“That’s not necessarily a bad thing if your home town sucks.” He sat next to her on a chair, removing an old issue of Sports Illustrated that was open on the cushion. “So what does somebody need to do to be on that expedition to South America?”
“You wouldn’t want to go, trust me.”
“Why?”
“It’s government travel. That means charters and the cheapest lodging and food available. They’re rarely fun.”
“Well if I wanted to, what would I have to do?”
She stood up. “You’d have to work for the CDC. You ready?”
“Um hm.”
They walked down the corridor together, Duncan asking her about how she began with the CDC and why she remained there when she was clearly qualified to work anywhere in the world she wished. They left through the back entrance and came to the second building, which was crowded with military vehicles, police cruisers, and news vans.
“Man, must be a slow news day,” Duncan said.
“You don’t think this is deserving of attention?”
“You kidding me? Do you have, well, yeah you do, but do you think the general population has any idea how many deadly epidemics are just at their doorstep? Every day in Africa, somewhere, there’s an Ebola outbreak. It infects one or two people, spreads to a few dozen or one or two hundred and then disappears. Some people are in the same room with an Ebola infected patient and they contract the disease and others get blood coughed into their mouths and don’t get it. That’s what creeps me out about it. It seems like the viruses almost choose who they want to infect and who they don’t.”
“They can’t choose anything,” Sam said.
They worked their way through the cords from the cameras and sound mics that coiled on the ground like thin, black snakes. They showed identification to the MPs at the entrance and went inside.
Everyone seemed to be going in one direction down a hallway so they followed. This building was much different than the hospital proper. The floors were carpeted and clean and there were no fingerprint marks on the glass doors or the walls from children. Samantha guessed this was probably an administration building.
They finally came to a small auditorium and took seats in the back, Duncan sitting next her. Samantha took out her phone and began reviewing notes of the three patients that had been admitted during the night. Two women and a fifteen-year-old boy. They were all displaying fevers, rashes, vomiting, and diarrhea. The boy had developed what had become the telltale sign of the illness: a spreading, smooth black surface just underneath the skin.
“I guess you lost your seat,” Duncan said.
At the table set up at the front of the room sat a man Samantha recognized from long nights in cramped laboratories. In front of him, a nameplate with her name had been pushed to the side and replaced with one that said, DR. PUSHKIN.
The reporters filed in and took their places as Wilson, Pushkin, the director of the hospital, and a man in a military uniform with three stars pinned to his chest took their places at the long table before the cameras.
Wilson took out two pills in a cellophane wrapper and popped them before taking a sip of water. Samantha knew them to be beta-blockers to calm his nerves and remove any performance anxiety.
A man in a suit with a nametag came up to Wilson and made a few adjustments to the papers in front of him. Samantha heard him say, “Ready when you are” and the reporters took out iPads and notebooks.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wilson began, “I don’t need to explain to you exactly what we’re facing. However you did it, many of you knew about this before many of us sitting up here did. It’s extremely important that we not cause a panic. When people panic, they get aggressive, they make mistakes, and they sometimes lose all sense of morality. I would ask that when you report on this story, you not exaggerate the seriousness of the infection. No one in Kansas or Miami is going to get this agent. It’s confined solely to this city. In fact, there has not been one confirmed case more than five miles from this hospital and, since yesterday, we have not received any new patients with the symptomology we’re looking for.
“This is, as far as I can tell,” Wilson continued, “a fluke. In nature things come out of hiding every few centuries or so, rear their head, and go back to where they came. Once these patients are treated, I have a feeling we won’t have any more reported cases.”
Duncan leaned over to Sam. “What’s he doing? Why the hell would he say that? He has no idea.”
Sam shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Wilson cleared his throat and said, “Now, I thought we would just open it up to questions.”
One reporter, an overweight man in a Hawaiian shirt, stood up. “Doctor, can you confirm that there have been twelve infections in the past seventy-two hours, and if you can, how is it that you can assert that you don’t think there will be more?”
“I can confirm that there have been twelve cases reported in the last seventy-two hours. Obviously, we cannot discuss the details of these cases due to patient confidentiality, but what I can tell you is that we now believe, thanks to the fine work of our field agent, Dr. Samantha Bower, that the initial infection occurred in South America and was brought here via a carrier who resided in Honolulu. And the reason I can state with confidence that I don’t think there will be more infections is that this type of agent has an exponential growth factor. It hits its tipping point quickly and reaches a critical mass in a matter of days rather than weeks or months. That has not happened here. Which means one of two things: it’s either not the agent we think it is, or it’s dying out. I believe it to be the latter.”
Another reporter, a woman in a short skirt and a white button-down shirt stood up. Wilson called her by name and she smiled at him before speaking.
“Doctor, my understanding is that black pox is a mutation of the smallpox virus. And that smallpox, since being eradicated through vaccinations, only exists in two places in the world. One is in the former Soviet Union and one is here at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible then that there’s been some sort of release of this agent from one of these two labs? Either on purpose or by accident?”
“Absolutely not. The first thing I did was check with our laboratories and with Moscow. All smallpox agents are accounted for. They are stored in a frozen state using liquid nitrogen. The only way they could be released is if they thaw, infect someone, and have that person leave the lab and infect others. But there have been no reported cases in either our labs or the Russian’s.”
“Is it possible then that perhaps this virus has been manufactured by another entity. Perhaps a rogue nation like North Korea or Iran?”
Wilson grew noticeably uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and adjusted his glasses. He looked hopefully to the military officer seated next to him.
“Perhaps General Lancaster would be better suited to answer that question.”
The general looked at the reporter sternly, unblinking, and said, “There’s no evidence of that. And until there is I don’t think speculation helps anyone.”
The woman was about to ask something else when she was drowned out by a reporter from Fox News who yelled from a seated position, “Is it true that a high ranking member of al Qaida has taken responsibility for the outbreak?”
Before the general could answer, Wilson said, “Lots of people are going to take responsibility. Being the United States means we are the richest, most powerful nation on earth. When that role was held by Babylon, then Egypt, then Rome, and the French, the English, and so forth, they were all hated. They were all attacked. I have no doubt that several groups will take responsibility for this. But that’s not what the evidence suggests; it suggests this is a naturally occurring phenomena.
“Terrorist organizations attack clusters of people, like the sarin poisoning in the subways of Tokyo. Or the September 11 attacks. They don’t attack a single individual. They
would want to maximize exposure to the agent as much as possible. The evidence strongly favors our theory that a single individual returned home from a trip to the jungle and carried this virus with him. Period.”
More questions were thrown at the panel and Wilson fielded almost all of them. Sam saw that Dr. Pushkin was checking his watch. She guessed that he wished he was alone in his lab right now.
There were around twenty or twenty-five more questions before they closed the press conference. Once the cameras were off, Sam saw Wilson and his assistant going from reporter to reporter and having a whispered conversation. Probably reminding them that causing a panic unnecessarily would be extremely detrimental.
Sam stood and made her way down to the long table just as Pushkin rose to leave.
“You didn’t speak much,” she said.
“Ralph seemed to have that particular function covered. You look tired.”
“I’m okay. How was the flight?”
“Awful. But this is one beautiful damned island. Let’s get lunch or breakfast, or whatever the hell mealtime it is.”
They were walking out when Duncan appeared in front of them. He thrust out his hand and Pushkin shook.
“Dr. Pushkin, I’m Duncan Adams.”
“Oh, yes. From USAMRIID, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You two know each other?” Sam asked.
Pushkin said, “Their laboratories are much more secure than ours even though we have a BSL 4 clearance. I’ve had them perform a few diagnoses when I require. Duncan here is a brilliant research scientist. When he wants to be.”
“Which is rarely,” Duncan said. “So where you guys off to now?”
“Breakfast. Join us. I think we may need to do some brainstorming on this.”
CHAPTER 14
Benjamin Cornell’s heart raced as he walked into the California Department of Health. He glanced around to make sure no one had noticed him though he was sure they hadn’t. He’d dressed as normally as possible: Polo shirt, jeans, and sandals. Just an average white guy walking into a public building. He wore glasses and had his sun-bleached blond hair covered in an Oakland A’s baseball cap.
The corridor he walked down was long and there was a receptionist at a booth on his right side. He took a deep breath and walked to her.
“Hi,” he said, putting on his best smile. “I’m here to see Dr. Wharton, please.”
“Fifth floor, two doors on your left.”
“Thank you.”
He walked to the elevators and hit the button for the third floor, his actual destination. If anyone asked the receptionist later, he wanted her to only remember that someone had asked about Dr. Wharton.
The elevator dinged and he stepped on. There were six other people crammed on and he thought of an email joke he had received. Something about being on a crowded elevator and saying, “You’re probably all wondering why I gathered you here today.”
He smirked to himself as the doors opened on the third floor. Ben leaned against the wall and waited until the two other passengers that wanted this floor stepped off. He thought it best not to step off on the same floor as anyone else. Instead, he rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and got off.
There was a Workforce Services suite and he walked toward it until he heard the elevator doors close behind him and then he spun and ran over to the stairs leading down. He took two at a time before he stood in front of the door leading into the third floor and then took a deep breath to compose himself.
He opened the doors and stepped through.
The third floor was better taken care of than the fourth. The carpets didn’t have any stains and the walls were free of clutter. He walked past a set of double doors that had a black sign emblazoned on the glass that took up half the door: MEDICAL RECORDS.
Ben checked the watch on his phone. It was 11:51 a.m. He had four minutes.
He walked down the hallway to a drinking fountain and took a sip of water but his throat was nearly closed up from the amount of adrenaline coursing through him. There were restrooms just around the corner and down a small corridor and he walked to them and went into a stall. He sat on the toilet seat.
Occasionally, not often, but occasionally, it hit him just what an awkward turn his life had taken. He had graduated first in his class from Berkley’s Haas School of Business with his MBA when he was just twenty-one and the world had been his oyster. He’d been offered a consulting job in Manhattan making a hundred and sixty thousand a year and had accepted.
But that felt like a different life now. That was before his son Matthew had developed autism. Before the twenty-four-hour care and the crying and the strained marriage. Before it felt like his soul had been ripped out of his body and crushed. He had to leave the position in Manhattan and he and his wife and Matthew moved back to Northern California. He accepted a job at a non-profit as assistant director, making a quarter of his previous salary. But the job had flexibility so that he could spend more time with Matthew.
He checked his watch: 11:54 a.m. He had one minute.
Ben stood up and walked out into the corridor. He had never done anything like this before. He was not a criminal. The last time he had gotten in trouble that he could remember was when he received a speeding ticket rushing his wife to the hospital when she was in labor.
He took a deep breath, and continued down the corridor to the medical records room.
Ben opened the door, expecting to see a receptionist. He fiddled with the credentials in his pocket that had been forged by a counterfeiter that made fake identifications for illegal aliens and then withdrew his hand. Instead of a receptionist or a security guard or a police officer, there was a sign, handwritten with marker on a piece of paper, that had been pinned up on a small board: PLEASE DIAL 9 FOR OPERATOR IF YOU NEED HELP.
He smiled to himself. You had to love the way government operated.
Ben walked around the counter and past the large stacks of periodicals and folders and papers. What he was looking for wouldn’t be here. There was an adjoining room and he opened the door onto a world he couldn’t begin to fathom.
Manila folders were stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling. The Department of Health was slowly going digital, but they could not destroy the paper copies until the subjects passed away or moved out of state. The rows of shelves seemed to go on forever like an infinite library of people’s personal information. He didn’t want to spend the time running through here and he scanned the room for something that…there it was. In the corner was a computer with a barstool in front of it.
He went to it and sat down, typing in several names. He wrote the call numbers on his palm with a pen that was on the counter next to the computer and the writing got past his wrist before he was done.
Ben jumped to his feet, and began running down the rows of shelves. They were arranged by number, rather than alphabetically, and it took a few minutes for him to adjust. But once he did, it was just like scanning through the Dewey decimal system at any library. He found the first two files he needed but the third wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He read the name again: it was a female. He wondered whether it was under her maiden name and went back to the computer and found a number for her maiden name and got the file.
He nabbed seven more files and was about to head back to the computer and run the remainder of his names when he heard voices in the room next door. The door opened.
Ben jumped behind one of the shelves, kneeling down with the files in his arms. Two people, a male and a female, were discussing a retirement party that had been thrown for someone at the office. They stopped near the shelves, about ten feet from where Ben was. His heart was pounding so hard it was causing him to be breathless. Sweat was beginning to trickle down his neck and back and it tickled his skin.
Slowly, he began to crawl away from them. He got another twenty or thirty feet before he heard them say goodbye. The male continued down toward him and the female went back to the main office.
&
nbsp; Ben was frozen as he heard the footsteps approach him. The man was in another row, just to the right, but he was bound to see him when he walked by. Ben thought about dumping the files and acting as if he had just mistakenly walked into the wrong office. But that couldn’t happen. These files were valuable and they wouldn’t get another chance: the office of medical records was moving to a secure location a hundred and eighty miles away. If he wanted the files, this was his only shot.
He stood to his feet. There were over four hundred employees in this building alone. What were the chances that this guy had met every single one?
Ben turned the corner and began walking toward the man.
The man was tall and black with a potbelly. He wore a short-sleeve shirt and a tie and he eyed Ben but didn’t say anything.
Ben smiled and said hello as he walked past him. Relief washed over him; his heart felt like it had fallen into his stomach and his knees were weak.
“Excuse me,” the man said from behind him, “can I help you with something?”
Ben looked to him. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Oh, I’m Timothy. From Dr. Wharton’s office upstairs. Cami called about these records yesterday and no one was here when I came down.”
“What records are those?”
“For the smoking study that Dr. Wharton’s doing. They told me everything’s cleared up.”
“No one ran it past me, but I wasn’t here yesterday.”
“Well I’ll wait if you like and you can call up there and verify.”
The man looked him up and down, running his eyes over the names on the files he was holding. “Nah, just make sure you sign out for ‘em at the front desk.”
“Thanks.”
Ben walked out the door to the reception area where the woman was sitting. He smiled as he signed a fake name to a sheet that was sitting on the counter and then went out the front door, having to lean against the wall a moment because he felt like he was about to faint.
CHAPTER 15
Plague Page 7
