Outbreak

“Contributions, I guess,” said Marissa with a shrug.

The woman gave her a quizzical look. “What’s the congressman’s name?”

“Markham,” said Marissa. “Calvin Markham.”

The woman padded over to a round table covered with black loose-leaf books. She found the appropriate one and opened it to the M’s, explaining that the numbers following the congressman’s name referred to the appropriate microfilm cassettes. She then led Marissa to an enormous cassette rack, picked out the relevant one and loaded it into the microfilm reader. “Which election are you interested in?” she asked, ready to punch in the document numbers.

“The last one, I suppose,” said Marissa. She still wasn’t sure what she was after—just some way to link Markham either to Dubchek or the CDC.

The machine whirred to life, documents flashing past on the screen so quickly that they appeared as a continuous blur. Then the woman pressed a button and showed Marissa how to regulate the speed. “It’s five cents a copy, if you want any. You put the money in here.” She pointed to a coin slot. “If you run into trouble, just yell.”

Marissa was intrigued by the apparatus as well as the information available. As she reviewed the names and addresses of all the contributors to Markham’s considerable reelection coffers, Marissa noted that he appeared to get fiscal support on a national scale, not just from his district in Texas. She did not think that was typical, except perhaps for the Speaker of the House or the Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. She also noted that a large percentage of the donors were physicians, which made sense in light of Markham’s record on health legislation.

The names were alphabetized, and though she carefully scanned the D’s, she failed to find Dubchek’s name. It had been a crazy idea anyway, she told herself. Where would Cyrill get the money to influence a powerful congressman? He might have some hold on Markham, but not a financial one. Marissa laughed. To think she considered Tad naive!

Still, she made a copy of all the contributors, deciding to go over the list at her leisure. She noticed that one doctor with six children had donated the maximum amount allowable for himself and for each member of his family. That was real support. At the end of the individual contributors was a list of corporate supporters. One called the “Physicians’ Action Congress Political Action Committee” had donated more money than any number of Texas oil companies. Going back to the previous election, Marissa found the same group. Clearly it was an established organization, and it had to be high on Markham.

After thanking the woman for her help, Marissa went outside and hailed a cab. As it inched through rush-hour traffic, Marissa looked again at the list of individual names. Suddenly, she almost dropped the sheets. Dr. Ralph Hempston’s name leapt out from the middle of a page. It was a coincidence, to be sure, and made her feel what a small world it was, but thinking it over she was not surprised. One of the things that had always troubled her about Ralph was his conservatism. It would be just like him to support a congressman like Markham.

It was five-thirty when Marissa crossed the pleasant lobby of her hotel. As she passed the tiny newsstand, she saw the Washington Post’s headline: EBOLA STRIKES AGAIN!

Like iron responding to a magnet, Marissa was pulled across the room. She snatched up a paper and read the subhead: NEWEST SCOURGE TERRIFIES THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE.

Digging up change from the bottom of her purse to buy the paper, she continued reading as she walked toward the elevators. There were three presumed cases of Ebola at the Berson Clinic Hospital in Abington, Pennsylvania, just outside of Philadelphia. The article described widespread panic in the suburban town.

As she pressed the button for her floor, Marissa saw that Dubchek was quoted as saying that he believed the outbreak would be contained quickly and that there was no need for concern: The CDC had learned a lot about controlling the virus from the three previous outbreaks.

Peter Carbo, one of Philadelphia’s Gay Rights leaders, was quoted as saying that he hoped Jerry Falwell had noticed that not a single known homosexual had contracted this new and far more dangerous disease that had come from the same area of Africa as AIDS had.

Back in her room, Marissa turned to an inside photo section. The picture of the police barricade at the entrance to the Berson Hospital reminded her of Phoenix. She finished the article and put the paper down on the bureau, looking at herself in the mirror. Although she was on vacation and was officially off the Ebola team, she knew she had to get the details firsthand. Her commitment to the Ebola problem left her with little choice. She rationalized her decision to go by telling herself that Philadelphia was practically next door to Washington; she could even go by train. Turning into the room, Marissa began collecting her belongings.

Leaving the station in Philadelphia, Marissa took a cab to Abington, which turned out to be a far more expensive ride than she’d anticipated. Luckily she had some traveler’s checks tucked in her wallet, and the driver was willing to accept them. Outside the Berson Hospital, she was confronted by the police barricade pictured in the newspaper. Before she attempted to cross, she asked a reporter if the place was quarantined. “No,” said the man, who had been trying to interview a doctor who had just sauntered past. The police were there in case a quarantine was ordered. Marissa flashed her CDC identity card at one of the guards. He admitted her without question.

The hospital was a handsome, new facility much like the sites of the Ebola outbreaks in L.A. and Phoenix. As Marissa headed toward the information booth, she wondered why the virus seemed to strike these elegant new structures rather than the grubby inner-city hospitals in New York or Boston.

There were a lot of people milling about the lobby, but nothing like the chaos that she’d seen in Phoenix. People seemed anxious but not terrified. The man at the information booth told Marissa that the cases were in the hospital’s isolation unit on the sixth floor. Marissa had started toward the elevators when the man called out, “I’m sorry, but there are no visitors allowed.” Marissa flashed her CDC card again. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Take the last elevator. It’s the only one that goes to six.”

When Marissa got off the elevator, a nurse asked her to don protective clothing immediately. She didn’t question Marissa as to why she was there. Marissa was particularly glad to put on the mask; it gave her anonymity as well as protection.

“Excuse me, are any of the CDC doctors available?” she asked, startling the two women gossiping behind the nurses’ station.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t hear you coming,” said the older of the two.

“The CDC people left about an hour ago,” said the other. “I think they said they were going down to the administrator’s office. You could try there.”

“No matter,” said Marissa. “How are the three patients?”

“There are seven now,” said the first woman. Then she asked Marissa to identify herself.

“I’m from the CDC,” she said, purposely not giving her name. “And you?”

“Unfortunately, we’re the RN’s who normally run this unit. We’re used to isolating patients with lowered resistance to disease, not cases of fatal contagious disease. We’re glad you people are here.”

“It is a little frightening at first,” commiserated Marissa, as she boldly entered the nurses’ station. “But if it’s any comfort, I’ve been involved with all three previous outbreaks and haven’t had any problems.” Marissa did not admit to her own fear. “Are the charts here or in the rooms?”

“Here,” said the older nurse, pointing to a corner shelf.

“How are the patients doing?”

“Terribly. I know that doesn’t sound very professional, but I’ve never seen sicker people. We’ve used round- the-clock special-duty nursing, but no matter what we try, they keep getting worse.”

Marissa well understood the nurse’s frustration. Terminal patients generally depressed the staff.

“Do either of you know which patient was admitted first?”

The older nurse came over to where Marissa was sitting and pushed the charts around noisily before pulling out one and handing it to Marissa. “Dr. Alexi was the first. I’m surprised he’s lasted the day.”

Marissa opened the chart. There were all the familiar symptoms but no mention of foreign travel, animal experiments or contact with any of the three previous outbreaks. But she did learn that Alexi was the head of ophthalmology! Marissa was amazed; was Dubchek right after all?

Unsure of how long she dared stay in the unit, Marissa opted to see the patient right away. Donning an extra layer of protective clothing, including disposable goggles, she entered the room.

“Is Dr. Alexi conscious?” she asked the special-duty nurse, whose name was Marie. The man was lying silently on his back, mouth open, staring at the ceiling. His skin was already the pasty yellow shade that Marissa