by Robin Cook
“What’s going on?” asked Ralph. “The paper gave no details.”
“Like I said last night, I don’t want to involve you.”
“I don’t mind,” Ralph insisted. “Why don’t you come over here. We can talk and I can get you a lawyer in the morning.”
“Have you ever heard of an organization called the Physicians’ Action Congress?” asked Marissa, ignoring Ralph’s offer.
“No,” said Ralph. “Marissa, please come over. I think it would be better to face this problem, whatever it is. Running away makes you look bad.”
Marissa heard her flight called.
“I’m going to the AMA to find out about the organization I just mentioned,” said Marissa quickly. “I’ll call tomorrow. I’ve got to run.” She hung up, picked up her briefcase and book and boarded the plane.
13
May 22
ARRIVING IN CHICAGO, MARISSA decided to treat herself to a nice hotel and was happy to find the Palmer House had a room. She risked using her credit card and went straight upstairs to bed.
The next morning, she ordered fresh fruit and coffee from room service. While waiting, she turned on the Today Show and went into the bathroom to shower. She was drying her hair when she heard the anchorman mention Ebola. She rushed into the bedroom, expecting to see the news commentator giving an update on the situation in Philadelphia. Instead, he was describing a new outbreak. It was at the Rosenberg Clinic on upper Fifth Avenue in New York City. A doctor by the name of Girish Mehta had been diagnosed as having the disease. Word had leaked to the press, and a widespread panic had gripped the city.
Marissa shivered. The Philadelphia outbreak was still in progress and another one had already started. She put on her makeup, finished fixing her hair and ate her breakfast. Marissa got the AMA’s address and set out for Rush Street.
A year ago if someone had told her she’d be visiting the association, she never would have believed it. But there she was, going through the front door.
The woman at the information booth directed her to the Public Relations office. The director, a James Frank, happened by as Marissa was trying to explain her needs to one of the secretaries. He invited her to his office.
Mr. Frank reminded Marissa of her high-school guidance counselor. He was of indeterminate age, slightly overweight and going bald, but his face had a lived-in look that exuded friendliness and sincerity. His eyes were bright, and he laughed a lot. Marissa liked him instantly.
“Physicians’ Action Congress,” he repeated when Marissa asked about the organization. “I’ve never heard of it. Where did you come across it?”
“On a congressman’s contributions list,” said Marissa.
“That’s funny,” said Mr. Frank. “I’d have sworn that I knew all the active political action committees. Let me see what my computer says.”
Mr. Frank punched in the name. There was a slight delay, then the screen blinked to life. “What do you know! You’re absolutely right. It’s right here.” He pointed to the screen. “Physicians’ Action Congress Political Action Committee. It’s a registered separate segregated fund.”
“What does that mean?” asked Marissa.
“Less than it sounds. It just means that your Physicians’ Action Congress is an incorporated membership organization because it has legally set up a committee to dispense funds as campaign contributions. Let’s see who they have been supporting.”
“I can tell you one candidate,” said Marissa. “Calvin Markham.”
Mr. Frank nodded. “Yup, here’s Markham’s name along with a number of other conservative candidates. At least we know the political bent.”
“Right wing,” said Marissa.
“Probably very right wing,” said Mr. Frank. “I’d guess they are trying to knock off DRGs—Diagnosis-Related Groups—limit immigration of foreign medical school graduates, stop HMO start-up subsidies and the like. Let me call someone I know at the Federal Elections Commission.”
After some chitchat, he asked his friend about the Physicians’ Action Congress. He nodded a few times while he listened, then hung up and turned to Marissa. “He doesn’t know much about PAC either, except he looked up their Statement of Organization and told me they are incorporated in Delaware.”
“Why Delaware?” questioned Marissa.
“Incorporation is cheapest there.”
“What are the chances of finding out more about the organization?” asked Marissa.
“Like what? Who the officers are? Where the home office is? That kind of stuff?”
“Yes,” said Marissa.
Picking up the phone again, Frank said: “Let’s see what we can learn from Delaware.”
He was quite successful. Although initially a clerk in the Delaware State House said that he’d have to come in person for the information, Mr. Frank managed to get a supervisor to bend the rules.
Mr. Frank was on the line for almost fifteen minutes, writing as he listened. When he was done, he handed Marissa a list of the board of directors. She looked down: President, Joshua Jackson, MD; vice-president, Rodd Becker, MD; treasurer, Sinclair Tieman, MD; secretary, Jack Krause, MD; directors, Gustave Swenson, MD; Duane Moody, MD; and Trent Goodridge, MD. Opening her briefcase, she took out the list of partners for Professional Labs. They were the same names!
Marissa left the AMA with her head spinning. The question that loomed in her mind was almost too bizarre to consider: what was an ultraconservative physicians’ organization doing with a lab that owned sophisticated equipment used only for handling deadly viruses? Purposely, Marissa did not answer her own question.
Her mind churning, Marissa began walking in the direction of her hotel. Other pedestrians jostled her, but she paid no heed.
Trying to pick holes in her own theory, Marissa ticked off the significant facts: each of the outbreaks of Ebola had occurred in a private group prepaid health-care facility; most of the index patients had foreign-sounding names; and in each case where there was an index patient, the man had been mugged just prior to getting sick. The one exception was the Phoenix outbreak, which she still believed was food borne.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a display of Charles Jourdan shoes—her one weakness. Stopping abruptly to glance in the store window, she was startled when a man behind her almost knocked her over. He gave her an angry look, but she ignored him. A plan was forming in her mind. If her suspicions had any merit, and the previous outbreaks had not been the result of chance, then the index patient in New York was probably working for a prepaid health-care clinic and had been mugged a few days previous to becoming ill. Marissa decided she had to go to New York.
Looking around, she tried to figure out where she was in relation to her hotel. She could see the el in front of her and remembered that the train traveled the Loop near the Palmer House.
She began walking briskly when she was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. No wonder she’d been attacked in her home. No wonder the man who’d caught her in the maximum containment lab had tried to kill her. No wonder Markham had had her transferred. If her fears were true, then a conspiracy of immense proportions existed and she was in extreme jeopardy.
Up until that moment she’d felt safe in Chicago. Now, everywhere she looked she saw suspicious characters. There was a man pretending to window-shop she was sure was watching her in the reflection. She crossed the street, expecting the man to follow. But he didn’t.
Marissa ducked into a coffee shop and ordered a cup of tea to calm down. She sat at a window table and stared out at the street. The man who had scared her came out of the store with a shopping bag and hailed a cab. So much for him. It was at that moment that she saw the businessman. It was the way he was carrying his briefcase that caught her attention, his arm at an awkward angle, as though he couldn’t flex his elbow.
In a flash, Marissa was back in her own home, desperately fighting the unseen figure whose arm seemed frozen at the joint. And then there was the nightmare in the lab . . .
> As Marissa watched, the man took out a cigarette and lit it, all with one hand, the other never leaving his briefcase. Marissa remembered that Tad had said the intruder had carried a briefcase.
Covering her face with her hands, Marissa prayed she was imagining things. She sat rubbing her eyes for a minute, and when she looked again, the man was gone.
Marissa finished her tea, then asked directions to the Palmer House. She walked quickly, nervously switching her own briefcase from hand to hand. At the first corner, she looked over her shoulder: the same businessman was coming toward her.
Immediately changing directions, Marissa crossed the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the man continue to the middle of the block and then cross after her. With a rising sense of panic, she looked for a taxi, but the street was clear. Instead, she turned around and ran back to the elevated train. Hurriedly she climbed the stairs, catching up to a large group. She wanted to be in a crowd.
Once on the platform, she felt better. There were lots of people standing about, and Marissa walked a good distance away from the entrance. Her heart was still pounding, but at least she could think. Was it really the same man? Had he been following her?
As if in answer to her question, the man popped into her line of vision. He had large features and coarse skin and a heavy five-o’clock shadow. His teeth were square and widely spaced. He coughed into a closed fist.
Before she could move, the train thundered into the station, and the crowd surged forward, taking Marissa along with the rest. She lost sight of the man as she was carried into the car.
Fighting to stay near the door, Marissa hoped she could detrain at the last moment as she’d seen people do in spy movies, but the crush of people hampered her, and the doors closed before she could get to them. Turning, she scanned the faces around her, but she did not see the man with the stiff elbow.
The train lurched forward, forcing her to reach for a pole. Just as she grabbed it, she saw him again. He was right next to her, holding onto the same pole with the hand of his good arm. He was so close, Marissa could smell his cologne. He turned and their eyes met. A slight smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he let go of the pole. He coughed and reached into his jacket pocket.
Losing control, Marissa screamed. Frantically, she tried to push away from the man, but she was again hindered by the crush of people. Her scream died, and no one moved or spoke. They just stared at her. The wheels of the train shrieked as they hit a sharp bend, and Marissa and the man had to grab the pole to keep from falling. Their hands touched.
Marissa let go of the pole as if it were red hot. Then, to her utter relief, a transit policeman managed to shove his way over to her.
“Are you all right?” yelled the policeman over the sounds of the train.
“This man has been following me,” said Marissa, pointing.
The policeman looked at the businessman. “Is this true?”
The man shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
The policeman turned back to Marissa as the train began to slow. “Would you care to file a complaint?”
“No,” yelled Marissa, “as long as he leaves me alone.”
The screech of the wheels and the hiss of the air brakes made it impossible to hear until the train stopped. The doors opened instantly.
“I’ll be happy to get off if it would make the lady feel better,” said the businessman.
A few people got off. Everyone else just stared. The policeman kept the door from closing with his body and looked questioningly at Marissa.
“I would feel better,” said Marissa, suddenly unsure of her reactions.
The businessman shrugged his shoulders and got off. Almost immediately, the doors closed and the train lurched forward once again.
“You all right now?” asked the policeman.
“Much better,” said Marissa. She was relieved the businessman was gone, but afraid the cop might ask for her identification. She thanked him then looked away. He took the hint and moved on.
Realizing that every eye within sight was still on her, Marissa was acutely embarrassed. As soon as the train pulled into the next station, she got off. Descending to the street, and irrationally afraid the man had found a way to follow her, she caught the first cab she could to take her to the Palmer House.
Within the security of the taxi, Marissa was able to regain a degree of control. She knew she was in over her head, but she had no idea to whom in authority she could go. She was presupposing a conspiracy but had no idea of its extent. And worst of all, she had no proof; nothing—just a few highly suggestive facts.
She decided she might as well continue on to New York. If her suspicions about that outbreak proved to be correct, she’d decide there who to contact. Meanwhile, she hoped that Ralph had found her a good lawyer. Maybe he could handle the whole thing.
As soon as she got back to the hotel, Marissa went directly to her room. With her present paranoia, she wanted out as soon as possible, criticizing herself for having used a credit card and, hence, her own name. She’d used an assumed name and paid cash for the flight from Atlanta to Chicago, and she should have done the same at the hotel.
Going up in the elevator, Marissa had decided she would pack her few things and go right to the airport. She opened her door and headed straight for the bathroom, tossing her purse and briefcase onto the desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement and ducked automatically. Even so, she was struck so hard she was knocked forward over the nearest twin bed, ending up on the floor between them. Looking up, she saw the man from the train coming toward her.
Frantically, she tried to scramble beneath one of the beds, but the man got ahold of her skirt with his good arm and yanked her back.
Marissa rolled over, kicking furiously. Something fell out of the man’s hand and hit the floor with a metallic thud. A gun, thought Marissa, compounding her terror.
The man bent to retrieve the gun, and Marissa slithered beneath the bed closest to the door. The man returned, checking first under one bed, then under the one where Marissa was cowering. His large hand reached for her. When he couldn’t grab her, he got down on his knees and lunged under the bed, catching Marissa by an ankle and pulling her toward him.
For the second time that day, Marissa screamed. She kicked again and loosened the man’s grip. In a flash she was back under the bed.
Tiring of the tug of war, he dropped his gun onto the bed and came after her. But Marissa rolled out the other side. She scrambled to her feet and ran for the door. She had just wrenched it open when the man leaped across the bed and caught her hair. Whipping her around, he threw her against the bureau with such force that the mirror fell with a crash.
The man checked the hall quickly, then closed and secured the door. Marissa ran to the bathroom, grabbing what she thought was the gun off the far bed. She had almost managed to get the bathroom door closed before the man reached it.
Marissa wedged her back against the sink and tried to keep her attacker from opening the door farther. But, little by little, his greater strength prevailed. The door cracked open, enabling him to get the arm with the frozen elbow hooked around the jamb.
Marissa eyed the wall phone but couldn’t reach it without taking her feet off the door. She looked at the weapon in her hand, wondering if it would scare the man if she were to fire a bullet at the wall. That was when she realized she was holding an air-powered vaccination gun of the kind used for mass inoculations in her old pediatrics clinic.
The door had opened enough for the man to move his arm more freely. He blindly groped until he got a grip on one of Marissa’s ankles. Feeling she had little choice, Marissa pressed the vaccination gun against the man’s forearm and discharged it. The man screamed. The arm was withdrawn, and the door slammed shut.
She heard him run across the room, open the door to the hall and rush out. Going back into the bedroom, Marissa breathed a sigh of relief, only
to be startled by a strong odor of phenolic disinfectant. Turning the vaccinator toward herself with a shaky hand, she examined the circular business end. Intuitively, she sensed the gun contained Ebola virus, and she guessed that the disinfectant she smelled was part of a mechanism to prevent exposure to the operator. Now she was truly terrified. Not only had she possibly killed a man, she might also have triggered a new outbreak. Forcing herself to remain calm, she carefully placed the gun in a plastic bag that she took from the wastebasket and then got another plastic bag from the basket under the desk and placed it over the first, knotting it closed. For a moment she hesitated, wondering if she should call the police. Then she decided there was nothing they could do. The man was far away by now, and if the vaccination gun did contain Ebola, there was no way they could find him quietly if he didn’t want to be found.
Marissa looked out into the hall. It was clear. She put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, then carried her belongings, including the plastic bag with the vaccination gun, down to housekeeping. There were no cleaning people in sight. She found a bottle of Lysol and disinfected the outside of the plastic bag. Then she washed and disinfected her hands. She couldn’t think of anything else to do prophylactically.
In the lobby, where there were enough people to make Marissa feel reasonably safe, she called the Illinois State Epidemiologist. Without identifying herself, she explained that room 2410 at the Palmer House might have been contaminated with Ebola virus. Before the man could gasp out a single question, she hung up.
Next, she called Tad. All this activity was enabling her to avoid thinking about what had just happened. Tad’s initial coolness thawed when he realized that she was on the verge of hysteria.
“What on earth is going on now?” he asked. “Marissa, are you all right?”
“I have to ask two favors. After the trouble I’ve caused you, I’d vowed that I wouldn’t bother you again. But I have no choice. First, I need a vial of the convalescent serum from the L.A. outbreak. Could you send it by overnight carrier to Carol Bradford at the Plaza Hotel in New York?”
