by Robin Cook
“Who the hell is Carol Bradford?”
“Please don’t ask any questions,” said Marissa, struggling to keep from bursting into tears. “The less you know at this point, the better.” Carol Bradford had been one of Marissa’s college roommates; it was the name she’d used on the flight from Atlanta to Chicago.
“The next favor involves a parcel I’m sending you by overnight carrier. Please, do not open it. Take it inside the maximum containment lab and hide it.” Marissa paused.
“Is that it?” asked Tad.
“That’s it,” said Marissa. “Will you help me, Tad?”
“I guess,” said Tad. “Sounds reasonably innocuous.”
“Thank you,” said Marissa. “I’ll be able to explain everything in a few days.”
She hung up and called the Westin Hotel toll-free number and reserved a room at the Plaza for that night under the name of Carol Bradford. That accomplished, she scanned the Palmer House lobby. No one seemed to be paying her any heed. Trusting that the hotel would bill her on her credit card, she did not bother to check out.
The first stop was a Federal Express office. The people were extremely nice when she told them it was a special vaccine needed in Atlanta by the next day. They helped her pack her plastic bags in an unbreakable metal box and even addressed it, when they saw how badly her hand was trembling.
Back on the street, she flagged a cab to O’Hare. As soon as she was seated, she began checking her lymph nodes and testing her throat for soreness. She’d been close to Ebola before, but never this close. She shuddered to think that the man had intended to infect her with the virus. It was a cruel irony that the only way she’d escaped was to have infected him. She hoped that he realized the convalescent serum had a protective effect if it was given prior to the appearance of symptoms. Maybe that was why the man had left so precipitously.
During the long ride to the airport, she began to calm down enough to think logically. The fact that she’d been attacked again gave more credence to her suspicions. And if the vaccination gun proved to contain Ebola, she’d have her first real piece of evidence.
The taxi driver dropped Marissa at the American Airlines terminal, explaining that they had hourly flights to New York. Once she got her ticket, passed through security and hiked the long distance to the gate, she found she had nearly half an hour to wait. She decided to call Ralph. She badly needed to hear a friendly voice, and she wanted to ask about the lawyer.
Marissa spent several minutes struggling with Ralph’s secretary, who guarded him as if he were the Pope, pleading with the woman to at least let him know she was on the line. Finally, Ralph picked up the phone.
“I hope you’re back in Atlanta,” he said before she could say hello.
“Soon,” promised Marissa. She explained that she was at the American terminal in Chicago, on her way to New York, but that she’d probably be back in Atlanta the following day, particularly if he’d found her a good lawyer.
“I made some discreet inquiries,” said Ralph, “and I think I have just the man. His name is McQuinllin. He’s with a large firm here in Atlanta.”
“I hope he’s smart,” said Marissa. “He’s going to have his hands full.”
“Supposedly he’s one of the best.”
“Do you think that he will require a lot of money up front?”
“Chances are he’ll want a retainer of some sort,” said Ralph. “Will that be a problem?”
“Could be,” said Marissa. “Depends on how much.”
“Well, don’t worry,” said Ralph. “I’ll be happy to lend a hand.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” said Marissa.
“You’re not asking, I’m offering,” said Ralph. “But in return, I’d like you to stop this crazy trip. What’s so important in New York? I hope it’s not the new Ebola outbreak. You don’t want a repeat of Philadelphia. Why don’t you just fly back to Atlanta. I’m worried about you.”
“Soon,” said Marissa. “I promise.”
After hanging up, Marissa kept her hand on the receiver. It always made her feel good to talk with Ralph. He cared.
Like most of the businesspeople who comprised ninety percent of the passengers, Marissa ordered herself a drink. She was still a bundle of nerves. The vodka tonic calmed her considerably, and she actually got into one of those “where you from?” and “what do you do?” conversations with a handsome young bond dealer from Chicago, named Danny. It turned out he had a sister who was a doctor in Hawaii. He chatted so enthusiastically, Marissa finally had to close her eyes and feign sleep in order to find time to put her thoughts in order.
The question that loomed in her mind was: how had the man with the frozen arm known she was in Chicago? And, assuming it was the same man, how had he known when she’d been in the maximum containment lab? To answer both questions, Marissa’s mind reluctantly turned to Tad. When Tad had discovered the missing card, he must have known she would use it that night. Maybe he told Dubchek to avoid getting into trouble himself. Tad had also known she was flying to Chicago, but she simply couldn’t believe he had intentionally set a murderer on her trail. And much as she resented Dubchek, she respected him as a dedicated scientist. It was hard to connect him with the financially oriented, right-wing Physicians’ Action Congress.
Thoroughly confused as to what was intelligent deduction and what paranoid delusion, Marissa wished she hadn’t let the vaccination gun out of her hands. If Tad was somehow involved, then she’d lost her only hard evidence, provided it tested positive for Ebola.
As her plane touched down at La Guardia airport, Marissa decided that if the New York outbreak confirmed her theories about the origin of the Ebola outbreaks, she would go directly to Ralph’s lawyer and let him and the police sort things out. She just wasn’t up to playing Nancy Drew any longer. Not against a group of men who thought nothing of risking entire populations.
When the plane stopped and the seat-belt sign went off, indicating that they had arrived at the gate, Marissa stood and wrestled her suitcase out of the overhead bin. Danny insisted on helping her down the jetway, but when they said good-bye, Marissa vowed she would be more careful in the future. No more conversations with strangers, and she would not tell anyone her real name. In fact, she decided not to check into the Plaza as Carol Bradford. Instead, she’d stay overnight at the nearby Essex House, using the name of her old high-school chum, Lisa Kendrick.
George Valhala stood by the Avis Rent-a-Car counter and casually scanned the crowds in the baggage area. His employers had nicknamed him The Toad, not because of any physical characteristic, but rather because of his unusual patience, enabling him to sit still for hours on a stakeout, like a toad waiting for an insect.
But this job was not going to utilize his special talent. He’d only been at the airport for a short time, and his information was that the girl would arrive on the five o’clock or the six o’clock flight from Chicago. The five o’clock had just landed, and a few passengers were beginning to appear around the appropriate carousel.
The only minor problem that George foresaw was that the description he’d been given was vague: a cute, short, thirty-year-old female with brown hair. Usually he worked with a photo, but in this case there hadn’t been time to get one.
Then he saw her. It had to be her. She was almost a foot shorter than everyone else in the army of attaché-case-toting travelers swarming the baggage area. And he noticed that she was bypassing the carousel, having apparently carried her suitcase off the plane.
Pushing off the Avis counter, George wandered toward Marissa to get a good fix on her appearance. He followed her outside, where she joined the taxi queue. She definitely was cute, and she definitely was little. George wondered how on earth she’d managed to overpower Paul in Chicago. The idea that she was some kind of martial-arts expert flitted through his mind. One way or another, George felt some respect for this little trick. He knew Al did too, otherwise Al wouldn’t be going through all this trouble.
Having gotten a look at her up close, George crossed the street in front of the terminal and climbed into a taxi waiting opposite the taxi stand.
The driver twisted around, looking at George. “You see her?” He was a skinny fellow with birdlike features, quite a contrast to George’s pear-shaped obesity.
“Jake, do I look like an idiot? Start the car. She’s in the taxi line.”
Jake did as he was told. He and George had been working for Al for four years, and they got along fine, except when George started giving orders. But that wasn’t too often.
“There she is,” said George, pointing. Marissa was climbing into a cab. “Pull up a little and let her cab pass us.”
“Hey, I’m driving,” said Jake. “You watch, I drive.” Nonetheless, he put the car in gear and started slowly forward.
George watched out the rear window, noticing Marissa’s cab had a dented roof, he said, “That will be easy to follow.” The taxi passed them on the right, and Jake pulled out behind. He allowed one car to get between them before they entered the Long Island Expressway.
There was no problem keeping Marissa’s cab in sight even though the driver took the Queensborough Bridge, which was crowded with rush-hour traffic. After forty minutes they watched her get out in front of the Essex House. Jake pulled over to the curb fifty feet beyond the hotel.
“Well, now we know where she’s staying,” said Jake.
“Just to be certain, I’m going in to see that she registers,” said George. “I’ll be right back.”
14
May 23
MARISSA DID NOT SLEEP WELL. After the incident in the room at the Palmer House, she might never feel comfortable in a hotel again. Every noise in the hall made her fearful, thinking someone would try to break in. And there were plenty of noises, what with people returning late and ordering from room service.
She also kept imagining symptoms. She could not forget the feel of the vaccination gun in her hand, and each time she woke up, she was certain she had a fever or was otherwise ill.
By the next morning, she was totally exhausted. She ordered fresh fruit and coffee, which arrived with a complimentary New York Times. The front page carried an article about the Ebola outbreaks. In New York, the number of cases had risen to eleven with one death, while in Philadelphia the count stood at thirty-six with seventeen deaths. The single death in New York was the initial case, Dr. Girish Mehta.
Starting at ten, Marissa repeatedly called the Plaza Hotel to inquire after a parcel for Carol Bradford. She intended to keep calling until noon: the overnight carriers generally guaranteed delivery by that time. If the parcel arrived, she would be less wary of Tad’s betraying her and would then go up to the Rosenberg Clinic. Just after eleven, she was told that the package was there and that it was being held for the guest’s arrival.
As Marissa prepared to leave the hotel, she didn’t know whether to be surprised that Tad had sent the serum or not. Of course the package could be empty, or its arrival only a ruse to get her to reveal her whereabouts. Unfortunately, there was no way for Marissa to be sure, and she wanted the serum enough to make her doubts academic. She would have to take a chance.
Taking only her purse, Marissa tried to think of a way of obtaining the package that would involve the least risk. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any bright ideas other than to have a cab waiting and to be sure there were plenty of people around.
George Valhala had been in the lobby of the Essex House since early that morning. This was the kind of situation that he loved. He’d had coffee, read the papers and ogled some handsome broads. All in all, he’d had a great time, and none of the house detectives had bothered him, dressed as he was in an Armani suit and genuine alligator shoes.
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 Marissa’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.” Marissa 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 Marissa 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, Mar
issa 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.
