Robin Cook - Outbreak

“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.