm with the frozen elbow hooked around the jamb.

Marissa eyed the wall phone but couldn’t reach it without taking her feet off the door. She looked at the weapon in her hand, wondering if it would scare the man if she were to fire a bullet at the wall. That was when she realized she was holding an air-powered vaccination gun of the kind used for mass inoculations in her old pediatrics clinic.

The door had opened enough for the man to move his arm more freely. He blindly groped until he got a grip on one of Marissa’s ankles. Feeling she had little choice, Marissa pressed the vaccination gun against the man’s forearm and discharged it. The man screamed. The arm was withdrawn, and the door slammed shut.

She heard him run across the room, open the door to the hail and rush out. Going back into the bedroom, Marissa breathed a sigh of relief, only to be startled by a strong odor of phenolic disinfectant. Turning the vaccinator toward herself with a shaky hand, she examined the circular business end. Intuitively, she sensed the gun contained Ebola virus, and she guessed that the disinfectant she smelled was part of a mechanism to prevent exposure to the operator. Now she was truly terrified. Not only had she possibly killed a man, she might also have triggered a new outbreak. Forcing herself to remain calm, she carefully placed the gun in a plastic bag that she took from the wastebasket and then got another plastic bag from the basket under the desk and placed it over the first, knotting it closed. For a moment she hesitated, wondering if she should call the police. Then she decided there was nothing they could do. The man was far away by now, and if the vaccination gun did contain Ebola, there was no way they could find him quietly if he didn’t want to be found.

Marissa looked out into the hall. It was clear. She put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, then carried her belongings, including the plastic bag with the vaccination gun, down to housekeeping. There were no cleaning people in sight. She found a bottle of Lysol and disinfected the outside of the plastic bag. Then she washed and disinfected her hands. She couldn’t think of anything else to do prophylactically.

In the lobby, where there were enough people to make Marissa feel reasonably safe, she called the Illinois State Epidemiologist. Without identifying herself, she explained that room 2410 at the Palmer House might have been contaminated with Ebola virus. Before the man could gasp out a single question, she hung up.

Next, she called Tad. All this activity was enabling her to avoid thinking about what had just happened. Tad’s initial coolness thawed when he realized that she was on the verge of hysteria.

“What on earth is going on now?” he asked. “Marissa, are you all right?”

“I have to ask two favors. After the trouble I’ve caused you, I’d vowed that I wouldn’t bother you again. But I have no choice. First, I need a vial of the convalescent serum from the L.A. outbreak. Could you send it by overnight carrier to Carol Bradford at the Plaza Hotel in New York?”

“Who the hell is Carol Bradford?”

“Please don’t ask any questions,” said Marissa, struggling to keep from bursting into tears. “The less you know at this point, the better.” Carol Bradford had been one of Marissa’s college roommates; it was the name she’d used on the flight from Atlanta to Chicago.

“The next favor involves a parcel I’m sending you by overnight carrier. Please, do not open it. Take it inside the maximum containment lab and hide it.” Marissa paused.

“Is that it?” asked Tad.

“That’s it,” said Marissa. “Will you help me, Tad?”

“I guess,” said Tad. “Sounds reasonably innocuous.”

“Thank you,” said Marissa. “I’ll be able to explain everything in a few days.”

She hung up and called the Westin Hotel toll-free number and reserved a room at the Plaza for that night under the name of Carol Bradford. That accomplished, she scanned the Palmer House lobby. No one seemed to be paying her any heed. Trusting that the hotel would bill her on her credit card, she did not bother to check out.

The first stop was a Federal Express office. The people were extremely nice when she told them it was a special vaccine needed in Atlanta by the next day. They helped her pack her plastic bags in an unbreakable metal box and even addressed it, when they saw how badly her hand was trembling.

Back on the street, she flagged a cab to O’Hare. As soon as she was seated, she began checking her lymph nodes and testing her throat for soreness. She’d been close to Ebola before, but never this close. She shuddered to think that the man had intended to infect her with the virus. It was a cruel irony that the only way she’d escaped was to have infected him. She hoped that he realized the convalescent serum had a protective effect if it was given prior to the appearance of symptoms. Maybe that was why the man had left so precipitously.

During the long ride to the airport, she began to calm down enough to think logically. The fact that she’d been attacked again gave more credence to her suspicions. And if the vaccination gun proved to contain Ebola, she’d have her first real piece of evidence.

The taxi driver dropped Marissa at the American Airlines terminal, explaining that they had hourly flights to New York. Once she got her ticket, passed through security and hiked the long distance to the gate, she found she had nearly half an hour to wait. She decided to call Ralph. She badly needed to hear a friendly voice, and she wanted to ask about the lawyer.

Marissa spent several minutes struggling with Ralph’s secretary, who guarded him as if he were the Pope, pleading with the woman to at least let him know she was on the line. Finally, Ralph picked up the phone.

“I hope you’re back in Atlanta,” he said before she could say hello. “Soon,” promised Marissa. She explained that she was at the American terminal in Chicago, on her way to New York, but that she’d probably be back in Atlanta the following day, particularly if he’d found her a good lawyer.

“I made some discreet inquiries,” said Ralph, “and I think I have just the man. His name is McQuinllin. He’s with a large firm here in Atlanta.”

“I hope he’s smart,” said Marissa. “He’s going to have his hands full.”

“Supposedly he’s one of the best.”

“Do you think that he will require a lot of money up front?”

“Chances are he’ll want a retainer of some sort,” said Ralph. “Will that be a problem?”

“Could be,” said Marissa. “Depends on how much.”

“Well, don’t worry,” said Ralph. “I’ll be happy to lend a hand.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” said Marissa.

“You’re not asking, I’m offering,” said Ralph. “But in return, I’d like you to stop this crazy trip. What’s so important in New York? I hope it’s not the new Ebola outbreak. You don’t want a repeat of Philadelphia. Why don’t you just fly back to Atlanta. I’m worried about you.”

“Soon,” said Marissa. “I promise.”

After hanging up, Marissa kept her hand on the receiver. It always made her feel good to talk with Ralph. He cared.

Like most of the businesspeople who comprised ninety percent of the passengers, Marissa ordered herself a drink. She was still a bundle of nerves. The vodka tonic calmed her considerably, and she actually got into one of those “where you from?” and “what do you do?” conversations with a handsome young bond dealer from Chicago, named Danny. It turned out he had a sister who was a doctor in Hawaii. He chatted so enthusiastically, Marissa finally had to close her eyes and feign sleep in order to find time to put her thoughts in order.

The question that loomed in her mind was: how had the man with the frozen arm known she was in Chicago? And, assuming it was the same man, how had he known when she’d been in the maximum containment lab? To answer both questions, Marissa’s mind reluctantly turned to Tad. When Tad had discovered the missing card, he must have known she would use it that night. Maybe he told Dubchek to avoid getting into trouble himself. Tad had also known she was flying to Chicago, but she simply couldn’t believe he had intentionally set a murderer on her trail. And much as she resented Dubchek, she respected him as a dedicated scientist. It was hard to connect him with the financially oriented, right-wing Physicians’ Action Congress.

Thoroughly confused as to what was intelligent deduction and what paranoid delusion, Marissa wished she hadn’t let the vaccination gun out of her hands. If Tad was somehow involved, then she’d lost her only hard evidence, provided it tested positive for Ebola.

As her plane touched down at La Guardia airport, Marissa decided that if the New York outbreak confirmed her theories about the origin of the Ebola outbreaks, she would go directly to Ralph’s lawyer and let him and the police sort things out. She just wasn’t up to playing Nancy Drew any longer. Not against a group of men who thought nothing of risking entire populations.

When the plane stopped and the seat-belt sign went off, indicating that they had arrived at the gate, Marissa stood and wrestled her suitcase out of the overhead bin. Danny insisted on helping her down the jetway, but when they said good-bye, Marissa vowed she would be more careful in the future. No more conversations with strangers, and she would not tell anyone her real name. In fact, she decided not to check into the Plaza as Carol Bradford. Instead, she’d stay overnight at the nearby Essex House, using the name of her old high-school chum, Lisa Kendrick.

George Valhala stood by the Avis Rent-a-Car counter and casually scanned the crowds in the baggage area. His employers had nicknamed him The Toad, not because of any physical characteristic, but rather because of his unusual patience, enabling him to sit still for hours on a stakeout, like a toad waiting for an insect.

But this job was not going to utilize his special talent. He’d only been at the airport for a short time, and his information was that the girl would arrive on the five o’clock or the six o’clock flight from Chicago. The five o’clock had just landed, and a few passengers were beginning to appear around the appropriate carousel.

The only minor problem that George foresaw was that the description he’d been given was vague: a cute, short, thirty-year-old female with brown hair. Usually he worked with a photo, but in this case there hadn’t been time to get one.

Then he saw her. It had to be her. She was almost a foot shorter than everyone else in the army of attaché-case-toting travelers swarming the baggage area. And he noticed that she was bypassing the carousel, having apparently carried her suitcase off the plane.

Pushing off the Avis counter, George wandered toward Marissa to get a good fix on her appearance. He followed her outside, where she joined the taxi queue. She definitely was cute, and she definitely was little. George wondered how on earth she’d managed to overpower Paul in Chicago. The idea that she was some kind of martial-arts expert flitted through his mind. One way or another, George felt some respect for this little trick. He knew Al did too, otherwise Al wouldn’t be going through all this trouble.

Having gotten a look at her up close, George crossed the street in front of the terminal and climbed into a taxi waiting opposite the taxi stand.

The driver twisted around, looking at George. “You see her?” He was a skinny fellow with birdlike features, quite a contrast to George’s pear-shaped obesity.

“Jake, do I look like an idiot? Start the car. She’s in the taxi line.” Jake did as he was told. He and George had been working for Al for four years, and they got along fine, except when George started giving orders. But that wasn’t too often.

“There she is,” said George, pointing. Marissa was climbing into a cab. “Pull up a little and let her cab pass us.”

“Hey, I’m driving,” said Jake. “You watch, I drive.” Nonetheless, he put the car in gear and started slowly forward.

George watched out the rear window, noticing Marissa’s cab had a dented roof, he said, “That will be easy to follow.” The taxi passed them on the right, and Jake pulled out behind. He allowed one car to get between them before they entered the Long Island Expressway.

There was no problem keeping Marissa’s cab in sight even though the driver took the Queensborough Bridge, which was crowded with rush-hour traffic. After forty minutes they watched her get out in front of the Essex House. Jake pulled over to the curb fifty feet beyond the hotel.

“Well, now we know where she’s staying,” said Jake.

“Just to be certain, I’m going in to see that she registers,” said George. “I’ll be right back.”

14

May 23

MARISSA DID NOT SLEEP WELL. After the incident in the room at the Palmer House, she might never feel comfortable in a hotel again. Every noise in the hail made her fearful, thinking someone would try to break in. And there were plenty of noises, what with people returning late and ordering from room service.

She also kept imagining symptoms. She could not forget the feel of the vaccination gun in her hand, and each time she woke up, she was certain she had a fever or was otherwise ill.

By the next morning, she was totally exhausted. She ordered fresh fruit and coffee, which arrived with a complimentary New York Times. The front page carried an article about the Ebola outbreaks. In New York, the number of cases had risen to eleven with one death, while in Philadelphia the count stood at thirty-six with seventeen deaths. The single death in New York was the initial case, Dr. Gush Mehta.

Starting at ten, Marissa repeatedly called the Plaza Hotel to inquire after a parcel for Carol Bradford. She intended to keep calling until noon: the overnight carriers generally guaranteed delivery by that time. If the parcel arrived, she would be less wary of Tad’s betraying her and would then go up to the Rosenberg Clinic. Just after eleven, she was told that the package was there and that it was being held for the guest’s arrival.

As Marissa prepared to leave the hotel, she didn’t know whether to

be surprised that Tad had sent the serum or not. Of course the package could be empty, or its arrival only a ruse to get her to reveal her whereabouts. Unfortunately, there was no way for Marissa to be sure, and she wanted the serum enough to make her doubts academic. She would have to take a chance.

Taking only her purse, Marissa tried to think of a way of obtaining the package that would involve the least risk. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any bright ideas other than to have a cab waiting and to be sure there were plenty of people around.

George Valhala had been in the lobby of the Essex House since early that morning. This was the kind of situation that he loved. He’d had coffee, read the papers and ogled some handsome broads. All in all, he’d had a great time, and none of the house detectives had bothered him, dressed as he was in an Armani suit and genuine alligator shoes.