Outbreak

by Robin Cook

  People shouted as she crashed by them, but she kept going. The confusion she caused hampered the blond man, but not dramatically. He was gaining on her.

  Running across the drive east of the Plaza, Marissa dodged taxis and limos, reaching the edge of the small park with its central fountain. She was in a full panic with no destination. But she knew she had to do something. It was at that moment that she saw the mounted policeman’s horse. It was loosely tethered to the link chain fence that bordered the tiny patch of grass in the park. As Marissa ran toward the horse, she searched desperately for the policeman. She knew he had to be near, but there was so little time. She could hear the blond man’s heels strike the sidewalk, then hesitate. He’d arrived at the drive separating the park from the hotel.

  Reaching the horse, Marissa grabbed the reins and ducked underneath as the animal nervously tossed its head. Looking back, Marissa saw the man was in the street, rounding a limo.

  Frantically, Marissa’s eyes swept the small park. There were plenty of people, many of them looking in her direction, but no policeman. Giving up, she turned and started running across the park. There was no chance to hide. Her pursuer was too close.

  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.”

  The door opened and a young man came in.

  “This is Curt Vandermay,” said Stewart.

  Reluctantly, Marissa gave her own name.

  “Dr. Blumenthal has some questions about the autopsy,” explained Dr. Stewart. He pulled a chair away from his microscope bench for Dr. Vandermay, who sat down and gracefully crossed his legs.

  “We haven’t processed the sections yet,” explained Dr. Vandermay. “So I hope the gross results will do.”

  “Actually, I’m interested in your external exam,” said Marissa. “Were there any abnormalities?”

  “For sure,” said Dr. Vandermay. “The man had extensive hemorrhagic lesions in his skin.”

  “What about trauma?” asked Marissa.

  “How did you guess?” said Dr. Vandermay, surprised. “He had a broken nose. I’d forgotten about that.”

  “How old?” asked Marissa.

  “A week, ten days. Somewhere in that range.”

  “Did the chart mention a cause?”

  “To tell the truth, I didn’t look,” said Dr. Vandermay. “Knowing the man died of Ebola Hemorrhagic Fever took precedence. I didn’t give the broken nose a lot of thought.”

  “I understand,” said Marissa. “What about the chart? I assume it’s here in pathology. Can I see it?”

  “By all means,” said Vandermay. He stood up. “Why don’t you come down to the autopsy area. I have some Polaroids of the broken nose, if you’d like to see them.”

  “Please,” said Marissa.

  Stewart excused himself, saying he had a meeting to attend, and Marissa followed Vandermay as he explained that the body had been disinfected and then double-bagged in special receptacles to avoid contamination. The family had requested that the body be shipped home to India, but that permission had been refused. Marissa could understand why.

  The chart wasn’t as complete as Marissa would have liked, but there was reference to the broken nose. It had been set by one of Dr. Mehta’s colleagues, an ENT surgeon. Marissa also learned that Dr. Mehta was an ENT surgeon himself, a terrifying fact given the way the epidemic had spread in the previous outbreaks. As far as the cause of the broken nose was concerned, there was nothing.

  Vandermay suggested that they phone the man who set it. While he put through the call, Marissa went through the rest of the chart. Dr. Mehta had no history of recent travel, exposure to animals or connection to any of the other Ebola outbreaks.

  “The poor man was robbed,” said Dr. Vandermay, hanging up the phone. “Punched out and robbed in his own driveway. Can you believe it? What a world we live in!”

  If you only knew, thought Marissa, now absolutely certain that the Ebola outbreaks were deliberately caused. A wave of fear swept over her, but she forced herself to continue questioning the pathologist. “Did you happen to notice a nummular lesion on Dr. Mehta’s thigh?”

  “I don’t recall,” said Dr. Vandermay. “But here are all the Polaroids.” He spread a group of photos out as if he were laying out a poker hand.

  Marissa looked at the first one. They brutally portrayed the naked corpse laid out on the stainless-steel autopsy table. Despite the profusion of hemorrhagic lesions, Marissa was able to pick out the same circular lesion she had seen on Dr. Richter’s thigh. It corresponded in size to the head of a vaccination gun.

  “Would it be possible for me to take one of these photos?” asked Marissa.

  Dr. Vandermay glanced at them. “Go ahead. We’ve got plenty.”

  Marissa slipped the photo into her pocket. It wasn’t as good as the vaccination gun, but it was something. She thanked Dr. Vandermay and got up to leave.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me your suspicions?” Vandermay asked. There was a slight smile on his face, as if he knew that something was up.

  An intercom system crackled to life, informing Dr. Vandermay that he had a phone call on line six. He picked up, and Marissa overheard him say, “That’s a coincidence, Dr. Dubchek, I’m talking with Dr. Blumenthal right this moment . . .”

  That was all Marissa needed to hear. She got up and ran for the elevators. Vandermay called after her, but she didn’t stop. She passed the secretaries at a half-jog and raced through the double doors, clutching the pens in the pocket of the white coat to keep them from falling out.

  Facing the elevators and fire stairs, she decided to risk the elevator. If Dubchek had been on the third floor, he probably would think it faster to use the stairs. She pushed the Down button. A lab tech was waiting with his tray of vacu-containers. He watched Marissa frantically push the already illuminated elevator button several more times. “Emergency?” he asked as their eyes met.

  An elevator stopped and Marissa squeezed on. The doors seemed to take forever to close, and she expected at any moment to see Dubchek running to stop them. But finally they started down, and Marissa began to relax only to find herself stopping on three. She moved deeper into the car, for once appreciating her small stature. It would have been difficult to see her from outside the elevator.

  As the elevator began to move again, she asked a gray-haired technician where the cafeteria was. He told her to turn right when she got off the elevator and follow the main corridor.

  Marissa got off and did as she had been told. A short distance down the hall, she smelled the aroma of food. For the rest of the way she followed her nose.

  She had decided it was too dangerous to risk the front entrance to the clinic. Dubchek could have told the police to stop her. Instead, she ran into the cafeteria, which was crowded with people having lunch. She headed directly for the kitchen. The staff threw her a few questioning looks, but no one challenged her. As she’d imagined, there was a loading dock, and she exited directly onto it, skirting a dairy truck that was making a delivery.

  Dropping down to the level of the driveway, Marissa walked briskly out onto Madison Avenue. After going north for half a block, she turned east on a quiet tree-lined street. There were few pedestrians, which gave Marissa confidence that she was not being trailed. When she got to Park Avenue, she hailed a cab.

  To be sure that no one was following her, Marissa got off at Bloomingdales, walked through the store to Third Avenue and hailed a second cab. By the time she pulled up at the Essex House, she was confident that she was safe, at least for the time being.

  Outside her room, with its Do Not Disturb sign still in place, Marissa hesitated. Even though no one knew she was registered under an assumed name, the memory of Chicago haunted her. She opened the door carefully, scanning the premises before going in. Then she propped the door open with a chair and warily searched the room. She checked under the beds, in the closet and in the bathroom. Everything was as she’d left it. Satisfied, Marissa closed and locked her door, using all the bolts and chains available.

  15

  May 23—continued

  MARISSA ATE SOME OF the generous portion of fruit she’d ordered from room service for her breakfast that morning, peeling an apple with the sharp paring knife that had come with it. Now that her suspicions appeared to be true, she wasn’t sure what to do next. The only thing she could think of was to go to Ralph’s lawyer and tell him what she believed: that a small group of right-wing physicians were introducing Ebola into privately owned clinics to erode pub
lic trust in HMOs. She could hand over the meager evidence she had and let him worry about the rest of the proof. Maybe he could even suggest a safe place for her to hide while things were being sorted out.

  Putting down the apple, she reached for the phone. She felt much better having come to a decision. She dialed Ralph’s office number and was pleasantly surprised to be immediately put through to him.

  “I gave my secretary specific instructions,” explained Ralph. “In case you don’t know it, I’m concerned about you.”

  “You’re sweet,” said Marissa, suddenly touched by Ralph’s sympathy. It undermined the tight control she’d been holding over her emotions. For a second she felt like the child who didn’t cry after a fall until she saw her mother.

  “Are you coming home today?”

  “That depends,” said Marissa, biting her lip and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I can talk to that lawyer today?” Her voice wavered.

  “No,” said Ralph. “I called his office this morning. They said he had to go out of town but that he’s expected back tomorrow.”

  “Too bad,” said Marissa, her voice beginning to shake.

  “Marissa, are you all right?” asked Ralph.

  “I’ve been better,” admitted Marissa. “I’ve had some awful experiences.”

  “What happened?”

  “I can’t talk now,” said Marissa, knowing if she tried to explain, she’d burst into tears.

  “Listen to me,” said Ralph. “I want you to come here immediately. I didn’t want you going to New York in the first place. Did you run into Dubchek again?”

  “Worse than that,” said Marissa.

  “Well, that settles it,” said Ralph. “Get the next flight home. I’ll come and pick you up.”

  The idea had a lot of appeal, and she was about to say as much when there was a knock on her door. Marissa froze.

  The knock was repeated.

  “Marissa, are you there?”

  “Just a minute,” said Marissa into the phone. “There’s someone at the door. Stay on the line.”