Robin Cook - Outbreak

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

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

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

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

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

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

They ate in exasperated silence for a few minutes.

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

“And where’s that?”

“Here at the CDC.”

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

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Marissa. “I’m merely stating a fact. The only known reservoir for Ebola is in our own maximum containment lab.”

Tad shook his head in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

Turning back the first page, Marissa noted that there was an entry for each visit to the maximum containment lab, with name, time in and time out all duly noted. She traced down the list with her index finger, recognizing only a few of the names. The one that appeared most often was Tad’s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marissa rolled up the list.

“Satisfied?” asked Tad.

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

“Oh, no,” said Tad.

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

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

“So?” said Marissa.

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

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

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

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

“How about right now?” said Marissa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tad snorted.

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