Robin Cook - Outbreak

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, coming 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.”