pick up their quota.
Al slapped George on the shoulder, frantically pointing toward the largest group to emerge through the revolving door. Among them two men were supporting a woman wearing a Sanyo visor who seemed too drunk to walk. “Is that the mark hanging onto those guys?” he asked.
George squinted, and before he could answer, the woman in question disappeared into one of the limousines. He turned back to Al. “I don’t think so. Her hair was different. But I couldn’t be sure.”
“Damn!” said Al. “Neither could I.” After a moment’s hesitation, Al jumped out of the taxi. “If she comes out, follow her.” Al then dodged the traffic and raced across to get in another cab.
From the back of the limousine, Marissa watched the entrance to the hotel. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone alight from a parked taxi and run across the street. Just as her limousine pulled in front of a bus, blocking her view, she saw the man climbing into another taxi, a vintage Checker.
Marissa turned to face forward. She was certain she was being followed. She had several options, but with almost a full block’s head start, she decided it would be best to get out.
As soon as the limousine turned on Fifth, Marissa shocked her companions by shouting at the driver to pull over.
The driver complied, figuring she was about to be sick, but before any of the men knew what was happening, she had the door open and jumped out, telling the driver to go on without her.
Spying a Doubleday bookstore, which, happily, was keeping late hours, she ducked inside. From the store window she saw the Checker cab speed by and caught a glimpse of a blond head in the backseat. The man was sitting forward, staring straight ahead.
The house looked more like a medieval fortress than a New York luxury townhouse. Its leaded windows were narrow and covered with twisted wrought-iron grilles. The front door was protected by a stout iron gate that was fashioned after a portcullis. The fifth floor was set back and the resulting terrace was crenellated like a castle tower.
Marissa eyed the building from across the street. It was hardly a hospitable sight, and for a moment she had second thoughts about visiting Dr. Krause. But safely ensconced in her new room at the Essex House that afternoon, she’d made some calls and learned that he was a prominent Park Avenue internist. She could not imagine that he would be capable of harming her directly. Perhaps through an organization like PAC, but not with his own two hands.
She crossed the street and climbed the front steps. Casting one last glance up and down the quiet street, she rang the bell. Behind the gate was the heavy wooden door, its center decorated with a family crest carved in relief.
She waited a minute and rang again. All at once a bright light went on, blinding her so that she could not see who was opening the door.
“Yes?” said a woman’s voice.
“I would like to see Dr. Krause,” said Marissa, trying to sound authoritative.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” admitted Marissa. “But tell the doctor that I’m here on emergency Physicians’ Action Congress business. I think he’ll see me.”
Marissa heard the door close. The hard light illuminated most of the street. After a couple of minutes, the door was reopened.
“The doctor will see you.” Then there was the painful sound of the iron gate opening on hinges that needed oil.
Marissa went inside, relieved to get away from the glare. She watched the woman, who was dressed in a maid’s black uniform, close the gate, then come toward her.
“If you’ll follow me, please.”
Marissa was led through a marbled and chandeliered entrance, down a short corridor to a paneled library.
“If you’ll wait here,” said the woman, “the doctor will be with you shortly.”
Marissa glanced around the room, which was beautifully furnished with antiques. Bookcases lined three of the walls.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said a mellow voice.
Marissa turned to look at Dr. Krause. He had a fleshy face with deep lines, and as he gestured for her to sit, she noticed his hands were unusually large and square, like those of an immigrant laborer. When they were sitting, she could see him better. The eyes were those of an intelligent, sympathetic man, reminding her of some of her internal medicine professors. Marissa was amazed that he could have gotten mixed up in something like the Physicians’ Action Congress.
“I’m sorry to bother you at such an hour,” she began.
“No problem,” said Dr. Krause. “I was just reading. What can I do for you?”
Marissa leaned forward to watch the man’s face. “My name is Dr. Marissa Blumenthal.”
There was a pause as Dr. Krause waited for Marissa to continue. His expression did not change. Either he was a good actor or her name was not familiar.
“I’m an Epidemiology Intelligence Service officer at the CDC,” added Marissa. His eyes narrowed just a tad.
“My maid said that you were here on PAC business,” said Dr. Krause, a measure of the hospitality disappearing from his voice.
“I am,” said Marissa. “Perhaps I should ask if you are aware of anything that PAC might be doing that could concern the CDC.”
This time, Krause’s jaw visibly tightened. He took a deep breath, started to speak, then changed his mind. Marissa waited as if she had all the time in the world.
Finally, Dr. Krause cleared his throat. “PAC is trying to rescue American medicine from the economic forces that are trying to destroy it. That’s been its goal from the start.”
“A noble goal,” admitted Marissa. “But how is PAC attempting to accomplish this mission?”
“By backing responsible and sensible legislation,” said Dr. Krause. He stood up, presumably to escape Marissa’s stare. “PAC is providing an opportunity for more conservative elements to exert some influence. And it’s about time; the profession of medicine is like a runaway train.” He moved over to the fireplace, his face lost in shadow.
“Unfortunately, it seems PAC is doing more than sponsoring legislation,” said Marissa. “That’s what concerns the CDC.”
“I think we have nothing more to discuss,” said Dr. Krause. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“I believe PAC is responsible for the Ebola outbreaks,” blurted Marissa, standing up herself. “You people have some misguided idea that spreading disease in HMOs will further your cause.”
“That’s absurd!” said Dr. Krause.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Marissa. “But I have papers linking you and the other officers of PAC to Professional Labs in Grayson, Georgia, which has recently purchased equipment to handle the virus. I even have the vaccination gun used to infect the index cases.”
“Get out of here,” ordered Dr. Krause.
“Gladly,” said Marissa. “But first let me say that I intend to visit all the officers of PAC. I can’t imagine they all agreed to this idiotic scheme. In fact, it’s hard for me to imagine that a physician like yourself—any physician—could have allowed it.”
Maintaining a calm she did not feel, Marissa walked to the door. Dr. Krause did not move from the fireplace. “Thank you for seeing me,” said Marissa. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. But I’m confident that one of the PAC officers I see will want to help stop this horror. Perhaps by turning state’s evidence. It could be you. I hope so. Good night, Dr. Krause.”
Marissa forced herself to walk slowly down the short corridor to the foyer. What if she misjudged the man and he came after her? Luckily, the maid materialized and let her out. As soon as Marissa was beyond the cone of light, she broke into a run.
For a few moments Dr. Krause didn’t move. It was as if his worst nightmare were coming true. He had a gun upstairs. Maybe he should just kill himself. Or he could call his lawyer and ask for immunity in return for turning
