surgery conference in San Diego. Dubchek was convinced that the long incubation period was an aberration.
Impulsively, Marissa got to her feet and went to find Tad. He’d helped her write up the proposal, and she was confident he’d allow her to cry on his shoulder now that it had been shot down.
After some protest, Marissa managed to drag him away from the virology lab to get an early lunch.
“You’ll just have to try again,” Tad said when she told him the bad news straight off.
Marissa smiled. She felt better already. Tad’s naivete was so endearing.
They crossed the catwalk to the main building. One benefit of eating early was that the cafeteria line was nonexistent.
As if to further torment Marissa, one of the desserts that day was caramel custard. When they got to a table and began unloading their trays, Marissa asked if Tad had had a chance to check the custard ingredients that she’d sent back from Arizona.
“No Ebola,” he said laconically.
Marissa sat down, thinking how simple it would have been to find some hospital food supply company was the culprit. It would have explained why the virus repeatedly appeared in medical settings.
“What about the blood from the food service personnel?”
“No antibodies to Ebola,” Tad said. “But I should warn you: Dubchek came across the work and he was pissed. Marissa, what’s going on between you two? Did something happen in Phoenix?”
Marissa was tempted to tell Tad the whole story, but again she decided it would only make a bad situation worse. To answer his question, she explained that she’d been the inadvertent source of a news story that differed from the official CDC position.
Tad took a bite of his sandwich. “Was that the story that said there was a hidden reservoir of Ebola in the U.S. ?”
Marissa nodded. “I’m certain the Ebola was in the custard. And I’m convinced that we’re going to face further outbreaks.”
Tad shrugged. “My work seems to back up Dubchek’s position. I’ve been isolating the RNA and the capsid proteins of the virus from all three outbreaks, and astonishingly enough, they are all identical. It means that the exact same strain of virus is involved, which in turn means that what we are experiencing is one outbreak. Normally, Ebola mutates to some degree. Even the two original African outbreaks, in Yambuku and Nzara, which were eight hundred fifty kilometers apart, involved slightly different strains.”
“But what about the incubation period?” protested Marissa. “During each outbreak, the incubation period of new cases was always two to four days. There were three months between the conference in San Diego and the problem in Phoenix.”
“Okay,” said Tad, “But that is no bigger a stumbling block than figuring out how the virus could have been introduced into the custard, and in such numbers.”
“That’s why I sent you the ingredients.”
“But Marissa,” said Tad, “Ebola is inactivated even at sixty degrees centigrade. Even if it had been in the ingredients the cooking process would have made it non-infective.”
“The lady serving the dessert got sick herself. Perhaps she contaminated the custard.”
“Fine,” said Tad, rolling his pale blue eyes. “But how did she get a virus that lives only in darkest Africa.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Marissa. “But I’m sure she didn’t attend the San Diego eye meeting.”
They ate in exasperated silence for a few minutes.
“There is only one place I know the dessert server could have gotten the virus,” said Marissa at last.
“And where’s that?”
“Here at the CDC.”
Tad put down the remains of his sandwich and looked at Marissa with wide eyes. “Good God, do you know what you’re suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Marissa. “I’m merely stating a fact. The only known reservoir for Ebola is in our own maximum containment lab.”
Tad shook his head in disbelief.
“Tad,” said Marissa in a determined tone, “I’d like to ask you for a favor. Would you get a printout from the Office of Biosafety of all the people going in and out of the maximum containment lab for the last year?”
“I don’t like this,” said Tad, leaning back in his seat.
“Oh, come on,” said Marissa. “Asking for a printout won’t hurt anyone. I’m sure you can think up a reason to justify such a request.”
“The printout is no problem,” said Tad. “I’ve done that in the past. What I don’t like is encouraging your paranoid theory, much less getting between you and the administration, particularly Dubchek.”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Marissa. “Getting a printout hardly puts you between me and Dubchek. Anyway, how will he know? How will anybody know?”
“True,” said Tad reluctantly. “Provided you don’t show it to anybody.”
“Good,” said Marissa, as if the matter had been decided. “I’ll stop over at your apartment this evening to pick it up. How’s that?”
“Okay, I guess.”
Marissa smiled at Tad. He was a wonderful friend, and she had the comfortable feeling that he’d do almost anything for her, which was reassuring, because she had yet another favor to ask him. She wanted to get back into the maximum containment lab.
After giving the emergency brake a good yank, Marissa alighted from her red Honda. The incline of the street was steep, and she’d taken the precaution of turning the wheels against the curb. Although she and Tad had gone out any number of times, Marissa had never been to his apartment. She climbed the front steps and struggled to make out the appropriate buzzer. It was almost 9:00 P.M. and was already dark.
The moment she saw Tad, Marissa knew that he had gotten what she wanted. It was the way he smiled when he opened the door.
Marissa plopped herself into an overstuffed sofa and waited expectantly as Tad’s big tabby rubbed sensuously against her leg.
With a self-satisfied grin, Tad produced the computer printout. “I told them that we were doing an internal audit of frequency of entry,” said Tad. “They didn’t raise an eyebrow.”
Turning back the first page, Marissa noted that there was an entry for each visit to the maximum containment lab, with name, time in and time out all duly noted. She traced down the list with her index finger, recognizing only a few of the names. The one that appeared most often was Tad’s.
“Everybody knows I’m the only one who works at the CDC,” he said with a laugh.
“I never expected the list to be so long,” complained Marissa, flipping through the pages. “Does everyone on here still have access?”
Tad leaned against Marissa’s shoulder and scanned the pages. “Go back to the beginning.”
“That guy,” said Tad, pointing to the name, “Gaston Dubois no longer has access. He was from the World Health Organization and was in town only for a short visit. And this fellow”—Tad pointed to an entry for one Harry Longford—“was a graduate student from Harvard, and he had access only for a specific project.”
Marissa noticed Colonel Woolbert’s name listed a number of times, as well as that of a man called Heberling, who seemed to have visited fairly regularly until September. Then his name disappeared. Marissa asked about him.
“Heberling used to work here,” explained Tad. “He took another job six months ago. There’s been a bit of mobility in academic virology of late because of the huge grants generated by the AIDS scare.”
“Where’d he go?” asked Marissa, going on to the next page.
Tad shrugged. “Darned if I know. I think he wanted to go to Ft. Detrick, but he and Woolbert never hit it off. Heberling’s smart but not the easiest guy in the world to get along with. There was a rumor he wanted the job Dubchek got. I’m glad he didn’t get it. He could have made my life miserable.”
Marissa flipped through the list to January and pointed at a name that appeared several times over a two- week period: Gloria French. “Who’s she?” asked Marissa.
“Gloria’s from parasitic diseases. She uses the lab on occasion for work on vector-borne viral problems.”
Marissa rolled up the list.
