“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.”