Outbreak

He was considering ducking into the men’s room when he saw Marissa get off the elevator. He dropped his New York Post and beat her out the revolving door. Dodging Fifty-ninth Street traffic, he jogged across to the taxi where Jake was waiting and climbed into the front seat.

Jake had spotted Marissa and had already started the car. “She looks even cuter in daylight,” he said, preparing to make a U-turn.

“You sure that’s Blumenthal?” asked the man who had been waiting in the backseat. His name was Alphonse Hicktman, but few people teased him about his first name, just calling him Al, as he requested. He’d grown up in East Germany and had fled to the West over the Berlin Wall. His face was deceptively youthful. His hair was blond, and he wore it short in a Julius Caesar-style shag. His pale blue eyes were as cold as a winter sky.

“She registered under the name of Lisa Kendrick, but she fits the description,” said George. “It’s her all right.”

“She’s either awfully good or awfully lucky,” said Al. “We’ve got to isolate her without any slipups. Heberling says she could blow the whole deal.”

They watched as Marissa climbed into a taxi and headed east.

Despite the traffic, Jake made his U-turn, then worked his way up to a position only two cars behind Marissa’s taxi.

“Look, lady, you got to tell me where you want to go,” said Manssa’s driver, eyeing her in his rearview mirror.

Marissa was twisted around, still watching the entrance to the

Essex House. No one had come out who appeared to be following her. Facing forward, she told the driver to go around the block. She was still trying to think of a safe way to get the serum.

The driver muttered something under his breath as he proceeded to turn right at the corner. Marissa looked at the Fifth Avenue entrance to the Plaza. There were loads of cars, and the little park in front of the hotel was crowded with people. Horse-drawn hansom cabs lined the curb, waiting for customers. There were even several mounted policemen with shiny blue and black helmets. Marissa felt encouraged. There was no way anybody could surprise her in such a setting.

As they came back down Fifty-ninth Street, Marissa told the driver that she wanted him to stop at the Plaza and wait while she ran inside.

“Lady, I think..

“I’ll only be a moment,” said Marissa.

“There are plenty of cabs,” pointed out the driver. “Why don’t you get another?”

“I’ll add five dollars to the metered fare,” said Marissa, “and I promise I won’t be long.” Manissa treated the man to the largest smile she could muster under the circumstances.

The driver shrugged. His reservations seemed adequately covered by the five-dollar tip and the smile. He pulled up to the Plaza. The hotel doorman opened the door and Marissa got out.

She was extremely nervous, expecting the worst at any second. She watched as her cab pulled up about thirty feet from the entrance. Satisfied, she went inside.

As she’d hoped, the ornate lobby was busy. Without hesitating, Marissa crossed to a jewelry display window and pretended to be absorbed. Scanning the reflection in the glass, she checked the area for signs anyone was watching her. No one seemed to notice her at all.

Crossing the lobby again, she approached the concierge’s desk and waited, her heart pounding.

“May I see some identification?” asked the man, when Manissa requested the parcel.

Momentarily confused, Marissa said she didn’t have any with her. “Then your room key will be adequate,” said the man, trying to be helpful.

“But I haven’t checked in yet,” said Marissa.

The man smiled. “Why don’t you check in and then get your parcel. I hope you understand. We do have a responsibility.”

“Of course,” said Marissa, her confidence shaken. She obviously had not thought this out as carefully as she should have. Recognizing she had little choice, she walked to the registration desk.

Even that process was complicated when she said she didn’t want to use a credit card. The clerk made her go to the cashier to leave a sizable cash deposit before he would give her a room key. Finally, armed with the key, she got her Federal Express package.

Tearing open the parcel as she walked, Marissa lifted out the vial and glanced at it. It seemed authentic. She threw the wrapping in a trash can and pocketed the serum. So far so good.

Emerging from the revolving door, Marissa hesitated while her eyes adjusted to the midday glare. Her cab was still where she’d last seen it. The doorman asked if she wanted transportation, and Marissa smiled and shook her head.

She looked up and down Fifty-ninth Street. If anything, the traffic had increased. On the sidewalk hundreds of people rushed along as if they were all late for some important meeting. It was a scene of bright sun and purposeful bustle. Satisfied, Marissa descended the few steps to the street and ran the short distance to her cab.

Reaching the car and grasping the rear door handle, she cast one last look over her shoulder at the Plaza entrance. No one was following her. Her fears about Tad had been unfounded.

She was about to slide inside when she found herself staring into the muzzle of a gun held by a blond man who’d apparently been lying on the backseat. The man started to speak, but Marissa didn’t give him time. She swung herself clear of the cab and slammed the door. The weapon discharged with a hiss. It was some kind of sophisticated air gun. The cab window shattered, but Marissa was no longer looking. She took off, running as she’d never run before. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the cab driver had bolted out of his car and was running diagonally away from her. The next time she looked over her shoulder, she saw the blond man headed in her direction, pushing his way through the crowds.

The sidewalk was an obstacle course of people, luggage, pushcarts, baby carriages and dogs. The blond man had pocketed his weapon, but she no longer was convinced the crowds provided the protection she had hoped for. Who would even notice the air gun’s soft hiss? She’d just fall to the ground, and her attacker would escape before anyone realized she’d been shot.

People shouted as she crashed by them, but she kept going. The confusion she caused hampered the blond man, but not dramatically. He was gaining on her.

Running across the drive east of the Plaza, Marissa dodged taxis and limos, reaching the edge of the small park with its central fountain. She was in a full panic with no destination. But she knew she had to do something. It was at that moment that she saw the mounted policeman’s horse. It was loosely tethered to the link chain fence that bordered the tiny patch of grass in the park. As Marissa ran toward the horse, she searched desperately for the policeman. She knew he had to be near, but there was so little time. She could hear the blond man’s heels strike the sidewalk, then hesitate. He’d arrived at the drive separating the park from the hotel.

Reaching the horse, Marissa grabbed the reins and ducked underneath as the animal nervously tossed its head. Looking back, Marissa saw the man was in the street, rounding a limo.

Frantically, Marissa’s eyes swept the small park. There were plenty of people, many of them looking in her direction, but no policeman. Giving up, she turned and started running across the park. There was no chance to hide. Her pursuer was too close.

A good crowd was seated by the fountain, watching her with studied indifference. New Yorkers, they were accustomed to any form of excess, including panic-filled flight.

As Marissa rounded the side of the fountain, the blond man was so close she could hear him breathe. Turning again, Marissa collided with the people streaming into the park. Pushing and shoving, Marissa forced her way through the pedestrians, hearing people muttering, “Hey, you!” “The nerve,” and worse.

Breaking into a clear space, she thought she was free, until she realized she was in the center of a circle of several hundred people. Three muscular blacks were break dancing to a rap song. Marissa’s desperate eyes met those of the youths. She saw only anger: She’d crashed their act.

Before anyone could move, the blond man stumbled into the circle, corning to an off-balance halt. He started to raise his air gun, but he didn’t get far. With a practiced kick, one of the infuriated dancers sent the weapon on a low arc into the crowd. People began to move away as Marissa’s pursuer countered with a kick of his own. The dancer caught the blow on his forearm and fell to the ground.

Three of his friends who’d been watching from the sidelines leaped to their feet and rushed the blond man from behind.

Marissa didn’t wait. She melted into the crowd that had backed away from the sudden brawl. Most of the people were crossing Fifth Avenue, and she did the same. Once north of Fifty-ninth Street, she hailed another taxi and told the driver she wanted the Rosenberg

Clinic. As the cab turned on Fifty-ninth, Marissa could see a sizable crowd near the fountain. The mounted policeman was finally back on his horse, and she hoped he would keep the blond man occupied for several weeks.

Once again, Marissa looked over at the Plaza entrance. There was no unusual activity going on as far as she could see. Marissa sat back and closed her eyes. Instead of fear she was suddenly consumed with anger. She was furious with everyone, particularly with Tad. There could be little doubt now that he was telling her pursuers her whereabouts. Even the serum that she’d gone to so much trouble to obtain was useless. With her current suspicions, there was no way she’d inject herself with it. Instead, she’d have to take her chances that the vaccination gun had been designed to adequately protect the user.

For a short time, she considered skipping her visit to the Rosenberg Clinic, but the importance of proving, at least to herself, that the Ebola was being deliberately spread won out. She had to be sure. Besides, after the last elaborate attack, no one would be expecting her.

Marissa had the cab drop her off a little way from the clinic and went the remaining block on foot. The place certainly was not hard to find. It was a fancy, renovated structure that occupied most of a city block. A mobile TV truck and several police cruisers were parked out front. A number of officers lounged on the granite steps. Marissa had to flash her CDC identity card before they let her through.

The lobby was in the same state of confusion as the other hospitals that had suffered an Ebola outbreak. As she threaded her way through the crowd, she began to lose her resolve. The anger she’d felt in the taxi waned, replaced with the old fear of exposing herself to Ebola. Also, her exhilaration at escaping her pursuer faded. In its stead was the reality of being caught in a dangerous web of conspiracy and intrigue. She stopped, eyeing the exit. For a moment she debated leaving, but decided her only hope was to be absolutely sure. She had to remove any of her own doubts before she could possibly convince anyone else.

She thought she would check the easiest piece of information first. She walked down to the business office, where she found a desk with a sign, New Subscribers. Although it was unoccupied, it was loaded with printed literature. It only took a moment for her to learn that the Rosenberg Clinic was an HMO, just as she’d suspected.

The next questions she wanted answered would be more difficult since the initial patient had already died. Retracing her steps back to

the main lobby, Marissa stood watching the stream of people coming and going until she figured out where the doctor’s coatroom was. Timing her approach, Marissa arrived at the door along with a staff doctor who paused to signal the man at the information booth. The coatroom door buzzed open and Marissa entered behind the doctor.

Inside, she was able to obtain a long white coat. She put it on and rolled up the sleeves. There was a name tag on the lapel that said Dr. Ann Elliott. Marissa took it off and placed it in the coat’s side pocket.

Going back to the lobby, Marissa was startled to see Dr. Layne. Turning away, she expected any moment to hear a cry of recognition. Luckily, when she glanced back, Dr. Layne was leaving the hospital.

Seeing him had made Marissa more nervous than ever. She was terrified of running into Dubchek as she had in Philadelphia, but she knew she had to find out more about the dead index case.

Going over to the directory, she saw that the Department of Pathology was on the fourth floor. Marissa took the next elevator. The Rosenberg Clinic was an impressive place. Marissa had to walk through the chemistry lab to get to the pathologists’ offices. En route, she noticed that they had the latest and most expensive automated equipment.

Going through a pair of double doors, Marissa found herself surrounded by secretaries busily typing from Dictaphones. This was the center of the pathology department, where all the reports were prepared.

One of the women removed her ear piece as Marissa approached. “May I help you?”

“I’m one of the doctors from the CDC,” Marissa said warmly. “Do you know if any of my colleagues are here?”

“I don’t think so,” said the secretary, starting to rise. “I can ask Dr. Stewart. He’s in his office.”

“I’m right here,” said a big, burly man with a full beard. “And to answer your question, the CDC people are down on the third floor in our isolation wing.”

“Well, perhaps you can help me,” said Marissa, purposely avoiding introducing herself. “I’ve been looking into the Ebola outbreaks from the beginning, but unfortunately I was delayed getting to New York. I understand that the first case, a Dr. Mehta, has already died. Did you do a post?”

“Just this morning.”

“Would you mind if I asked a few questions?”

“I didn’t do the autopsy,” said Dr. Stewart. Then, turning to the secretary, he asked, “Helen, see if you can round up Curt.”

He led Marissa to a small office furnished with a modern desk and white Formica lab bench, holding a spanking new double-headed Zeiss binocular microscope.

“Did you know Dr. Mehta?” asked Marissa.

“Quite well,” said Stewart, shaking his head. “He was our medical director, and his death will be a great loss.” Stewart went on to describe Dr. Mehta’s contributions in establishing the Rosenberg Clinic and his enormous popularity among staff and patients alike.

“Do you know where he did his training?” asked Marissa. “I’m not certain where he went to medical school,” said Stewart. “I think it was in Bombay. But I know he did his residency in London. Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious if he was a foreign medical school graduate,” said Marissa.

“Does that make a difference?” asked Stewart, frowning.

“It might,” said Marissa vaguely. “Are there a large percentage of foreign medical school graduates on staff here?”

“Of course,” said Stewart. “All HMOs started by hiring a large proportion of foreign medical graduates. American graduates wanted private practice. But that’s changed. These days we can recruit directly from the top residencies.”

The door opened and a young man came in.

“This is Curt Vandermay,” said Stewart.

Reluctantly, Marissa gave her own name.

“Dr. Blumenthal has some questions about the autopsy,” explained Dr. Stewart. He pulled a chair away from his microscope bench for Dr. Vandermay, who sat down and gracefully crossed his legs.

“We haven’t processed the sections yet,” explained Dr. Vandermay. “So I hope the gross results will do.”

“Actually, I’m interested in your external exam,” said Marissa. “Were there any abnormalities?”

“For sure,” said Dr. Vandermay. “The man had extensive hemorrhagic lesions in his skin.”

“What about trauma?” asked Marissa.

“How did you guess?” said Dr. Vandermay, surprised. “He had a broken nose. I’d forgotten about that.”

“How old?” asked Marissa.

“A week, ten days. Somewhere in that range.”

“Did the chart mention a cause?”

“To tell the truth, I didn’t look,” said Dr. Vandermay. “Knowing

the man died of Ebola Hemorrhagic Fever took precedence. I didn’t give the broken nose a lot of thought.”

“I understand,” said Marissa. “What about the chart? I assume it’s here in pathology. Can I see it?”

“By all means,” said Vandermay. He stood up. “Why don’t you come down to the autopsy area. I have some Polaroids of the broken nose, if you’d like to see them.”

“Please,” said Marissa.

Stewart excused himself, saying he had a meeting to attend, and Marissa followed Vandermay as he explained that the body had been disinfected and then double-bagged in special receptacles to avoid contamination. The family had requested that the body be shipped home to India, but that permission had been refused. Marissa could understand why.

The chart wasn’t as complete as Marissa would have liked, but there was reference to the broken nose. It had been set by one of Dr. Mehta’s colleagues, an ENT surgeon. Marissa also learned that Dr. Mehta was an ENT surgeon himself, a terrifying fact given the way the epidemic had spread in the previous outbreaks. As far as the cause of the broken nose was concerned, there was nothing.

Vandermay suggested that they phone the man who set it. While he put through the call, Marissa went through the rest of the chart. Dr. Mehta had no history of recent travel, exposure to animals or connection to any of the other Ebola outbreaks.

“The poor man was robbed,” said Dr. Vandermay, hanging up the phone. “Punched out and robbed in his own driveway. Can you believe it? What a world we live in!”

If you only knew, thought Marissa, now absolutely certain that the Ebola outbreaks were deliberately caused. A wave of fear swept over her, but she forced herself to continue questioning the pathologist. “Did you happen to notice a nummular lesion on Dr. Mehta’s thigh?”

“I don’t recall,” said Dr. Vandermay. “But here are all the Polaroids.” He spread a group of photos out as if he were laying out a poker hand.

Marissa looked at the first one. They brutally portrayed the naked corpse laid out on the stainless-steel autopsy table. Despite the profusion of hemorrhagic lesions, Manssa was able to pick out the same circular lesion she had seen on Dr. Richter’s thigh. It corresponded in size to the head of a vaccination gun.

“Would it be possible for me to take one of these photos?” asked Marissa.

Dr. Vandermay glanced at them. “Go ahead. We’ve got plenty.”

Marissa slipped the photo into her pocket. It wasn’t as good as the vaccination gun, but it was something. She thanked Dr. Vandermay and got up to leave.

“Aren’t you going to tell me your suspicions?” Vandermay asked. There was a slight smile on his face, as if he knew that something was up.

An intercom system crackled to life, informing Dr. Vandermay that he had a phone call on line six. He picked up, and Marissa overheard him say, “That’s a coincidence, Dr. Dubchek, I’m talking with Dr. Blumenthal right this moment..

That was all Marissa needed to hear. She got up and ran for the elevators. Vandermay called after her, but she didn’t stop. She passed the secretaries at a half-jog and raced through the double doors, clutching the pens in the pocket of the white coat to keep them from falling out.

Facing the elevators and fire stairs, she decided to risk the elevator. If Dubchek had been on the third floor, he probably would think it faster to use the stairs. She pushed the Down button. A lab tech was waiting with his tray of vacu-containers. He watched Marissa frantically push the already illuminated elevator button several more times. “Emergency?” he asked as their eyes met.

An elevator stopped and Marissa squeezed on. The doors seemed to take forever to close, and she expected at any moment to see Dubchek running to stop them. But finally they started down, and Marissa began to relax only to find herself stopping on three. She moved deeper into the car, for once appreciating her small stature. It would have been difficult to see her from outside the elevator.

As the elevator began to move again, she asked a gray-haired technician where the cafeteria was. He told her to turn right when she got off the elevator and follow the main corridor.

Marissa got off and did as she had been told. A short distance down the hall, she smelled the aroma of food. For the rest of the way she followed her nose.

She had decided it was too dangerous to risk the front entrance to the clinic. Dubchek could have told the police to stop her. Instead, she ran into the cafeteria, which was crowded with people having lunch. She headed directly for the kitchen. The staff threw her a few questioning looks, but no one challenged her. As she’d imagined, there was a loading dock, and she exited directly onto it, skirting a dairy truck that was making a delivery.

Dropping down to the level of the driveway, Marissa walked briskly out onto Madison Avenue. After going north for half a block, she turned east on a quiet tree-lined street. There were few pedestrians, which gave Marissa confidence that she was not being trailed. When she got to Park Avenue, she hailed a cab.

To be sure that no one was following her, Marissa got off at Bloomingdales, walked through the store to Third Avenue and hailed a second cab. By the time she pulled up at the Essex House, she was confident that she was safe, at least for the time being.

Outside her room, with its Do Not Disturb sign still in place, Marissa hesitated. Even though no one knew she was registered under an assumed name, the memory of Chicago haunted her. She opened the door carefully, scanning the premises before going in. Then she propped the door open with a chair and warily searched the room. She checked under the beds, in the closet and in the bathroom. Everything was as she’d left it. Satisfied, Marissa closed and locked her door, using all the bolts and chains available.

15

May 23-continued

MARISSA ATE SOME OF the generous portion of fruit she’d ordered from room service for her breakfast that morning, peeling an apple with the sharp paring knife that had come with it. Now that her suspicions appeared to be true, she wasn’t sure what to do next. The only thing she could think of was to go to Ralph’s lawyer and tell him what she believed: that a small group of right-wing physicians were introducing Ebola into privately owned clinics to erode public trust in HMOs. She could hand over the meager evidence she had and let him worry about the rest of the proof. Maybe he could even suggest a safe place for her to hide while things were being sorted out.

Putting down the apple, she reached for the phone. She felt much better having come to a decision. She dialed Ralph’s office number and was pleasantly surprised to be immediately put through to him.

“I gave my secretary specific instructions,” explained Ralph. “In case you don’t know it, I’m concerned about you.”

“You’re sweet,” said Marissa, suddenly touched by Ralph’s sympathy. It undermined the tight control she’d been holding over her emotions. For a second she felt like the child who didn’t cry after a fall until she saw her mother.

“Are you coming home today?”

“That depends,” said Marissa, biting her lip and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I can talk to that lawyer today?” Her voice wavered.

“No,” said Ralph. “I called his office this morning. They said he had to go out of town but that he’s expected back tomorrow.”

“Too bad,” said Marissa, her voice beginning to shake.

“Marissa, are you all right?” asked Ralph.

“I’ve been better,” admitted Marissa. “I’ve had some awful experiences.”

“What happened?”

“I can’t talk now,” said Marissa, knowing if she tried to explain, she’d burst into tears.

“Listen to me,” said Ralph. “I want you to come here immediately. I didn’t want you going to New York in the first place. Did you run into Dubchek again?”

“Worse than that,” said Marissa.

“Well, that settles it,” said Ralph. “Get the next flight home. I’ll come and pick you up.”

The idea had a lot of appeal, and she was about to say as much when there was a knock on her door. Marissa froze.

The knock was repeated.

“Marissa, are you there?”

“Just a minute,” said Marissa into the phone. “There’s someone at the door. Stay on the line.”

She put the phone down on the night table and warily approached the door. “Who is it?”

“A delivery for Miss Kendrick.” Marissa opened the door a crack but kept the safety catch on. One of the uniformed bellmen was standing there, holding a large package covered with white paper.

Flustered, she told the bellman to wait while she went back to the phone. She told Ralph that someone was at her door and that she’d call back as soon as she knew what flight she was taking home to Atlanta that evening.

“You promise?” asked Ralph.

“Yes!” said Marissa.

Returning to the door, Marissa looked out into the hall again. The bellman was leaning against the wall opposite, still holding the package. Who could have sent “Miss Kendrick” flowers when as far as Marissa knew her friend was living happily on the West Coast?

Returning to the phone, she called the desk and asked if she’d gotten any flowers. The concierge said, yes, they were on their way up.

Marissa felt a little better, but not enough to take off the chain. Instead, she called through the crack, “I’m terribly sorry, but would you mind leaving the flowers? I’ll get them in a few minutes.”

“My pleasure, madam,” said the bellman, setting down the package. Then he touched his hat and disappeared down the hall.

Removing the chain, Marissa quickly picked up the basket and relocked the door. She ripped off the paper and found a spectacular arrangement of spring blossoms. On a green stake pushed into the Styrofoam base was an envelope addressed to Lisa Kendrick.

Removing it, Marissa pulled out a folded card addressed to Marissa Blumenthal! Her heart skipped a beat as she began to read:

Dear Dr. Blumenthal, Congratulations on your performance this morning. We were all

impressed. Of course, we will have to make a return visit unless you are willing to be reasonable. Obviously, we know where you are at all times, but we will leave you alone if you return the piece of medical equipment you borrowed.

Terror washed over Marissa. For a moment she stood transfixed in front of the flowers, looking at them in disbelief. Then in a sudden burst of activity, she began to pack her belongings, opening the drawers of the bureau, pulling out the few things that she’d placed there. But then she stopped. Nothing was exactly where she’d left it. They had been in her room, searching through her belongings! Oh, God! She had to get away from there.

Rushing into the bathroom, she snatched up her cosmetics, dumping them haphazardly into her bag. Then she stopped again. The implications of the note finally dawned on her. If they did not have the vaccination gun, that meant Tad was not involved. And neither he nor anyone else knew she was staying at the Essex House under a second assumed name. The only way they could have found her was by following her from the airport in Chicago.

The sooner she was out of the Essex House the better. After flinging the rest of her things into her suitcase, she found she had packed so badly it wouldn’t close. As she sat on it, struggling with the latch, her eyes drifted back to the flowers. All at once she understood. Their purpose was to frighten her into leading her assailants to the vaccination gun, which was probably just what she would have done.

She sat on the bed and forced herself to think calmly. Since her adversaries knew she didn’t have the vaccination gun with her, and were hoping she would lead them to it, she felt she had a little room to maneuver. Marissa decided not to bother taking the suitcase with her. She stuffed a few essentials in her purse and pulled the various papers she needed from her briefcase so she could leave that, too.

The only thing that Marissa felt absolutely certain of was that she would be followed. Undoubtedly her pursuers expected her to leave in a panic, making it that much easier for them. Well, thought Marissa, they were in for a surprise.

Looking again at the magnificent flowers, she decided she might well use the same strategy her enemies had. Thinking along those lines, she began to develop a plan that might give the answers that would provide the solution to the whole affair.

Unfolding the list of officers of the Physicians’ Action Congress, Marissa reassured herself that the secretary was based in New York, His name was Jack Krause, and he lived at 426 East Eighty-fourth Street. Marissa decided that she’d pay the man an unannounced visit. Maybe all the doctors didn’t know what was going on. It was hard to think of a group of physicians being willing to spread plague. In any case, her appearance on his doorstep should spread a lot more panic than any bouquet.

Meanwhile, she decided to take some steps to protect her departure. Going to the phone, she called the hotel manager, and in an irritated voice, complained that the desk had given her room number to her estranged boyfriend and that the man had been bothering her.

“That’s impossible,” said the manager. “We do not give out room numbers.”

“I have no intention of arguing with you,” snapped Marissa. “The fact of the matter is that it happened. Since the reason I stopped seeing him was because of his violent nature, I’m terrified.”

“What would you like us to do?” asked the manager, sensing that Marissa had something specific in mind.

“I think you could at least move me to another room,” said Marissa.

“I’ll see to it myself,” said the manager.

“One other thing,” said Marissa. “My boyfriend is blond, athletic looking, sharp features. Perhaps you could alert your people.”

“Certainly,” said the manager.

Alphonse Hicktman took one last draw on his cigarette and tossed it over the granite wall that separated Central Park from the sidewalk. Looking back at the taxi with its off-duty light on, Al could just make out George’s features. He was hunkered down, relaxed as usual. Waiting never seemed to bother the man. Looking across the street at the Essex House entrance, Al hoped to God that Jake was properly situated in the lobby so that Marissa could not leave unseen by a back entrance.

Al had been so sure that the flowers would send the woman flying out of the hotel. Now he was mystified. Either she was super smart or super stupid.

Walking over to the taxi, he whacked its roof with an open palm, making a noise like a kettledrum. George was instantly half out of the car on the other side.

Al smiled at him. “Little tense, George?” His patience made Al’s frustration that much harder to bear.

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed George.

The two men got into the cab.

“What time is it?” asked Al, taking out another cigarette. He’d already gone through most of a pack that afternoon.

“Seven-thirty.”

Al flicked the used match out the open window. The job was not going well. Since the vaccination gun had not been in the woman’s hotel room, his orders were to follow her until she retrieved it, but it was all too apparent that Dr. Blumenthal was not about to accommodate them, at least not immediately.

At that moment a group of revelers came stumbling out of the Essex House, arm in arm, swaying, laughing and generally making fools of themselves. They were obviously conventioneers, dressed in dark suits with name tags, and wearing plastic sun visors that said SANYO.

The doorman signaled a group of limousines waiting just up the street. One by one, they drove to the door to pick up their quota.

Al slapped George on the shoulder, frantically pointing toward the largest group to emerge through the revolving door. Among them two men were supporting a woman wearing a Sanyo visor who seemed too drunk to walk. “Is that the mark hanging onto those guys?” he asked.

George squinted, and before he could answer, the woman in question disappeared into one of the limousines. He turned back to Al. “I don’t think so. Her hair was different. But I couldn’t be sure.”

“Damn!” said Al. “Neither could I.” After a moment’s hesitation, Al jumped out of the taxi. “If she comes out, follow her.” Al then dodged the traffic and raced across to get in another cab.

From the back of the limousine, Marissa watched the entrance to the hotel. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone alight from a parked taxi and run across the street. Just as her limousine pulled in front of a bus, blocking her view, she saw the man climbing into another taxi, a vintage Checker.

Marissa turned to face forward. She was certain she was being followed. She had several options, but with almost a full block’s head start, she decided it would be best to get out.

As soon as the limousine turned on Fifth, Marissa shocked her companions by shouting at the driver to pull over.

The driver complied, figuring she was about to be sick, but before any of the men knew what was happening, she had the door open and jumped out, telling the driver to go on without her.

Spying a Doubleday bookstore, which, happily, was keeping late hours, she ducked inside. From the store window she saw the Checker cab speed by and caught a glimpse of a blond head in the backseat. The man was sitting forward, staring straight ahead.

The house looked more like a medieval fortress than a New York luxury townhouse. Its leaded windows were narrow and covered with twisted wrought-iron grilles. The front door was protected by a stout iron gate that was fashioned after a portcullis. The fifth floor was set back and the resulting terrace was crenellated like a castle tower.

Marissa eyed the building from across the street. It was hardly a hospitable sight, and for a moment she had second thoughts about visiting Dr. Krause. But safely ensconced in her new room at the Essex House that afternoon, she’d made some calls and learned that he was a prominent Park Avenue internist. She could not imagine that he would be capable of harming her directly. Perhaps through an organization like PAC, but not with his own two hands.

She crossed the street and climbed the front steps. Casting one last glance up and down the quiet street, she rang the bell. Behind the gate was the heavy wooden door, its center decorated with a family crest carved in relief.

She waited a minute and rang again. All at once a bright light went on, blinding her so that she could not see who was opening the door.

“Yes?” said a woman’s voice.

“I would like to see Dr. Krause,” said Marissa, trying to sound authoritative.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” admitted Marissa. “But tell the doctor that I’m here on emergency Physicians’ Action Congress business. I think he’ll see me.

Marissa heard the door close. The hard light illuminated most of the street. After a couple of minutes, the door was reopened.

“The doctor will see you.” Then there was the painful sound of the iron gate opening on hinges that needed oil.

Marissa went inside, relieved to get away from the glare. She watched the woman, who was dressed in a maid’s black uniform, close the gate, then come toward her.

“If you’ll follow me, please.”

Marissa was led through a marbled and chandeliered entrance, down a short corridor to a paneled library.

“If you’ll wait here,” said the woman, “the doctor will be with you shortly.”

Marissa glanced around the room, which was beautifully furnished with antiques. Bookcases lined three of the walls.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said a mellow voice.

Marissa turned to look at Dr. Krause. He had a fleshy face with deep lines, and as he gestured for her to sit, she noticed his hands were unusually large and square, like those of an immigrant laborer. When they were sitting, she could see him better. The eyes were those of an intelligent, sympathetic man, reminding her of some of her internal medicine professors. Marissa was amazed that he could have gotten mixed up in something like the Physicians’ Action Congress.

“I’m sorry to bother you at such an hour,” she began.

“No problem,” said Dr. Krause. “I was just reading. What can I do for you?”

Marissa leaned forward to watch the man’s face. “My name is Dr. Marissa Blumenthal.”

There was a pause as Dr. Krause waited for Marissa to continue. His expression did not change. Either he was a good actor or her name was not familiar.

“I’m an Epidemiology Intelligence Service officer at the CDC,” added Marissa. His eyes narrowed just a tad.

“My maid said that you were here on PAC business,” said Dr. Krause, a measure of the hospitality disappearing from his voice.

“I am,” said Marissa. “Perhaps I should ask if you are aware of anything that PAC might be doing that could concern the CDC.”

This time, Krause’s jaw visibly tightened. He took a deep breath, started to speak, then changed his mind. Marissa waited as if she had all the time in the world.

Finally, Dr. Krause cleared his throat. “PAC is trying to rescue American medicine from the economic forces that are trying to destroy it. That’s been its goal from the start.”

“A noble goal,” admitted Marissa. “But how is PAC attempting to accomplish this mission?”

“By backing responsible and sensible legislation,” said Dr. Krause.

He stood up, presumably to escape Marissa’s stare. “PAC is providing an opportunity for more conservative elements to exert some influence. And it’s about time; the profession of medicine is like a runaway train.” He moved over to the fireplace, his face lost in shadow.

“Unfortunately, it seems PAC is doing more than sponsoring legislation,” said Marissa. “That’s what concerns the CDC.”

“I think we have nothing more to discuss,” said Dr. Krause. “If you’ll excuse me-“

“I believe PAC is responsible for the Ebola outbreaks,” blurted Marissa, standing up herself. “You people have some misguided idea that spreading disease in HMOs will further your cause.”

“That’s absurd!” said Dr. Krause.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Marissa. “But I have papers linking you and the other officers of PAC to Professional Labs in Grayson, Georgia, which has recently purchased equipment to handle the virus. I even have the vaccination gun used to infect the index cases.”

“Get out of here,” ordered Dr. Krause.

“Gladly,” said Marissa. “But first let me say that I intend to visit all the officers of PAC. I can’t imagine they all agreed to this idiotic scheme. In fact, it’s hard for me to imagine that a physician like yourself-any physician-could have allowed it.”

Maintaining a calm she did not feel, Marissa walked to the door. Dr. Krause did not move from the fireplace. “Thank you for seeing me,” said Marissa. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. But I’m confident that one of the PAC officers I see will want to help stop this horror. Perhaps by turning state’s evidence. It could be you. I hope so. Good night, Dr. Krause.”

Marissa forced herself to walk slowly down the short corridor to the foyer. What if she misjudged the man and he came after her? Luckily, the maid materialized and let her out. As soon as Marissa was beyond the cone of light, she broke into a run.

For a few moments Dr. Krause didn’t move. It was as if his worst nightmare were coming true. He had a gun upstairs. Maybe he should just kill himself. Or he could call his lawyer and ask for immunity in return for turning state’s evidence. But he had no idea what that really meant.

Panic followed paralysis. He rushed to his desk, opened his address book and, after looking up a number, placed a call to Atlanta.

The phone rang almost ten times before it was picked up. Joshua Jackson’s smooth accent oiled its way along the wires as he said hello and asked who was calling.

“Jack Krause,” said the distraught doctor. “What the hell is going on? You swore that aside from Los Angeles, PAC had nothing to do with the outbreaks of Ebola. That the further outbreaks sprang from accidental contact with the initial patients. Joshua, you gave me your word.”

“Calm down,” said Jackson. “Get ahold of yourself!”

“Who is Marissa Blumenthal?” asked Krause in a quieter voice.

“That’s better,” said Jackson. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the woman just showed up on my doorstep accusing me and PAC of starting all the Ebola epidemics.”

“Is she still there?”

“No. She’s gone,” said Krause. “But who the hell is she?”

“An epidemiologist from the CDC who got lucky. But don’t worry, Heberling is taking care of her.”

“This affair is turning into a nightmare,” said Krause. “I should remind you that I was against the project even when it only involved influenza.”

“What did the Blumenthal girl want with you?” asked Jackson.

“She wanted to frighten me,” said Krause. “And she did a damn good job. She said she has the names and addresses of all the PAC officers, and she implied that she was about to visit each one.”

“Did she say who was next?”

“Of course she didn’t. She’s not stupid,” said Krause. “In fact she’s extremely clever. She played me like a finely tuned instrument. If she sees us all, somebody’s going to fold. Remember Tieman in San Fran? He was even more adamantly against the project than I was.”

“Try to relax,” urged Jackson. “I understand why you’re upset. But let me remind you that there is no real evidence to implicate anyone. And as a precautionary measure, Heberling has cleaned out his whole lab except for his bacterial studies. I’ll tell him that the girl plans to visit the other officers. I’m sure that will help. In the meantime, we’ll take extra precautions to keep her away from Tieman.”

Krause hung up. He felt a little less anxious, but as he stood up and turned off the desk lamp, he decided he’d phone his attorney in the morning. It couldn’t hurt to inquire about the procedure for turning state’s evidence.

As her cab whizzed over the Triborough Bridge, Marissa was mesmerized by Manhattan’s nighttime skyline. From that distance it was beautiful. But it soon dropped behind, then out of sight altogether as the car descended into the sunken portion of the Long Island Expressway. Marissa forced her eyes back to the list of names and

addresses of the PAC officers, which she had taken from her purse. They were hard to make out as the taxi shot from one highway light to the next.

There was no logical way to choose who to visit after Krause. The closest would be easiest, but also probably the most obvious to her pursuers, and therefore the most dangerous. For safety’s sake, she decided to visit the man farthest away, Doctor Sinclair Tieman in San Francisco.

Leaning forward, Marissa told the driver she wanted Kennedy rather than LaGuardia airport. When he asked what terminal, she chose at random: United. If they didn’t have space on a night flight, she could always go to another terminal.

At that time in the evening there were few people at the terminal, and Marissa got rapid service. She was pleased to find a convenient flight to San Francisco with just one stop, in Chicago. She bought her ticket with cash, using yet another false name, bought some reading material from a newsstand and went to the gate. She decided to use the few moments before takeoff to call Ralph. As she anticipated, he was upset she hadn’t called him back sooner, but was pleased at first to learn she was at the airport.

“I’ll forgive you this one last time,” he said, “but only because you are on your way home.”

Marissa chose her words carefully: “I wish I could see you tonight, but.

“Don’t tell me you are not coming,” said Ralph, feigning anger to conceal his disappointment. “I made arrangements for you to meet with Mr. McQuinllin tomorrow at noon. You said you wanted to see him as soon as possible.”

“It will have to be postponed,” said Marissa. “Something has come up. I must go to San Francisco for a day or two. I just can’t explain right now.”

“Marissa, what on earth are you up to?” said Ralph in a tone of desperation. “Just from the little you’ve told me, I’m absolutely certain you should come home, see the lawyer; then, if Mr. McQuinllin agrees, you can still go to California.”

“Ralph, I know you’re worried. The fact you care makes me feel so much better, but everything is under control. What I’m doing will just make my dealings with Mr. McQuinllin that much easier. Trust me.”

“I can’t,” pleaded Ralph. “You’re not being rational.”

“They’re boarding my plane,” said Marissa. “I’ll call as soon as I can.”

Marissa replaced the receiver with a sigh. He might not be the world’s most romantic man, but he certainly was sensitive and caring.

Al told Jake to shut up. He couldn’t stand the man’s incessant gab. If it wasn’t about baseball, it was about the horses. It never stopped. It was worse than George’s eternal silence.

Al was sitting with Jake in the taxi while George still waited in the Essex House lobby. Something told Al that things were screwed up. He’d followed the limo all the way to a restaurant in Soho, but then the girl he’d seen get in didn’t get out. Coming back to the hotel, he’d had Jake check to see if Miss Kendrick was still registered. She was, but when Al went up and walked past the room, he’d seen it being cleaned. Worse, he’d been spotted by the house detectives, who claimed he was the broad’s boyfriend and that he’d better leave her alone. You didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to know something was wrong. His professional intuition told him that the girl had fled and that they were wasting their time staking out the Essex House.

“You sure you don’t want to put a small bet on the fourth at Belmont today?” said Jake.

Al was about to bounce a couple of knuckles off the top of Jake’s head when his beeper went off. Reaching under his jacket, he turned the thing off, cursing. He knew who it was.

“Wait here,” he said gruffly. He got out of the car and ran across the street to the Plaza where he used one of the downstairs pay phones to call Heberling.

Heberling did not even try to hide his contempt. “For Chrissake, the woman’s only a hundred pounds or so. It’s not like I’m asking you to take out Rambo. Why the hell is PAC paying you fellows a thousand dollars a day?”

“The woman’s been lucky,” said Al. He’d be patient, but only to a point.

“I don’t buy that,” said Heberling. “Now tell me, do you have any idea where she is at this moment?”

“I’m not positive,” admitted Al.

“Meaning you’ve lost her,” snapped Heberling. “Well, I can tell you where she’s been. She’s seen Dr. Krause and scared him shitless. Now we’re afraid she’s planning to visit the other PAC officers. Dr. Tieman’s the most vulnerable. I’ll worry about the other physicians. I want you and your orangutans to get your asses to San Francisco. See if she’s there, and whatever you do, don’t let her get to Tieman.”

16

May 24

IT WAS JUST BEGINNING to get light as Al followed Jake and George down the jetway to San Francisco’s central terminal. They’d taken an American flight that first stopped for an hour and a half at Dallas, then was delayed in Las Vegas on what should have been a brief touchdown.

Jake was carrying the suitcase with the vaccination gun they’d used on Mehta. Al wondered if he looked as bad as his colleagues. They needed to shave and shower, and their previously sharply pressed suits were badly wrinkled.

The more Al thought about the current situation, the more frustrated he became. The girl could be in any one of at least four cities. And it wasn’t even a simple hit. If they did find her, they first had to get her to tell them where she’d hidden the vaccination gun.

Leaving Jake and George to get the luggage, he rented a car, using one of the several fake IDs he always carried. He decided the only thing they could do was stake out Tieman’s house. That way, even if they didn’t find the girl, she wouldn’t get to the doctor. After making sure he could get a car with a cellular phone, he spread out the map the girl at Budget had given him. Tieman lived in some out-of-the-way place called Sausalito. At least there wouldn’t be much traffic; it wasn’t even 7:00 A.M. yet.

The operator at the Fairmont placed Marissa’s wake-up call at 7:30 as she’d requested. Marissa had been lucky the night before. A small convention group had canceled out at the last minute, and she’d had no trouble getting a room.

Lying in bed waiting for her breakfast she wondered what Dr. Tieman would be like. Probably not much different from Krause: a selfish, greedy man whose attempt to protect his own wallet had gotten out of control.

Getting up, she opened the drapes to a breathtaking scene that included the Bay Bridge, the hills of Mann County, with Alcatraz Island looking like a medieval fortress in the foreground. Marissa only wished that she was visiting under more pleasant circumstances.

By the time she’d showered and wrapped herself in the thick white terry cloth robe supplied by the hotel, her breakfast had arrived, an enormous selection of fresh fruit and coffee.

Peeling a peach, she noticed they had given her an old-fashioned paring knife-wood handled and very sharp. As she ate, she looked at Tieman’s address and wondered if it wouldn’t be better to visit him at his office rather than at home. She was sure someone had contacted him after her visit to Dr. Krause, so she couldn’t count on really surprising the man. Under such conditions, it seemed safer to go to his office.

The Yellow Pages was in one of the desk drawers. Marissa opened it to Physicians and Surgeons, found Tieman’s name and noted that his practice was limited to OB-GYN.

Just to be certain the man was in town, Marissa dialed his office. The service operator said that the office didn’t open until eight-thirty. That was about ten minutes away.

Marissa finished dressing and dialed again. This time she got the receptionist, who told her the doctor wasn’t expected until three. This was his day for surgery at San Francisco General.

Hanging up, Marissa stared out at the Bay Bridge while she considered this new information. In some ways confronting Tieman in the hospital might even be better than at his office. It would certainly be safer if the doctor had any idea of trying to stop her himself.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Except for her underwear, she had been wearing the same clothes for two days, and she realized she’d have to stop somewhere and get some fresh things.

She put up the Do Not Disturb sign as she left the room, less nervous here than in New York since she was certain she was several jumps ahead of her pursuers.

The site of San Francisco General was gorgeous, but once inside,

the hospital was like any other large city hospital, with the same random mixture of old and modern. There was also that overwhelming sense of bustle and disorganization characteristic of such institutions. It was easy for Marissa to walk unnoticed into the doctor’s locker room.

As she was selecting a scrub suit, an attendant came over and asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Dr. Blumenthal,” said Marissa. “I’m here to observe Dr. Tie-man operate.”

“Let me give you a locker,” said the attendant without hesitation, and gave her a key.

After Marissa changed, her locker key pinned to the front of her scrub dress, she walked to the surgical lounge. There were about twenty people there, drinking coffee, chatting and reading newspapers.

Passing through the lounge, Marissa went directly into the operating area. In the vestibule, she put on a hood and booties, then stopped in front of the big scheduling board. Tieman’s name was listed for room eleven. The man was already on his second hysterectomy.

“Yes?” inquired the nurse behind the OR desk. Her voice had that no-nonsense tone of a woman in charge.

“I’m here to watch Dr. Tieman,” said Marissa.

“Go on in. Room eleven,” said the nurse, already devoting her attention to another matter.

“Thank you,” said Marissa, starting down the wide central corridor. The operating rooms were on either side, sharing scrub and anesthesia space. Through the oval windows in the doors, Marissa caught glimpses of gowned figures bent over their patients.

Entering the scrub area between rooms eleven and twelve, Marissa put on a mask and pushed into Tieman’s operating room.

There were five people besides the patient. The anesthesiologist was sitting at the patient’s head, two surgeons were standing on either side of the table, a scrub nurse perched on a footstool and there was one circulating nurse. As Marissa entered, the circulating nurse was sitting in the corner, waiting for orders. She got up and asked Marissa what she needed.

“How much longer for the case?”

“Three-quarters of an hour,” shrugged the nurse. “Dr. Tieman is fast.”

“Which one is Dr. Tieman?” asked Marissa. The nurse gave her a strange look.

“The one on the right,” she said. “Who are you?”

“A doctor friend from Atlanta,” said Marissa. She didn’t elaborate. Moving around to the head of the table and looking at Dr. Tieman, she understood why the nurse had been surprised by her question:

the man was black.

How odd, thought Marissa. She would have suspected that all the PAC officers were old-guard, white and probably racially prejudiced.

For a while she stood above the ether screen and watched the course of the operation. The uterus was already out, and they were starting repair. Tieman was good. His hands moved with that special economy of motion that could not be taught. It was a talent, a gift from God, not something to be learned even with practice.

“Start the damn car,” said Al hanging up the cellular phone. They were parked across from a sprawling redwood house that clung to the hillside above the town of Sausalito. Between the eucalyptus trees they could see blue patches of the Bay.

Jake turned the key in the ignition. “Where to?” He knew Al was pissed, and when he was in that kind of mood, it was better to say as little as possible.

“Back to the city.”

“What did Tieman’s office say?” asked George from the backseat. Jake wanted to tell George to shut up, but he was afraid to speak. “That the doctor was in surgery at San Francisco General,” said Al, almost white with anger. “His first operation was scheduled for seven-thirty, and he’s not expected at the office until three.”

“No wonder we missed him,” said George disgustedly. “The guy must have left his house an hour before we got here. What a waste of time. We should have gone to a hotel like I said.”

With blinding speed Al twisted around in the front seat and grabbed George’s pink Dior tie. George’s eyes bulged and his face turned red. “If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. Understand?”

Al released the tie and shoved George back down in his seat. Jake hunkered down like a turtle into his sports jacket. He hazarded a glance in Al’s direction.

“And what are you gawking at?” demanded Al.

Jake didn’t say a word, and after what had just happened, he hoped George had learned the wisdom of silence.

They were almost at the bridge before anyone spoke.

“I think we should get another car,” Al said, his voice as calm as if the outburst had never happened. “Just in case we run into a problem and have to split up. Then we’ll go to San Francisco General. The sooner we spot Tieman the better.”

With plenty of time to spare and feeling confident that she’d have no problem recognizing Dr. Tieman now that she’d seen him, Marissa left the operating room as the assistant was closing. She changed back to her street clothes. She wanted to be able to leave right after she spoke to the man. Going into the surgical lounge, she found a seat by the window. A few people smiled at her but no one spoke.

A half hour went by before Dr. Tieman appeared, coming into the room with the same effortless grace that had characterized his surgical technique.

Marissa walked over to where he was pouring a cup of coffee. In his short-sleeved scrub top, Marissa could see his beautifully muscled arms. His color was a rich brown, like polished walnut.

“I’m Dr. Marissa Blumenthal,” she said, watching the man for a reaction.

He had a broad, masculine face with a well-trimmed mustache and sad eyes, as if he’d seen more of life than he cared to know. He looked down at Marissa with a smile. It was obvious from his expression that he had no idea who she was.

“May I speak to you in private?” asked Marissa.

Tieman glanced at his assistant, who was just approaching. “I’ll see you in the OR,” Tieman said, leading Marissa away.

He took her to one of the dictation cubicles separated from the lounge by two swinging doors. There was one chair, and Dr. Tieman turned it around, gesturing for Marissa to sit. He leaned against a counter, holding his coffee in his right hand.

Acutely conscious of her short stature and its psychological handicap, Marissa pushed the chair back to him, insisting that he sit since he’d been standing in surgery since early that morning.

“Okay, okay,” he said with a short laugh. “I’m sitting. Now what can I do for you?”

“I’m surprised you don’t recognize my name,” said Marissa, watching the man’s eyes. They were still questioning, still friendly.

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Tieman. He laughed again, but with a tinge of embarrassment. He was studying Marissa’s face. “I do meet a lot of people..

“Hasn’t Dr. Jack Krause called you about me?” asked Marissa.

“I’m not even sure I know a Dr. Krause,” said Dr. Tieman, directing his attention to his coffee.

The first lie, thought Marissa. Taking a deep breath, she told the doctor exactly what she’d told Krause. From the moment she mentioned the L.A. Ebola outbreak, he never lifted his eyes. She could tell that he was nervous. The surface of the coffee shook slightly in the cup in his hand, and Marissa was suddenly glad she was not the man’s next patient.

“I haven’t the slightest idea why you are telling me this,” said Dr. Tieman, starting to rise. “And unfortunately I have another case.”

With uncharacteristic forwardness, Marissa gently touched his chest, forcing him back in his seat. “I’m not finished,” she said, “and whether you realize it or not, you are intimately involved. I have evidence that Ebola is being deliberately spread by the Physicians’ Action Congress. You are their treasurer, and I’m shocked that a man of your reputation could be connected to such a sordid affair.”

“You’re shocked,” countered Dr. Tieman, finally rising to his feet and towering over her. “I’m amazed that you have the nerve to make such irresponsible allegations.”

“Save your breath,” said Marissa. “It’s public knowledge that you are an officer of PAC as well as a limited partner in one of the only labs in the country equipped to handle viruses like Ebola.”

“I hope you have plenty of insurance,” warned Dr. Tieman, his voice rising. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

“Good,” said Marissa, ignoring the threat. “Maybe he will persuade you that your best course is to cooperate with the authorities.” She stepped back and looked directly up at his face. “Having met you, I cannot believe you approved the idea of spreading a deadly disease. It will be a double tragedy for you to lose everything you’ve worked for because of someone else’s poor judgment. Think about it, Dr. Tieman. You don’t have a lot of time.”

Pushing through the swinging doors, Marissa left a stunned doctor desperately heading for the phone. She realized she had forgotten to tell Tieman that she was planning to visit the other PAC officers, but she decided it didn’t matter. The man was terrified enough.

“There’s the girl!” yelled Al, slapping Jake on the shoulder. They were parked across the street from the main entrance to the hospital. George waited behind them in the second car. When Al turned to look at him, George gave a thumbs-up sign, meaning that he’d also seen Marissa.

“She won’t get away today,” said Al.

Jake started the car and, as Marissa got into a cab, he pulled out into the street, heading back into town. Al watched as Marissa’s cab

pulled out behind them, followed neatly by George. Now things were working as they should.

“She must have seen Tieman if she’s leaving,” said Jake.

“Who cares?” said Al. “We got her now.” Then he added, “It would make things easier if she’d go back to her hotel.”

Marissa’s cab went by them with George in pursuit. Jake began to speed up. Ahead he saw George overtake Marissa. They would continue leapfrogging until Marissa reached her destination.

About fifteen minutes later, Marissa’s taxi stopped behind a line of cars waiting to pull up to the Fairmont. “Looks like your prayers have been answered,” said Jake, stopping across the street from the hotel.

“I’ll handle the car,” said Al. “You get your ass in there and find out what room she’s in.”

Jake got out as Al slid behind the wheel. Dodging the midmorning traffic, Jake reached the front of the hotel before Marissa had even gotten out of her cab. In the lobby, he picked up a newspaper and, folding it commuter style, positioned himself so that he could see everyone coming into the hotel.

Marissa walked directly to the front desk. He quickly moved behind her, expecting her to ask for her room key. But she didn’t. Instead she asked to use her safe-deposit box.

While the receptionist opened a gate allowing Marissa into the office behind the front desk, Jake wandered toward the board announcing the various convention meetings. Presently Marissa reappeared, busily closing her shoulder purse. Then, to Jake’s consternation, she came directly toward him.

In a frantic moment of confusion, Jake thought she’d recognized him, but she passed right by, heading down a hail lined with gift shops.

Jake took off after her, passing her in a corridor lined with old photos of the San Francisco earthquake. Guessing she was headed to the elevators, he made sure he beat her there, mingling with the crowd already waiting.

An elevator arrived, which Jake boarded before Marissa, making certain there was plenty of room. He stepped in front of the self-service buttons. Holding his newspaper as if he were reading, he watched as Marissa pressed eleven. As more passengers got on, Marissa was pushed farther back into the car.

As the elevator rose, stopping occasionally, Jake continued to keep his nose in the newspaper. When the car stopped at the eleventh floor, he strolled off, still absorbed in his paper, allowing Marissa and another guest to pass him. When she stopped in front of room 1127,

Jake kept walking. He didn’t turn and go back to the elevators until he’d heard her door close.

Back on the street, Jake crossed over to Al’s car.

“Well?” said Al, momentarily worried something had gone wrong.

“Room 1127,” said Jake with a self-satisfied smile.

“You’d better be right,” said Al, getting out of the car. “Wait here. This shouldn’t take long at all.” He smiled so broadly that Jake noticed for the first time Al’s gums had receded almost to the roots of his front teeth.

Al walked over to George’s car and leaned on the window. “I want you to drive around and cover the back entrance. Just in case.”

Feeling better than he had in several days, Al crossed the street to the posh, red-and-black lobby.

He went over to the front desk and eyed the mailbox for 1127. There was an extra set of keys, but there wasn’t enough of a crowd for him to chance the receptionist’s turning them over without asking questions. Instead, he headed for the elevators.

On the eleventh floor, he searched for the housekeeping cart. He found it outside of a suite, with its usual complement of clean sheets, towels and cleaning materials. Taking one of the hand towels, he carefully folded it on the diagonal, creating a stout rope. Gripping an end in each hand, he entered the open suite where the maid presumably was working.

The living room was empty. There was a vacuum cleaner in the middle of the bedroom and a pile of linens on the floor, but he still didn’t see anyone. Advancing to the dressing room, he heard running water.

The maid was on her knees in front of the bathtub, scrubbing its interior. A can of Comet was on the floor by her knees.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Al stepped behind the woman and, using the folded towel as a garrote, strangled her. She made some muffled noises but they were covered by the sound of the bath water. Her face turned red, then purple. When Al let up the tension on the ends of the towel, she slumped to the floor like a limp rag doll.

Al found the passkeys in her pocket on a brass ring the size of a bracelet. Back in the hall, he hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and closed the door to the suite. Then he pushed the housekeeping cart out of sight into the stairwell. Flexing his fingers like a pianist preparing for a recital, he started for room 1127.

17

May 24

MARISSA PEELED THE LAST of the breakfast fruit with the wooden-handled paring knife, leaving the knife and rinds on her night table. She was on the phone to Northwest Airlines trying to make a reservation to Minneapolis. She had decided PAC and company would figure she’d probably go to LA next, so Minneapolis seemed as good a bet as any.

The agent finally confirmed her on an afternoon flight. Flopping back on the bed, she began to debate how she should spend the next hour or so, but while she was thinking, exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep.

She was awakened by a metallic click. It sounded like the door, but she knew she’d left up the Do Not Disturb sign. Then she saw the knob silently begin to turn.

She remembered being caught in the hotel room in Chicago by the man with the vaccination gun. Panic danced through her like an electrical current. Pulling herself together, she reached for the phone.

Before Marissa could lift the receiver, the door burst open, splintering part of the jamb as the screws holding the chain lock plate were yanked out of the molding. A man slammed the door shut then hurled himself onto Marissa. He grabbed her by the neck with both hands and shook her like a mad dog in a frenzy. Then he pulled her ashen face close to his. “Remember me?” he snarled furiously.

Marissa remembered him. It was the blond man with the Julius Caesar haircut.

“You have ten seconds to produce the vaccination gun,” hissed Al, loosening the death grip he had on Marissa’s throat. “If you don’t, I’ll snap your neck.” To emphasize his point, he gave her head a violent jolt, sending a flash of pain down her spine.

Barely able to breathe, Marissa fruitlessly clawed at the man’s powerful wrists. He shook her again, hitting her head against the wall. By reflex Marissa’s hands extended behind her to cushion her body.

The lamp fell off the bedside table and crashed to the floor. The room swam as her brain cried for oxygen.

“This is your last chance,” shouted Al. “What did you do with that vaccinator?”

Marissa’s hand touched the paring knife. Her fingers wrapped around the tiny haft. Holding it in her fist, she hammered it up into the man’s abdomen as hard as she could. She had no idea if she’d penetrated anything, but Al stopped speaking in midsentence, let go of Marissa and rocked back on his haunches. His face registered surprise and disbelief. She switched the tiny knife to her right hand, keeping it pointed at Al, who seemed confused when he saw the blood staining his shirt.

She hoped to back up to the door and run, but before she reached it he leaped at her like an enraged animal, sending her racing to the bathroom. It seemed as if only hours before she’d been in the same predicament in Chicago.

Al got his hand around the door before it shut. Marissa hacked blindly, feeling the tip of her knife strike bone. Al screamed and yanked his hand away, leaving a smear of blood on the panel. The door slammed shut, and Marissa hastily locked it.

She was about to dial the bathroom phone when there was a loud crash and the entire bathroom door crashed inward. Al forced Marissa to drop the phone, but she hung on to the knife, still stabbing at him wildly. She hit his abdomen several times, but if it had any effect, it wasn’t apparent.

Ignoring the knife, Al grabbed Marissa by her hair and flung her against the sink. She tried to stab him again, but he grabbed her wrist and bashed it against the wall until her grip loosened and the weapon clattered to the floor.

He bent down to pick it up, and as he straightened, Marissa grabbed the phone that was swinging on its cord and hit him as hard as she could with the receiver. For a brief instant, she wasn’t sure who

was hurt more. The blow had sent a bolt of pain right up to her shoulder.

For a moment Al stood as if he were frozen. Then his blue eyes rolled upward, and he seemed to fall in slow motion into the bathtub, striking his head on the faucets.

As Marissa watched, half expecting Al to get up and come at her again, a beeping noise snapped her into action. She reached over and hung up the receiver. Glancing back into the tub, she was torn between fear and her medical training. The man had a sizable gash over the bridge of his nose, and the front of his shirt was covered with blood stains. But terror won out, and Marissa grabbed her purse and ran from the room. Remembering the man had not been alone in New York, she knew she had to get away from the hotel as soon as possible.

Descending to the ground floor, Marissa avoided the front entrance. Instead, she went down a flight of stairs and followed arrows to a rear exit. Standing just inside the door, she waited until a cable car came into view. Timing her exit to give herself the least exposure, she ran out of the hotel and jumped onto the trolley.

Marissa forced her way through the crowd to the rear. She looked back at the hotel as the car began to move. No one came out.

George blinked in disbelief. It was the girl. Quickly he dialed Jake’s car.

“She just came out of the hotel,” said George, “and jumped on a cable car.”

“Is Al with her?” asked Jake.

“No,” said George. “She’s by herself. It looked like she was limping a little.”

“Something is weird.”

“You follow her,” said George. “The cable car is just starting. I’ll go into the hotel and check on Al.”

“Right on,” said Jake. He was more than happy to let George deal with Al. When Al found out the girl had flown, he was going to be madder than shit.

Marissa looked back at the hotel for any sign of being followed. No one came out of the door, but as the cable car began to move, she saw a man get out of an auto and run for the hotel’s rear entrance. The timing was suggestive, but as the man didn’t even look in her direction, she dismissed it as a coincidence. She continued to watch until the cable car turned a corner and she could no longer see the Fairmont. She’d made it.

She relaxed until a loud clang almost made her jump out of her skin. She started for the door before she realized it was just the overhead bell that the conductor rang as he collected fares.

A man got off, and Marissa quickly took his seat. She was shaking and suddenly scared she might have blood stains on her clothes. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to herself.

As her fear abated, she became more aware of the pain where her hip had hit the sink, and her neck was exquisitely tender and probably turning black and blue.

“Fare please,” said the conductor.

Without lifting her eyes, Marissa fished around in her purse for some change. That was when she saw the blood caked on the back of her right hand. Quickly, she changed the way she was holding her purse and used her left hand to give the money to the man.

When he moved off, Marissa tried to figure out how they had found her. She’d been so careful… Suddenly it dawned on her. They must have been guarding Tieman. It was the only possible explanation.

Her confidence shattered, Marissa began to have second thoughts about having fled the hotel. Perhaps she would have been safer if she had stayed and faced the police. Yet fleeing had become an instinct of late. She felt like a fugitive, and it made her act like one. And to think she’d thought she would be able to outwit her pursuers. Ralph had been right. She never should have gone to New York, let alone San Francisco. He had said she was in serious trouble before she’d visited both cities. Well, it was a lot worse now-for all she knew she’d killed two men. It was all too much. She wasn’t going to Minneapolis. She would go home and turn everything that she knew, such as it was, and everything that she suspected, over to the attorney.

The cable car slowed again. Marissa looked around. She was someplace in Chinatown. The car stopped, and just as it was starting again, Marissa stood up and swung off. As she ran to the sidewalk, she saw the conductor shaking his head in disgust. But no one got off after her.

Marissa took a deep breath and rubbed her neck. Glancing around, she was pleased to see that both sides of the street were crowded. There were pushcart vendors, trucks making deliveries and a variety of stores with much of their merchandise displayed on the sidewalk. All the signs were written in Chinese. She felt as if the short cable-car ride had mysteriously transported her to the Orient. Even the smells were different: a mixture of fish and spices.

She passed a Chinese restaurant and, after hesitating a second, went inside. A woman dressed in a Mandarin-collared, red silk dress slit to the knee came out and said the restaurant was not yet open for lunch. “Half hour,” she added.

“Would you mind if I used your restroom and your phone?” asked Marissa.

The woman studied Marissa for a moment, decided she meant no harm and led her to the rear of the restaurant. She opened a door and stepped aside.

Marissa was in a small room with a sink on one side and a pay phone on the other. There were two doors in the back with Ladies stenciled on one, and Gents on the other. The walls were covered with years of accumulated graffiti.

Marissa used the phone first. She called the Fairmont and reported to the operator that there was a man in room 1127 who needed an ambulance. The operator told her to hold on, but Marissa hung up. Then she paused, debating whether she should call the police and explain everything to them. No, she thought, it was too complicated. Besides, she’d already fled the scene. It would be better to go back to Atlanta and see the attorney.

Washing her hands, Marissa glanced at herself in the mirror. She was a mess. Taking out her comb, she untangled her hair and braided a few strands to keep it off her face. She’d lost her barrette when the blond man had yanked her by the hair. When she was finished, she straightened her blazer and the collar of her blouse. That was about all she could do.

Jake dialed George’s car for the hundredth time. Mostly the phone went unanswered, but occasionally he’d get a recording telling him that the party he was calling was not presently available.

He could not figure out what was going on. Al and George should have been back in the car long ago. Jake had followed the girl, practically running her over when she’d leaped unexpectedly from the cable car, and had watched her go into a restaurant called Peking Cuisine. At least he hadn’t lost her.

He scrunched down in the driver’s seat. The girl had just come out of the restaurant and was flagging a cab.

An hour later, Jake watched helplessly as Marissa handed over her ticket and boarded a Delta nonstop to Atlanta. He had thought about buying a ticket himself, but scrapped the idea without Al’s okay.

She’d spent the last half hour closeted in the ladies’ room, giving Jake ample time to try the mobile phone at least ten more times, hoping for some instructions. But still no one answered.

As soon as the plane taxied down the runway, Jake hurried back to his car. There was a parking ticket under the windshield wiper, but Jake didn’t give a shit. He was just glad the car hadn’t been towed away. Climbing in, he thought he’d drive back to the Fairmont and see if he could find the others. Maybe the whole thing had been called off, and he’d find both of them in the bar, laughing their asses off while he ran all over the city.

Back on the freeway, he decided to try calling the other mobile phone one last time. To his astonishment, George answered.

“Where the hell have you been?” Jake demanded. “I’ve been calling you all goddamn morning.”

“There’s been a problem,” said George, subdued.

“Well, I hope to hell there’s been something,” said Jake. “The girl is on a plane to Atlanta. I was going crazy. I didn’t know what the hell to do.”

“Al was knifed, I guess by the girl. He’s at San Francisco General, having surgery. I can’t get near him.”

“Christ!” said Jake incredulously, unable to imagine that the pint-sized broad could have knifed Al and gotten away.

“He’s not supposed to be hurt that bad,” continued George. “What’s worse is that apparently Al wasted a maid. He had the woman’s passkeys in his pocket. He’s being charged with murder.”

“Shit,” said Jake. Things were going from bad to worse.

“Where are you now?” asked George.

“Just on the freeway, leaving the airport,” said Jake.

“Go back,” said George. “Book us on the next flight to Atlanta. I think we owe Al a bit of revenge.”

18

May 24

“READING MATERIAL?” asked the smiling cabin attendant.

Marissa nodded. She needed something to keep her from thinking about the horrible scene in the hotel.

“Magazine or newspaper?” asked the attendant.

“Newspaper, I guess,” said Marissa.

“San Francisco Examiner or New York Times?”

Marissa was in no mood to make decisions. “New York Times,” she said finally.

The big jet leveled off, and the seat-belt sign went out. Marissa glanced through the window at rugged mountains stretching off into dry desert. It was a relief to have gotten onto the plane finally. At the airport, she had been so scared of either being attacked by one of the blond man’s friends or being arrested, she had simply hidden in a toilet in the ladies’ room.

Unfolding the newspaper, Marissa glanced at the table of contents. Continuing coverage of the Ebola outbreaks in Philadelphia and New York was listed on page 4. Marissa turned to it.

The article reported that the Philadelphia death toll was up to fifty eight and New York was at forty-nine, but that many more cases had been reported there. Marissa was not surprised since the index case was an ear, nose and throat specialist. She also noted that the Rosenberg Clinic had already filed for bankruptcy.

On the same page as the Ebola article was a photograph of Dr.

Ahmed Fakkry, head of epidemiology for the World Health Organization. The article next to the picture said that he was visiting the CDC to investigate the Ebola outbreaks because World Health was fearful that the virus would soon cross the Atlantic.

Maybe Dr. Fakkry could help her, thought Marissa. Perhaps the lawyer Ralph was lining up for her would be able to arrange for her to speak with him.

Ralph was catching up on his journals when the doorbell rang at 9:30 P.M. Glancing at his watch, he wondered who could possibly be visiting at that hour. He looked out of the glass panel on the side of the door and was shocked to find himself staring directly into Manssa’s face.

“Marissa!” he said in disbelief, pulling open the door. Behind her, he could see a yellow cab descending his long, curved driveway.

Marissa saw him hold out his arms and ran into them, bursting into tears.

“I thought you were in California,” said Ralph. “Why didn’t you call and let me know you were coming? I would have met you at the airport.”

Marissa just held onto him, crying. It was so wonderful to feel safe. “What happened to you?” he asked, but was only greeted by louder sobs.

“At least let’s sit down,” he said, helping her to the couch. For a few minutes, he just let her cry, patting her gently on the back. “It’s okay,” he said for lack of anything else. He eyed the phone, willing it to ring. He had to make a call, and at this rate she was never going to let him get up. “Perhaps you’d like something to drink?” he asked. “How about some of that special cognac? Maybe it will make you feel better.”

Manissa shook her head.

“Wine? I have a nice bottle of Chardonnay open in the refrigerator.” Ralph was running out of ideas.

Marissa just held him tighter, but her sobs were lessening, her breathing becoming more regular.

Five minutes went by. Ralph sighed. “Where is your luggage?”

Marissa didn’t answer, but did fish a tissue out of her pocket and wipe her face.

“I’ve got some cold chicken in the kitchen.”

At last Marissa sat up. “Maybe in a little bit. Just stay with me a little longer. I’ve been so scared.”

“Then why didn’t you call me from the airport? And what happened to your car? Didn’t you leave it there?”

“It’s a long story,” said Marissa. “But I was afraid that someone might be watching it. I didn’t want anybody to know I was back in Atlanta.”

Ralph raised his eyebrows. “Does that mean you’d like to spend the night?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Marissa. “Nothing like inviting myself, but you’ve been such a good friend.”

“Would you like me to drive you over to your house to get some things?” asked Ralph.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to show up there for the same reason I was afraid to go to my car. If I were to drive anyplace tonight, I’d run over to the CDC and get a package that I hope Tad put away for me. But to tell you the truth, I think it all can wait until morning. Even that criminal lawyer, who I hope will be able to keep me out of jail.”

“Good grief,” said Ralph. “I hope you’re not serious. Don’t you think it’s time you told me what’s going on?”

Marissa picked up Ralph’s hand. “I will. I promise. Let me just calm down a little more. Maybe I should eat something.”

“I’ll fix you some chicken,” he said.

“That’s all right. I know where the kitchen is. Maybe I’ll just scramble some eggs.”

“I’ll join you in a minute. I have to make a call.”

Marissa dragged herself through the house. In the kitchen, she glanced around at all the appliances and space and thought it was a waste just to be making eggs. But that was what sounded best. She got them out of the refrigerator, along with some bread for toast. Then she realized she hadn’t asked Ralph if he wanted some too. She was about to call out but decided he wouldn’t hear her.

Putting the eggs down, she went over to the intercom and began pushing the buttons on the console to see if she could figure out how it worked. “Hello, hello,” she said as she held down different combinations. Stumbling onto the correct sequence, she suddenly heard Ralph’s voice.

“She’s not in San Francisco,” he was saying. “She’s here at my house.”

Pause.

“Jackson, I don’t know what happened. She’s hysterical. All she said was that she has a package waiting for her at the CDC. Listen, I can’t talk now. I’ve got to get back to her.”

Pause.

“I’ll keep her here, don’t worry. But get over here as soon as you can.”

Pause.

“No, no one knows she’s here. I’m sure of that. ‘Bye.”

Marissa clutched the counter top, afraid she was going to faint. All this time Ralph-the one person she’d trusted-had been one of “them.” And Jackson! It had to be the same Jackson she’d met at Ralph’s dinner party. The head of PAC, and he was on his way over. Oh, God!

Knowing Ralph was on his way to the kitchen, Marissa forced herself to go on with her cooking. But when she tried to break an egg on the side of the skillet, she smashed it shell and all into the pan. She had the other egg in her hand when Ralph appeared with some drinks. She broke the second egg a bit more deftly, mixing it all together, including the first egg’s shell.

“Smells good,” he said brightly. He put down her glass and touched her lightly on the back. Marissa jumped.

“Wow, you really are uptight. How are we going to get you to relax?”

Marissa didn’t say anything. Although she was no longer the slightest bit hungry, she went through the motions of cooking the eggs, buttering the toast and putting out jam. Looking at Ralph’s expensive silk shirt, the heavy gold cuff links, the tasseled Gucci loafers, everything about him suddenly seemed a ridiculous affectation, as did the whole elaborately furnished house. It all represented the conspicuous consumption of a wealthy doctor, now fearful of the new medical competition, of changing times, of medicine no longer being a seller’s market.

Obviously, Ralph was a member of PAC. Of course he was a supporter of Markham. And it was Ralph, not Tad, who had always known where she was. Serving the eggs, Marissa thought that even if she could escape there was no one to go to. She certainly couldn’t use a lawyer Ralph recommended. In fact, now that she knew Ralph was implicated, she remembered why the name of the law firm he’d suggested had sounded familiar: Cooper, Hodges, McQuinllin and Hanks had been listed as the service agent of PAC.

Marissa felt trapped. The men pursuing her had powerful connections. She had no idea how deeply they had penetrated the CDC. Certainly the conspiracy involved the congressman who exerted control over the CDC budget.

Marissa’s mind reeled. She was terrified no one would believe her, and she was acutely aware that the only piece of hard evidence she

had-the vaccination gun-was resting somewhere in the maximum containment lab, to which she knew from painful experience her pursuers had access. The only thing that was crystal clear was that she had to get away from Ralph before Jackson and maybe more thugs arrived.

Picking up her fork, she had a sudden vision of the blond man hurling himself through the bathroom door in San Francisco. She dropped the fork, again afraid she was about to faint.

Ralph grabbed her elbow and helped her to the kitchen table. He put the food on a plate and placed it in front of her and urged her to eat.

“You were doing so well a minute ago,” he said. “You’ll feel better if you get something in your stomach.” He picked up the fork she’d dropped and tossed it into the sink, then got another from the silver drawer.

Marissa dropped her head into her hands. She had to get herself under control. Valuable time was ticking away.

“Not hungry after all?” asked Ralph.

“Not very,” admitted Marissa. The very smell of the eggs was enough to make her sick. She shuddered.

“Maybe you should take a tranquilizer. I’ve got some upstairs. What do you think?”

“Okay,” said Marissa.

“Be right back,” said Ralph, squeezing her shoulder.

This was the chance she had prayed for. As soon as he was out of the room, Marissa was on her feet, snatching the phone off its hook. But there was no dial tone. Ralph must have disconnected it somehow! So much for the police. Replacing the phone, she rushed around the kitchen searching for Ralph’s car keys. Nothing. Next she tried the adjoining family room. There was a tiny marble urn on the room divider with a few keys, but none for a car. Going back through the kitchen, Marissa went to the small foyer by the back door. There was a cork bulletin board, an antique school desk and an old bureau. There was also a door that led to the bathroom.

Trying the desk first, she lifted its cover and rummaged through its contents. There were some odd-shaped house keys, but that was all. Turning to the small bureau, she began opening drawers, finding a jumble of gloves, scarves and rain gear.

“What do you need?” asked Ralph, suddenly appearing behind her. Guiltily she straightened up, searching for an alibi. Ralph waited, looking at her expectantly. His right hand was closed. His left hand held a glass of water.

“I thought maybe I could find a sweater,” said Marissa.

Ralph eyed her curiously. If anything, the house was too warm. After all, it was almost June.

“I’ll turn the heat on in the kitchen,” he said, guiding her back to her chair. He extended his right hand. “Here, take this.” He dropped a capsule into Marissa’s palm. It was red and ivory in color.

“Dalmane?” questioned Marissa. “I thought you were getting me a tranquilizer.”

“It will relax you and give you a good night’s sleep,” explained Ralph.

Shaking her head and handing the capsule back to Ralph, Marissa said, “I’d prefer a tranquilizer.”

“What about Valium?”

“Fine,” said Marissa.

As soon as she heard him climbing the back stairs, Marissa ran to the front foyer. There were no keys on the elaborate marble half-table or in the one central drawer. Opening the closet, Marissa rapidly patted jacket pockets. Nothing.

She was back in the kitchen just in time to hear Ralph start down the back stairs.

“There you go,” he said, dropping a blue tablet into Marissa’s hand.

“What dose is this?”

“Ten milligrams.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little much?”

“You’re so upset. It won’t affect you as it would normally,” said Ralph, handing her a glass of water. She took it from him, then pretended to take the Valium, but dropped it into the pocket of her jacket instead.

“Now let’s try the food again,” said Ralph.

Marissa forced herself to eat a little as she tried to figure out a way to escape before Jackson arrived. The food tasted awful, and she put down her fork after a few bites.

“Still not hungry?” said Ralph.

Marissa shook her head.

“Well, let’s go into the living room.”

She was glad to leave the cooking smells, but the moment they were seated, Ralph urged her to have a fresh drink.

“I don’t think I should after the Valium.”

“A little won’t hurt.”

“Are you sure you’re not trying to get me drunk?” said Marissa. She forced a laugh. “Maybe you’d better let me fix the drinks.”

“Fine by me,” said Ralph, lifting his feet to the coffee table. “Make mine scotch.”

Marissa went directly to the bar and poured Ralph a good four fingers of scotch. Then, checking to see that he was absorbed, she took out the Valium tablet, broke it in half and dropped the pieces into the alcohol. Unfortunately, they did not dissolve. Fishing the pieces out, she pulverized them with the scotch bottle and swept the powder into the drink.

“You need any help?” called Ralph.

“No,” she said, pouring a little brandy into her own glass. “Here you go.”

Ralph took his drink and settled back on the couch.

Sitting down beside him, Marissa racked her brains to figure out where he might have put his car keys. She wondered what he would say if she suddenly demanded them, but decided it was too great a risk. If he realized she knew about him, he might forcibly restrain her. This way, she still had a chance, if she could just find the keys.

A horrible thought occurred to her: he probably had just put them in his pants pocket. As distasteful as it was, Marissa forced herself to snuggle against him. Provocatively, she placed her hand on his hip. Sure enough, she could feel the keys through the light gabardine. Now, how on earth was she going to get them?

Gritting her teeth, she tilted her face to his, encouraging him to kiss her. As his arms circled her waist, she let her fingers slide into his pocket. Scarcely breathing she felt the edge of the ring and pulled. The keys jangled a little and she began frantically kissing him. Sensing his response she decided she had to take the chance. Please God, please God, she prayed and pulled out the keys and hid them in her own pocket.

Ralph had obviously forgotten Jackson was coming, or he’d decided sex was the best way to keep Marissa quiet. In any case, it was time to stop him.

“Darling,” she said. “I hate to do this to you, but that pill is getting to me. I think I’m going to have to go to sleep.”

“Just rest here. I’ll hold you.”

“I’d love to, but then you’d have to carry me upstairs.” She pulled herself out of his embrace, and he solicitously helped her up the stairs to the guest bedroom.

“Don’t you want me to stay with you?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Ralph. I’m about to pass out. Just let me sleep.” She forced a smile. “We can always continue when the Valium wears off.” As if to end any further conversation, she lay on the bed fully clothed.

“Don’t you want to borrow pajamas?” he asked hopefully.

“No, no. I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“Well, call if you need anything. I’ll just be downstairs.”

The moment he closed the door, she tiptoed over and listened to him go down the front stairs. Then she went to the window and opened it. The balcony outside was just as she remembered. As quietly as possible, she slipped out into the warm spring night. Above was an inverted bowl of stars. The trees were just dark silhouettes. There was no wind. In the distance, a dog barked. Then Marissa heard a car.

Quickly she surveyed her position. She was about fifteen feet above the asphalt drive. There was no possibility of jumping. The balcony was surrounded by a low balustrade, separating it from the sloped roof of the porch. To the left the porch roof abutted the tower and to the right it swept around the corner of the building.

Climbing over the balustrade, Marissa inched her way to the corner. The porch roof ended about twenty feet away. The fire escape descended from the third floor, but it was out of reach. Turning, she started back for the balcony. She was halfway there when the car she’d heard earlier turned into Ralph’s drive.

Marissa lay still on the sloped roof. She knew that she was in full view of anybody coming up the driveway if they happened to look up. The car’s lights played against the trees, then swept across the front of the house, bathing her in light before it pulled up to the front steps. She heard the doors open and several voices. They were not excited; apparently no one had seen her sprawled on the roof. Ralph answered the door. There was more conversation, and then the voices disappeared inside.

Marissa scampered along the roof and climbed back over the balustrade to the balcony. She ducked into the guest room and eased open the door to the hallway. Stepping into the hail, she could hear Ralph’s voice though she could not make out what he was saying. As quietly as possible, she started toward the back stairs.

The light from the vestibule did not penetrate beyond the second turn in the hallway, and Marissa had to make her way by running her hands along the walls. She passed a number of dark bedrooms before

she rounded a final corner and saw the kitchen light shining below. At the head of the stairs, she hesitated. The sounds in the old house were confusing her. She still heard voices, but she also heard footsteps. The problem was, she couldn’t tell where they were coming from. At that moment she caught sight of a hand on the newel post below.

Changing direction, Marissa went up the stairs and was halfway to the third floor in seconds. One of the treads squeaked under her foot, and she hesitated, heart pounding, listening to the relentless approach of the figure below. When he reached the second floor and turned down the hall toward the front of the house, she let out her breath.

Marissa continued up the stairs, wincing at every sound. The door to the servants’ apartment at the top was closed but not locked.

As quietly as possible, she made her way across the dark living room and into the bedroom that she guessed looked out on the fire escape.

After struggling to raise the window, she climbed out onto the flimsy metal grate. Never fond of heights, it took all her courage to stand upright. Hesitantly, she started down, one step at a time, leading with her right foot. By the time she reached the second story, she heard excited voices inside the house and the sound of doors opening and slamming shut. Lights began going on in the darkened rooms. They had already realized that she had fled.

Forcing herself to hurry, Marissa rounded the second-story platform and was stopped by what seemed to be a large jumble of metal. Feeling with her hands, she realized that the last flight of stairs had been drawn up to protect the house from burglars. Desperately, she tried to figure out how to lower them. There didn’t seem to be any release mechanism. Then she noticed a large counterweight behind her.

Gingerly, she put her foot on the first step. There was a loud squeak of metal. Knowing she had no choice, Marissa shifted her full weight to the step. With a nerve-shattering crash, the stairs shot to the ground and she ran down them.

As soon as her feet touched the grass, she ran for the garage, arms swinging wildly. There was no way the men inside the house could not have heard the fire escape’s descent. In seconds they would be looking for her.

She ran to a side door to the garage, praying to heaven that it was not locked. It wasn’t. As she raced inside, she heard the back door of the house open. Desperately, she stepped into the dark interior, puffing the door shut behind her. Turning, she moved forward, colliding almost immediately with Ralph’s 300SDL sedan. Feeling for the car door, she opened it and slipped behind the wheel. She fumbled with the key until it slid into the ignition, and turned it. Several indicator lights flashed on, but the car didn’t start. Then she remembered Ralph explaining how you had to wait for the orange light to go

out because the engine was a diesel. She switched the ignition back off, then turned the key part way. The orange light went on, and Marissa waited. She heard someone raise the garage door; frantically, she hit the button locking all four doors of the car.

“Come on!” she urged through clenched teeth. The orange light went out. She turned the key, and the car roared to life as she stomped on the gas. There was a series of loud thumps as someone pounded her window. She shifted to reverse and floored the accelerator. There was a second’s delay before the big car leaped backward with such force that she was flung against the wheel. She braced herself as the car shot out the door, sending two men diving sideways for safety.

The car careened wildly down the drive. Marissa jammed on the brakes as the car screeched around the front of the house, but it was too late. She rammed Jackson’s car with the back of hers. Shifting to forward, Marissa thought she was free, until one of the men, taking advantage of her momentary halt, flung himself across the hood. Marissa accelerated. The tires spun, but the car did not move. She was caught on the car behind. Putting the Mercedes into reverse, then into drive, she rocked the car as if she were stuck in snow. There was a scraping sound of metal; then she shot forward, dislodging her attacker as she careened down the drive.

“Forget it,” said Jake, crawling out from under Jackson’s car, wiping grease from his hands. “She busted your radiator,” he told the doctor. “There’s no coolant, so even if it started, you couldn’t drive it.”

“Damn,” said Jackson, getting out. “That woman lives a charmed life.” He looked furiously at Heberling. “This probably wouldn’t have happened if I’d come here directly instead of waiting for your goons to get in from the airport.”

“Yeah?” said Heberling. “And what would you have done? Reasoned with her? You needed Jake and George.”

“You can use my 450 SL,” offered Ralph. “But it’s only a two-seater.”

“She got too big a head start,” said George. “We’d never catch her.”

“I don’t know how she escaped,” said Ralph apologetically. “I’d just left her to sleep. She’s had ten milligrams of Valium, for Chrissake.” He noticed he felt a little dizzy himself.

“Any idea where she might go?” asked Jackson.

“I don’t think she’ll go to the police,” said Ralph. “She’s terrified of

everyone, especially now. She might try the CDC. She said something about a package being there.”

Jackson looked at Heberling. They had the same thought: the vaccination gun.

“We may as well send Jake and George,” said Heberling. “We’re pretty sure she won’t go home, and after what she did to Al, the boys are most eager for revenge.”

Fifteen minutes from the house, Marissa began to calm down enough to worry about where she was. She had made so many random turns in case she was being pursued, she had lost all sense of direction. For all she knew, she could have driven in a full circle.

Ahead, she saw street lights and a gas station. Marissa pulled over, lowering her window. A young man came out wearing an Atlanta Braves baseball hat.

“Could you tell me where I am?” asked Marissa.

“This here’s a Shell station,” said the young man, eyeing the damage to Ralph’s car. “Did you know that both your taillights is busted?”

“I’m not surprised,” said Marissa. “How about Emory University. Could you tell me how to get there?”

“Lady, you look like you’ve been in a demolition derby,” he said, shaking his head in dismay.

Marissa repeated her question, and finally the man gave her some vague directions.

Ten minutes later Marissa cruised past the CDC. The building seemed quiet and deserted, but she still wasn’t sure what she should do or who she could trust. She would have preferred going to a good lawyer, but she had no idea how to choose one. Certainly McQuinllin was out of the question.

The only person she could envision approaching was Dr. Fakkry, from the World Health Organization. He certainly was above the conspiracy, and, conveniently, he was staying at the Peachtree Plaza. The problem was, would he believe her or would he just call Dubchek or someone else at the CDC, putting her back into the hands of her pursuers?

Fear forced her to do what she felt was her only logical choice. She had to get the vaccination gun. It was her only piece of hard evidence. Without it she doubted anyone would take her seriously. She still had Tad’s access card, and if he was not involved with PAC, the card might still be usable. Of course there was always the chance that security wouldn’t allow her into the building.

Boldly, Marissa turned into the driveway and pulled up just past

the entrance to the CDC. She wanted the car handy in case anyone tried to stop her.

Looking in the front door, she saw the guard sitting at the desk, bent over a paperback novel. When he heard her come in, he looked up, his face expressionless.

Rolling her lower lip into her mouth and biting on it, Marissa walked deliberately, trying to hide her fear. She picked up the pen and scrawled her name in the sign-in book. Then she looked up, expecting some comment, but the man just stared impassively.

“What are you reading?” asked Marissa, nerves making her chatter.

“Camus.”

Well, she wasn’t about to ask if it was The Plague. She started for the main elevators, conscious of the man’s eyes on her back. She pushed the button to her floor, turned and looked at him. He was still watching her.

The moment the doors shut, he snatched up the phone and dialed. As soon as someone answered, he said, “Dr. Blumenthal just signed in. She went up in the elevator.”

“Wonderful, Jerome,” said Dubchek. His voice was hoarse, as if he were tired or sick. “We’ll be right there. Don’t let anyone else in.”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Dubchek.”

Marissa got off the elevator and stood for a few minutes, watching the floor indicators. Both elevators stayed where they were. The building was silent. Convinced that she wasn’t being followed, she went to the stairs and ran down a flight, then out into the catwalk. Inside the virology building, she hurried down the long cluttered hall, rounded the corner and confronted the steel security door. Holding her breath, she inserted Tad’s access card and tapped out his number.

There was a pause. For a moment she was afraid an alarm might sound. But all she heard was the sound of the latch releasing. The heavy door opened, and she was inside.

After flipping the circuit breakers, she twisted the wheel on the airtight door, climbed into the first room and, instead of donning a scrub suit, went directly into the next chamber. As she struggled into a plastic suit, she wondered where Tad might have hidden the contaminated vaccination gun.

Dubchek drove recklessly, braking for curves only when absolutely necessary, and running red lights. Two men had joined him; John, in the front seat, braced himself against the door; Mark, in the

back, had more trouble avoiding being thrown from side to side. The expressions on all three faces were grim. They were afraid they would be too late.

“There it is,” said George, pointing at the sign that said Centers for Disease Control.

“And there’s Ralph’s car!” he added, pointing at the Mercedes in the semicircular driveway. “Looks like luck is finally on our side.” Making up his mind, he pulled into the Sheraton Motor Inn lot across the street.

George drew his S & W.356 Magnum, checking to see that all the chambers were filled. He opened the door and stepped out, holding the gun down along his hip. Light gleamed off the stainless-steel barrel.

“You sure you want to use that cannon?” asked Jake. “It makes so goddamn much noise.”

“I wish I had had this thing when she was driving around with you on the hood,” George snapped. “Come on!”

Jake shrugged and got out of the car. Patting the small of his back, he felt the butt of his own Beretta automatic. It was a much neater weapon.

Air line in hand, Marissa hastily climbed through the final door to the maximum containment lab. She plugged into the central manifold and looked around. The mess she’d helped create on that other fateful night had all been cleared away, but the memory of that episode flooded back with horrifying clarity. Marissa was shaking. All she wanted was to find her parcel and get the hell out. But that was easier said than done. As in any lab, there was a profusion of places where a package that size could be hidden.

Marissa started on the right, working her way back, opening cabinet doors and pulling out drawers. She got about halfway down the room, when she straightened up. There had to be a better way. At the central island, she went to the containment hood that Tad considered his own. In the cupboards below, she found bottles of reagents, paper towels, plastic garbage bags, boxes of new glassware and an abundance of other supplies. But there was no package resembling hers. She was about to move on when she looked through the glass of the containment hood itself. Behind Tad’s equipment, she could just barely make out the dark green of a plastic garbage bag.

Turning on the fan over the hood, Marissa pulled up the glass front. Then, careful not to touch Tad’s setup, she lifted out the bag. Inside was the Federal Express package. To be sure, she checked the label. It was addressed to Tad in her handwriting.

Marissa put the package in a new garbage bag, sealing it carefully. Then she put the used bag back inside the containment hood and pulled the glass front into place. At the central manifold, she hurriedly detached her air hose, then headed for the door. It was time to find Dr. Fakkry or someone else in authority she could trust.

Standing under the shower of phenolic disinfectant, Marissa tried to be patient. There was an automated timing device, so she had to wait for the process to finish before she could open the door. Once in the next room, she struggled out of her plastic suit, pulling frantically each time the zipper stuck. When she finally got it off, her street clothes were drenched with sweat.

Dubchek came to a screeching halt directly in front of the CDC entrance. The three men piled out of the car. Jerome was already holding open one of the glass doors.

Dubchek didn’t wait to ask questions, certain that the guard would tell them if Marissa had left. He ran into the waiting elevator with the other two men on his heels, and pressed the button for the third floor.

Marissa had just started across the catwalk when the door to the main building opened and three men burst out. Spinning around, she ran back into virology.

“Stop, Marissa,” someone yelled. It sounded like Dubchek. Oh, God, was he chasing her too?

She latched the door behind her and looked about for a place to hide. To her right was an elevator, to her left, a stairwell. There was no time to debate.

By the time Dubchek forced open the door, all he could see was the elevator light pointing down. Marissa was already on the lobby level as the three men began pounding down the stairs.

Knowing Dubchek was close behind, Marissa knew she had no time to slow down to avoid alerting the security guard when she’d reached the main building. His head popped up from his book, just in time to catch her streaking past. He stood up but that was all, and she was already gone when he decided that Dr. Dubchek might have wanted her stopped by force.

Outside, she fumbled for the keys to Ralph’s car, switching her parcel to her left hand. She heard shouts and then the doors to the CDC crash open. Wrestling the car door open, she started to slide behind the wheel. She was so programmed for flight that it took a

minute for her to realize that the passenger seat was occupied. There was also someone in the back. But worse was the sight of an enormous revolver pointing at her.

Marissa tried to reverse her direction, but it was as if she were caught in a heavy, viscous fluid. Her body wouldn’t respond. She saw the gun coming up at her, but she could do nothing. She saw a face in the half-light, and she heard someone start to say “good-bye.” But the gun went off with a fearful concussion, and time stopped.

When Marissa regained consciousness, she was lying on something soft. Someone was calling her name. Slowly opening her eyes, she realized that she’d been carried back inside to the couch in the CDC lobby.

Flashing red and blue lights washed the room like a tawdry, punk discotheque. There seemed to be many people coming in and out of the room. It was too confusing. She closed her eyes again and wondered what had happened to the men with the guns.

“Marissa, are you all right?”

Her lids fluttered open, and she saw Dubchek bending over her, his dark eyes almost black with fear.

“Marissa,” he said again. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried. When you finally made us realize what was going on, we were afraid they’d try to kill you. But you never stayed still long enough for us to find you.”

Marissa was still too shocked to speak.

“Please say something,” Dubchek pleaded. “Did they hurt you?”

“I thought you were part of it. Part of the conspiracy,” was all she could manage to utter.

“I was afraid of that,” groaned Dubchek. “Not that I didn’t deserve it. I was so busy protecting the CDC, I just dismissed your theories. But believe me, I had nothing to do with any of it.”

Marissa reached for his hand. “I guess I never gave you much chance to explain, either. I was so busy breaking all the rules.”

An ambulance attendant came up to them. “Does the lady want to go to the hospital?”

“Do you, Marissa?” asked Dubchek.

“I guess so, but I think I’m okay.”

As another attendant came up to help lift her onto a stretcher, she said, “When I heard the first bang, I thought I’d been shot.”

“No, one of the FBI men I’d alerted shot your would-be killer instead.”

Marissa shuddered. Dubchek walked beside the stretcher as they took her to the ambulance. She reached out and took his hand.

Epilogue

MARISSA WAS UNPACKING FROM a two-week vacation, taken at Dr. Carbonara’s insistence, when the doorbell rang. She had just returned from Virginia, where her family had done everything they could to spoil her, even giving her a new puppy that she’d immediately named Taffy Two.

As she walked downstairs, she couldn’t imagine who might be at the door. She hadn’t told anyone the exact date of her return. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Cyril Dubchek and a stranger.

“I hope you don’t mind our turning up like this, but Dr. Carbonara said you might be home, and Dr. Fakkry from World Health wanted to meet you. This is his last day in America. Tonight he is flying back to Geneva.”

The stranger stepped forward and dipped his head. Then he looked directly at Marissa. His eyes reminded her of Dubchek’s: dark and liquid.

“I am deeply honored,” said Dr. Fakkry, with a crisp, English accent. “I wanted to thank you personally for your brilliant detective work.”

“And with no help from us,” admitted Dubchek.

“I’m flattered,” said Marissa, at a loss for words.

Dubchek cleared his throat. Marissa found his new lack of confidence appealing. When he wasn’t making her furious, she could admit that he was actually very handsome.

“We thought you’d like to know what’s been happening,” he said. “The press has been given as little detail as possible, but even the police agree you are entitled to the truth.”

“I’d love to hear everything,” said Marissa. “But please come in and sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”

When they were settled, Dr. Fakkry said, “Thanks to you, almost everyone connected to the Ebola conspiracy has been arrested. The man you stabbed in San Francisco implicated Dr. Heberling the minute he recovered from surgery.”

“The police think he wanted to be sent to jail so you couldn’t find him again,” said Dubchek, with a hint of his old sardonic grin.

Marissa shivered, remembering the terrible episode of stabbing the man in the bathroom at the Fairmont. For a moment the image of his ice-blue eyes froze her. Then, puffing herself together, she asked what had happened to Heberling.

“He’ll be going before a grand jury on multiple counts of murder with intent,” said Dubchek. “The judge refused to set bail, no matter how high, saying that he was as dangerous to society as the Nazi war criminals.”

“And the man I hit with the vaccination gun?” Marissa had been afraid to ask this question. She didn’t want to be responsible for killing anyone or for spreading Ebola.

“He’ll live to stand trial. He did use the serum in time, and it proved effective, but he came down with a severe case of serum sickness. As soon as he’s better, he’ll also be off to jail.”

“What about the other officers of the Physicians’ Action Congress?” asked Marissa.

“A number of them have offered to turn state’s evidence,” said Dubchek. “It’s making the investigation inordinately easy. We are beginning to believe that the regular members of the organization thought they were supporting just an ordinary lobbying campaign.”

“What about Tieman? He certainly didn’t seem the type to be mixed up in such an affair. Or at least his conscience really seemed to bother him.”

“His lawyer has been making arrangements for a lighter sentence in return for his cooperation. As for PAC itself, the group’s bankrupt. The families of the victims have almost all filed suit. They’re also suing the doctors individually. Most of the officers are being prosecuted as criminals. So they should be behind bars a good while, particularly Jackson.”

“He and Dr. Heberling would be-I think your word is lynched-if the public got ahold of them,” added Dr. Fakkry.

“I guess Ralph will also be sentenced,” Marissa said slowly. She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that the man she considered a protector had tried to kill her.

“He was one of the first to cooperate with the prosecution. He’ll get some breaks, but I doubt he’ll be released for a long time. Aside from his connection with PAC, he is directly linked to the attacks on you.”

“I know,” Marissa sighed. “So it’s really over.”

“Thanks to your persistence,” said Dubchek. “And the outbreak in New York is definitely under control.”

“Thank God,” she said.

“So when will you be coming back to the CDC?” asked Dubchek.

“We’ve already gotten you clearance for the maximum containment lab.” This time there was no doubt about his grin. “No one relished the thought of your stumbling around in there at night anymore.”

Marissa blushed in spite of herself. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m actually considering going back into pediatrics.”

“Back to Boston?” Dubchek’s face fell.

“It will be a loss to the field,” said Dr. Fakkry. “You’ve become an international epidemiological hero.”

“I’ll give it more thought,” promised Marissa. “But even if I do go back to pediatrics, I’m planning to stay in Atlanta.” She nuzzled her new puppy. There was a pause, then she added, “But I’ve one request.”

“If we can be of any help…” said Dr. Fakkry.

Marissa shook her head. “Only Cyrill can help on this one. Whether I go back to pediatrics or not, I was hoping he’d ask me to dinner again.”

Dubchek was taken off guard. Then, laughing at Fakkry’s bemused expression, he leaned over and hugged Marissa to his side.

The End