Authors: Robin Cook
"Gloria's from parasitic diseases. She uses the lab on occasion for work on vector-borne viral problems."
Marissa rolled up the list.
"Satisfied?" asked Tad.
"It's a little more than I expected," admitted Marissa. "But I appreciate your effort. There is another thing, though."
"Oh, no," said Tad.
"Relax," said Marissa. "You told me that the Ebola in L.A., St. Louis and Phoenix were all the identical strains. I'd sure like to see exactly how you determined that."
"But all that data is in the maximum containment lab," said Tad weakly.
"So?" said Marissa.
"But you haven't gotten clearance," Tad reminded her. He knew what was coming.
"I don't have clearance to do a study," said Marissa. "That means I can't go in by myself. But it's different if I'm with you, especially if there is no one else there. There wasn't any problem after my last visit, was there?"
Tad had to agree. There hadn't been any trouble, so why not do it again? He'd never been specifically told that he could not take other staff members into the lab, so he could always plead ignorance. Although he knew he was being manipulated, it was hard to withstand Marissa's charm. Besides, he was proud of his work and wanted to show it off. He was confident she'd be impressed.
"All right," he said. "When do you want to go?"
"How about right now?" said Marissa.
Tad looked at his watch. "I suppose it's as good a time as any."
"Afterwards we can go for a drink," said Marissa. "It'll be my treat."
Marissa retrieved her purse, noting that Tad's keys and his access card were on the same shelf by the door.
En route to the lab in Marissa's car, Tad began a complicated description of his latest work. Marissa listened, but just barely. She had other interests in the lab.
As before, they signed in at the front entrance of the CDC and took the main elevators as if they were going up to Marissa's office. They got off on her floor, descended a flight of stairs, then crossed the catwalk to the virology building. Before Tad had a chance to open the huge steel door, Marissa repeated his code number: 43-23-39.
Tad looked at her with respect. "God, what a memory!"
"You forget," said Marissa. "Those are my measurements."
Tad snorted.
When he switched on the lights and the compressors in the outer staging area, Marissa felt the same disquiet she'd felt on her first visit. There was something frightening about the lab. It was like something out of a science-fiction movie. Entering the dressing rooms, they changed in silence, first donning the cotton scrub suits, then the bulky plastic ones. Following Tad's lead, Marissa attached her air hose to the manifold.
"You're acting like an old pro," said Tad as he turned on the
interior lights in the lab, then motioned for Marissa to detach her air hose and step into the next chamber.
As Marissa waited for Tad in the small room where they would get their phenolic-disinfectant shower on the way out, she experienced an uncomfortable rush of claustrophobia. She fought against it, and it lessened as they entered the more spacious main lab. Her practical work with viruses helped since a lot of the equipment was more familiar. She now recognized the tissue culture incubators and even the chromatography units.
"Over here," called Tad, after they'd both hooked up to an appropriate manifold. He took her to one of the lab benches, where there was a complicated setup of exotic glassware, and began explaining how he was separating out the RNA and the capsid proteins from the Ebola virus.
Marissa's mind wandered. What she really wanted to see was where they stored the Ebola. She eyed the bolted insulated door. If she had to guess, she'd guess someplace in there. As soon as Tad paused, she asked if he would show her where they kept it.
He hesitated for a moment. "Over there," he said, pointing toward the insulated door.
"Can I see?" asked Marissa.
Tad shrugged. Then he motioned for her to follow him. He waddled over to the side of the room and pointed out an appliance next to one of the tissue-culture incubators. He wasn't pointing at the insulated door.
"In there?" questioned Marissa with surprise and disappointment. She'd expected a more appropriate container, one that would be safely locked away behind a bolted door.
"It looks just like my parents' freezer."
"It is," said Tad. "We just modified it to take liquid-nitrogen coolant." He pointed to the intake and exhaust hoses. "We keep the temperature at minus seventy degrees centigrade."
Around the freezer and through the handle was a link chain secured by a combination lock. Tad lifted the lock and twirled the dial. "Whoever set this had a sense of humor. The magic sequence is
6-6-6."
"It doesn't seem very secure," said Marissa.
Tad shrugged. "Who's going to go in here, the cleaning lady?"
"I'm serious," said Marissa.
"No one can get in the lab without an access card," said Tad, opening the lock and pulling off the chain.
Big deal, thought Marissa.
Tad lifted the top of the freezer, and Marissa peered within, half expecting something to jump out at her. What she saw through a frozen mist were thousands upon thousands of tiny plastic-capped vials in metal trays.
With his plastic-covered hand, Tad wiped the frost off the inside of the freezer's lid, revealing a chart locating the various viruses. He found the tray number for Ebola, then run-imaged in the freezer like a shopper looking for frozen fish.
"Here's your Ebola," he said, selecting a vial and pretending to toss it at Marissa.
In a panic, she threw her hands out to catch the vial. She heard Tad's laughter, which sounded hollow and distant coming from within his suit. Marissa felt a stab of irritation. This was hardly the place for such antics.
Holding the vial at arm's length, Tad told Marissa to take it, but she shook her head no. An irrational fear gripped her.
"Doesn't look like much," he said, pointing at the bit of frozen material, "but there's about a billion viruses in there."
"Well, now that I've seen it, I guess you may as well put it away." She didn't talk as he replaced the vial in the metal tray, closed the freezer and redid the bicycle lock. Marissa then glanced around the lab. It was an alien environment, but the individual pieces of equipment seemed relatively commonplace.
"Is there anything here that's not in any regular lab?"
"Regular labs don't have air locks and a negative pressure system," he said.
"No, I meant actual scientific equipment."
Tad looked around the room. His eyes rested on the protective hoods over the workbenches in the center island. "Those are unique," he said, pointing. "They're called type 3 HEPA filter systems. Is that what you mean?"
"Are they only used for maximum containment labs?" asked Marissa.
"Absolutely. They have to be custom constructed."
Marissa walked over to the hood in place over Tad's setup. It was like a giant exhaust fan over a stove. "Who makes them?" she asked.
"You can look," said Tad, touching a metal label affixed to the side. It said: Lab Engineering, South Bend, Indiana. Marissa wondered if anyone had ordered similar hoods lately. She knew the idea in the back of her mind was crazy, but ever since she'd decided that the Phoenix episode had been related to the custard, she hadn't been able to stop wondering if any of the outbreaks had been deliberately
caused. Or, if not, whether any physician had been doing some research which had gotten out of control.
"Hey, I thought you were interested in my work," said Tad suddenly.
"I am," insisted Marissa. "I'm just a little overwhelmed by this place."
After a hesitation for Tad to remember where he was in his lecture, he recommenced. Marissa's mind wandered. She made a mental note to write to Lab Engineering.
"So what do you think?" asked Tad when he finally finished.
"I'm impressed," said Marissa, ". . . and very thirsty. Now let's go get those drinks."
On the way out, Tad took her into his tiny office and showed her how closely all his final results matched each other, suggesting that all the outbreaks were really one and the same.
"Have you compared the American strain with the African ones?" she asked him.
"Not yet," admitted Tad.
"Do you have the same kind of charts or maps for them?"
"Sure do," said Tad. He stepped over to his file cabinet and pulled out the lower drawer. It was so full that he had trouble extracting several manila folders. "Here's the one for Sudan and here's Zaire." He stacked them on the desk and sat back down.
Marissa opened the first folder. The maps looked similar to her, but Tad pointed out significant differences in almost all of the six Ebola proteins. Then Marissa opened the second folder. Tad leaned forward and picked up one of the Zaire maps and placed it next to the ones he'd just completed.
"I don't believe this." He grabbed several other maps and placed them in a row on his desk.
"What?" asked Marissa.
"I'm going to have to run all these through a spectrophotometer tomorrow just to be sure."
"Sure of what?"
"There's almost complete structural homology here," said Tad.
"Please," said Marissa. "Speak English! What are you saying?"
"The Zaire '76 strain is exactly the same as the strain from your three outbreaks."
Marissa and Tad stared at one another for a few moments. Finally Marissa spoke. "That means there's been just one outbreak from Zaire 1976 through Phoenix 1987."
"That's impossible," said Tad, looking back at the maps.
"But that's what you're saying," said Marissa.
"I know," said Tad. "I guess it's just a statistical freak." He shook his head, his pale blue eyes returning to Marissa. "It's amazing, that's all I can say."
After they crossed the catwalk to the main building, Marissa made Tad wait in her office while she sat and typed a short letter.
"Who's so important that you have to write him tonight?" asked Tad.
"I just wanted to do it while it was on my mind," said Marissa. She pulled the letter out of the machine and put it in an envelope. "There. It didn't take too long, did it?" She searched her purse for a stamp. The addressee was Lab Engineering in South Bend, Indiana.
"Why on earth are you writing to them?" Tad asked.
"I want some information about a type 3 HEPA filtration system." Tad stopped. "Why?" he asked with a glimmer of concern. He knew Marissa was impulsive. He wondered if taking her back into the maximum containment lab had been a mistake.
"Come on!" laughed Marissa. "If Dubchek continues to refuse me authorization to use the maximum containment lab, I'll just have to build my own."
Tad started to say something, but Marissa grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the elevators.
9
May 17
MARISSA GOT UP EARLY with a sense of purpose. It was a glorious spring morning, and she took full advantage of it by going jogging with Taffy. Even the dog seemed to revel in the fine weather, running circles about Marissa as they crisscrossed the neighborhood.
Back home again, Marissa showered, watched a portion of the Today Show while she dressed, and was on her way to the Center by eight-thirty. Entering her office, she deposited her purse in her file cabinet and sat down at her desk. She wanted to see if there was enough information available on Ebola viruses for her to calculate the statistical probability of the U.S. strain being the same as the 1976 Zairean strain. If the chances were as infinitesimally small as she guessed, then she'd have a scientific basis for her growing suspicions.
But Marissa did not get far. Centered on her green blotter was an interoffice memo. Opening it, she found a terse message telling her to come to Dr. Dubchek's office immediately.
She crossed to the virology building. At night the enclosed catwalk made Marissa feel safe, but in the bright sun the wire mesh made her feel imprisoned. Dubchek's secretary had not come in yet, so Marissa knocked on the open door.
The doctor was at his desk, hunched over correspondence. When he looked up he told her to close the door and sit down. Marissa did as she was told, conscious the whole time of Dubchek's onyx eyes following her every move.
The office was as disorganized as ever, with stacks of reprinted scientific articles on every surface. Clutter was obviously Dubchek's style even though he personally was always impeccably dressed.
"Dr. Blumenthal," he began, his voice low and controlled. "I understand that you were in the maximum containment lab last night."
Marissa said nothing. Dubchek wasn't asking her a question; he was stating fact.
"I thought I made it clear that you were not allowed in there until you'd been given clearance. I find your disregard for my orders upsetting, to say the least, especially after getting Tad to do unauthorized studies on food samples from Medica Hospital."
"I'm trying to do my job as best I can," said Marissa. Her anxiety was fast changing to anger. It seemed Dubchek never intended to forget that she'd snubbed him in L.A.
"Then your best is clearly not good enough," snapped Dubchek. "And I don't think you recognize the extent of the responsibility that the CDC has to the public, especially given the current hysteria over AIDS."
"Well, I think you are wrong," said Marissa, returning Dubchek's glare. "I take our responsibility to the public very seriously, and I believe that minimizing the threat of Ebola is a disservice. There is no scientific reason to believe that we've seen the end of the Ebola outbreaks, and I'm doing my best to trace the source before we face another."
"Dr. Blumenthal, you are not in charge here!"
"I'm well aware of that fact, Dr. Dubchek. If I were, I surely wouldn't subscribe to the official position that Dr. Richter brought Ebola back from Africa and then experienced an unheard of six-week incubation period. And if Dr. Richter didn't bring back the virus, the only known source of it is here at the CDC!"
"It is just this sort of irresponsible conjecture that I will not tolerate."