The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller

by Larry Enright

  He also told me to keep FEMA in the loop, and that meant reporting to Fink. FEMA had moved their command center out of City Hall across the street to the Ritz Carlton when their chief, Cathy Eland, found out that the antiquated structure was a medieval castle sitting on top of a dungeon of subway tunnels. It couldn’t be secured, it didn’t meet their power needs or their network requirements, and the food wasn’t as good.

  When we got to my office, Fink was waiting with a stack of paperwork for me and a leave request form that he told me to have back on his desk by the end of the day. He wanted to know why I was still nosing around a homicide that wasn’t any of my business.

  “Well, it’s like this,” I said. “If it wasn’t any of my business, Billy and I wouldn’t have been at the Hyatt, and he wouldn’t be dead. Any other questions?”

  “Just remember,” he said, “I’m your FEMA contact on this. Anything you get from the CDC, you bring to me first. Clear?”

  “Do me a favor. Close the door on your way out.”

  Fink dropped the papers on my desk and left.

  “I don’t want to be the one to tell you how you should act toward your superiors,” Izzy began.

  I cut her off. “Then don’t.”

  The phone rang. We were wanted in the situation room for a teleconference.

  The Six was built in 1975 and had a situation room that was state of the art during the cold war. A hardened bunker fifty feet below the VIP parking garage, it could withstand anything from a major earthquake to a small-yield nuclear blast. It had enough food and water in storage to feed twenty people for a year. In other words, it was a glorified bomb shelter. The bureau upgraded it after 9/11 when paranoia sent us all scurrying underground like rats and there was nothing we could do but cower in a corner, eat our stale MREs, and suck on our water bottles. They put in a network of computers that are upgraded yearly, a satellite communications hookup, worldwide net access, and citywide tie-ins to surveillance systems, banks, hotels, and public buildings. The U.S. taxpayers sprung for the whole shebang, but as far as I knew, no one had used it. Your tax dollars at work.

  I was explaining all this to Izzy as I swiped my ID across the elevator keypad, giving us access to the bottom floor.

  “Oh, and sorry about snapping at you back there,” I said. “My shrink told me I have brain to mouth coordination issues.”

  When she answered that it was one of my more endearing qualities, I asked her what she was doing after the meeting.

  The situation room had a table big enough for the president’s cabinet, but only one person was sitting at it — Travis. He stood up when we came off the elevator.

  “Hello, sir, ma’am,” he said.

  I did the introductions.

  “Izzy,” she said, shaking his hand.

  “Kenneth. Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m sorry about Billy, sir,” he said to me.

  “Yeah, tough luck all the way around.”

  “Do they know the funeral arrangements yet?”

  “His body’s already been cremated. His dad is taking the ashes back to California.”

  “How’d he get a flight out?”

  “Military transport from McGuire. Where is everyone?”

  “We’re it, sir.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, sir. All the other agents are assigned to FEMA.”

  I had never liked being stood in a corner as punishment when I was a kid, so I swore I’d never do that to mine. My ex came up with her own version of it that she called the timeout step. Never liked that either. This assignment felt a lot like somebody’s idea of paybacks.

  “When’s the conference start?” I asked, looking at the wall with the bank of empty screens. I figured the big one in the center was for the meeting. What I wouldn’t give to have that baby in my living room to watch football. Having a sofa would be nice too.

  “Ten minutes,” Tavis said. “You two want coffee or anything?”

  “You’re not our damn waiter, Travis,” I said. “You’re an FBI special agent. Don’t you forget that.”

  Too much Billy in his eyes and not enough distance — that was most likely it, now that I look back on why I exploded on him like that. I must have scared the poor kid pretty good, coming at him that way. I said I was sorry.

  “That’s okay, sir,” he said. “I understand.”

  “I take mine black, thanks,” I said, and gave him a pat on the back. “I appreciate it, kid.”

  Izzy went with him to a side alcove where there was a coffeemaker, a sink, a microwave, and a candy machine — everything you’d need to survive World War III except cigarettes. I wanted one in the worst way just then, but the center screen came on with Tom Stalter’s face in it. It had been a long time. He looked beat.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Jesus, Bam. You look like shit.”

  “Thanks. I love you too.”

  “Look, I’m glad you’re on,” he said. “Sorry about earlier. You did the right thing to go to the U.N. on this, and I appreciate your giving me the heads up.”

  “No problem. Are you part of this get-together?”

  “Someone upstairs decided that I was the right man for the job. I’m Response Group leader now.”

  “What happened to the other guy?”

  “He’s been moved to Washington to coordinate with the military.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It isn’t. Anyway, I’m glad you’re with us on this, Bam.”

  The smell of coffee was replacing the stale stink of the room. My urge for a smoke passed.

  “Likewise,” I said.

  One by one, as the other members signed on, the big screen spilt into smaller ones until all twelve members were present. Tom introduced Izzy as the Belgian representative. I guess he wasn’t sure what my role was, so I introduced myself as the FBI guy.

  Tom started off with a summary of what he knew so far to get everyone up to speed. Sixteen confirmed cases in Philadelphia and a hundred fifty suspected that were hospitalized, awaiting test results. They were beyond running out of room. They were swamped. Four local deaths: Birot, the morgue worker, one of the EMTs, and Billy. The media only knew for sure of Birot and Billy, but they had guessed the story on the morgue lady and were doing their damnedest to weasel information about the others out of anyone connected with a hospital.

  Eighty-nine samples were in the pipeline from New York for testing. So far, the only other deaths that he knew of were the three Frenchmen and the guy from Luxembourg. As of an hour before the meeting, fifteen U.N. ambassadors were showing symptoms.

  The most troubling aspect, Tom said, was how it seemed to be spreading. People who had no contact with Birot were exhibiting symptoms. The contact tracers connected many of them to the hospital, the Hyatt, and the train Birot took, but some had no apparent connection.

  Next, Tom took the delegate reports. First up was the woman from the U.N. She was Constance Fairweather, Assistant to the Secretary General — the one Izzy had called. She seemed nice enough for a politician. I might even have asked her out in some other life. She said that they were still compiling the list of attendees and others who might have been exposed, but they had let all the delegates know immediately that there might be a problem. According to her, all of the U.N. delegates carried cell phones programmed to receive emergency texts from their headquarters in New York, like the colleges that use an emergency automated calling system to notify teachers and students of a lockdown or a 9-1-1 incident on campus. Their system sent the text in both French and English, the two official U.N. languages. I was impressed. One hundred twenty had already responded and were getting themselves checked out. Fairweather’s staff was still trying to get in touch with the others, but many were resistant to sharing any information. In addition to the ones the CDC already knew about, she reported that another eleven with symptoms and one death.

  Tom thanked her and congratulated her on a good job of managing the problem. He seemed to thin
k their quick response was hopeful. That’s when I stepped in to rain on their parade.

  “Did you ask them how they got home?”

  “We assume they flew home, Agent Matthews,” she said.

  “Did you ask if any were any showing symptoms in transit?”

  She looked a little flustered. “No. Why?”

  “That’s when a person with Ebola is contagious, ma’am, and I was just wondering if they took private planes or flew commercial, and what the plan was for tracking down everyone else on those planes. As Dr. Stalter pointed out a little earlier, people on the same train who had no direct contact with François Birot have come down with it. Then, there’s the airport, the taxis, the chauffeurs. How many more were exposed that we don’t know about? ”

  I waited while the translators passed that bit of good news along to their bosses to digest.

  Tom jumped back in. “The people who were on that train are only exhibiting symptoms, Bam. Nothing is confirmed with any of them yet.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. So, I’ll ask the question another way. Is the plan to wait until they all start coming down with it, or do we deal with this now before it becomes a biological WMD?”

  I let them chew on that awhile.

  “What do you suggest we do, Agent Matthews?” the British representative finally said.

  “The president is making an announcement tomorrow. Tell him to come clean. It’s the only way we’ll find everyone Birot and the rest of the U.N. ambassadors came in contact with.”

  “You want him to tell people there is a worldwide Ebola epidemic?”

  “The world is going to find out sooner or later. Don’t you think it’s better they hear it from you first than from some dipshit reporter?”

  “Look at what is happening in Paris. I, for one, will not be responsible for creating a worldwide panic,” the guy said.

  “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

  They went back to arguing among themselves. I got up and left. I took the elevator up to one, went outside, and had a cigarette. Traffic was light on Arch Street. Rush hour was just beginning. Some guys in line at the hot dog stand were chatting it up with the owner. A couple of people coming out of the Federal Reserve building across the street were laughing and talking, heading off for happy hour by the looks of it. Cars still stopped on the red and went on the green. It all seemed pretty normal to me, but I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d never witnessed the spread of an epidemic into my backyard before. I guess I figured it would be something like what happened at the airport that morning only on a bigger scale: every street in the city clogged with cars trying to escape, people abandoning them and running around in panic, looting, burning, that kind of thing. I figured there was still plenty of time for that. This was just the beginning.

  Izzy found me sitting on a wall on the 6th Street side of the building.

  “You can come down now. The meeting is over,” she said.

  “Did they cancel my club membership?”

  “No, actually they’re hoping you’ll join your friend Dr. Stalter to represent them at the FEMA meeting later this evening.”

  “Did they decide what to do about telling the world?”

  “The consensus was to present the facts without recommendation to FEMA, who will relay them to the president for his decision. They feel that it would be irresponsible on their part to call for full disclosure at this time.”

  “So, they’re passing the buck.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think about all this?”

  “I think I want to go to Pico’s.”

  I looked at my watch, but I felt like I was looking at the Doomsday Clock, and it was five minutes till midnight.

  “I need to make a call first.”

  I called my volunteer fireman buddy, Frank, told him I needed a favor, and asked if he could get his son to feed Shep and Baby. I said I wasn’t sure when I’d be back, so if he could have the kid stop by to check on them tonight and tomorrow, I’d let him fire my vintage Colt .45 at the range next weekend. He asked if my being away had anything to do with Ebola and the big mess in Philly. I don’t like lying to friends. I told him to stock up on groceries and stay close to home for a while until they figure out what’s what.

  “Do you think telling him that was a good idea?” Izzy asked when I got off the phone.

  “No, but I’m fresh out of good ideas.”

  When we got back to the car, I turned on the computer. We’d lost the traffic map with the little red dot showing where the stolen Caddy was. I called Tim, let the phone ring once, and hung up. He called right back from another area code that I didn’t recognize.

  “Aren’t you going to ask where I’m calling from this time?” he said. “This one’s actually pretty cool.”

  “No. I thought you said the OnStar hookup would stay on indefinitely.”

  “Did you shut the car off?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there’s your answer. When you cut power, you turn things off, Bam.”

  “I need it back.”

  I heard clicking in the background. My phone began to beep. I held it away from my head to look at it. It was downloading something.

  “Did you just hack my phone?”

  “Don’t be such a Luddite, Bam. I’m loading a tracking app onto it. You do leave your phone on all the time, don’t you?”

  “Smart ass.”

  A map came on the screen and the red dot appeared. The stolen car was still in South Philly.

  “Thanks, Tim,” I said. “I’ll buy you dinner next time I’m down your way.”

  “It’ll have to be take-out. Everyone’s restricted to base.”

  “Why?”

  “Turn on your radio. It’ll be on soon. A classic wag the dog. See you around, pal.”

  I hung up and turned on a news station. We listened to the weather, the traffic, the baseball scores, and when Izzy was pulling into a parking spot down the street from Pico’s, the news Tim wanted us to hear.

  This just in from the White House. In response to the growing outbreak of Ebola in Africa, the president has ordered 3,000 troops to be sent to the nations affected. Their role will be to deliver needed supplies, provide training for first responders, and support local governments to help maintain order. He has asked the governors of Pennsylvania and New York to issue emergency declarations calling up their respective National Guards to help supply these troops. The president was clear that these would be non-combatant forces.

  “I need a drink,” I said.

  Pico’s was missing its usual complement of off-duty cops, so we had no trouble getting a booth overlooking South Street. The TV was muted with a baseball game on, and they were piping Sinatra over the usual restaurant chatter. We ordered drinks and watched the people through the window acting as if nothing were wrong.

  “The news is only news until the next big story,” I said. I should have been a philosopher, but the pay’s not as good. “North Korea fires off an ICBM and the world worries that we’re on the doorstep of World War III. Israel attacks Gaza and suddenly we forget all about a world war because we’re more concerned about a humanitarian nightmare in the Middle East. Russia takes Crimea. Everyone gets upset. Russia starts a proxy war inside Ukraine, and just like that, we’re back in a cold war again. But are we worried? Only until some jihadists start beheading Americans.”

  “There are so many bad things happening in the world now, it’s hard to focus on any one,” Izzy said.

  “That’s the only thing keeping this city from falling apart right now. Look at those people out there. There were riots last night. Their airport was nearly shut down by a panic this morning. They’ve got Ebola right here in River City. They should be looking for a place to hide, not a good Chinese restaurant. Yet there they are, waltzing around like nothing’s wrong. Ebola’s just another crisis to them, just another North Korea that’ll be gone by the eleven o’clock news.”

  “And you t
hink it will be?”

  “Not this time. Otherwise, the president wouldn’t be calling up the National Guard.”

  “But they’re going to Africa.”

  “Like Tim said, a classic wag the dog.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The story’s a diversion,” I said, “to mobilize without letting on that you’re mobilizing. Those troops will never leave this country.”

  “Who is Tim? How does he know these things?”

  “He’s my younger brother. We look out for each other.”

  Over decent burgers and a few beers, Izzy talked about growing up in Belgium, and I talked about surviving in Philadelphia. She told me she had an older brother. He was a soldier, but he’d died. I didn’t ask when or how. It didn’t matter and didn’t seem like the right time. I told her my younger brother was a spook, and if she wanted to know any more about him, she’d have to beat it out of me. She said that could be arranged. Travis called when we were turning down the offer of dessert menus.

  “I got a hit on that search,” he said. “They were married in Brooklyn.”

  “Good man. Read me the names,” I said.

  “Vincent Robert Taney and Madeline Angela DiPasquale. Do you want me to search for the address change using her maiden name this time?”

  “No. How long will it take to get birth certificates for Madeline and Carmine DiPasquale?”

  “Carmine? The mobster?”

  “Yeah, the wiseguy we picked up at the Hyatt. Check the file. I think he’s about thirty-seven.”

  “It shouldn’t take long. Are you coming back for the meeting with FEMA?”

  “We’re on our way.”

  I hung up. We split the check and left.

  Carmine and Madeline: that was the connection. Sister, cousin, ex-wife, whatever. That was it. It had nothing to do with a drug deal. That might have been his cover, but it wasn’t on his mind when he showed up at the Hyatt to juice Gyro. Carmine blamed that scumbag for her husband’s death. I did, too, but we disagreed on the method of seeing that justice was served. And that’s why I couldn’t let it go. Now, I had motive and opportunity, but still no direct proof that he’d done it.