Outbreak

by Robin Cook

  “Yup.” The man hooked his thumbs through his suspenders.

  “I have a couple of simple questions,” said Marissa. “About corporate law. Do you think you could answer them?”

  “Maybe,” said Mr. Davis. He motioned for Marissa to come in.

  The scene looked like a set for a 1930s movie, complete with the desk-top fan that slowly rotated back and forth, rustling the papers. Mr. Davis sat down and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. Then he said: “What is it you want to know?”

  “I want to find out about a certain corporation,” began Marissa. “If a business is incorporated, can someone like myself find out the names of the owners?”

  Mr. Davis tipped forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Maybe and maybe not,” he said, smiling.

  Marissa groaned. It seemed that a conversation with Mr. Davis was going to be like pulling teeth. But before she could rephrase her question, he continued: “If the company in question is a public corporation, it would be hard to find out all the stockholders, especially if a lot of the stock is held in trust with power of attorney delegated to a third party. But if the company is a partnership, then it would be easy. In any case, it is always possible to find out the name of the service agent if you have in mind to institute some sort of litigation. Is that what you have in mind?”

  “No,” said Marissa. “Just information. How would I go about finding out if a company is a partnership or a public corporation?”

  “Easy,” said Mr. Davis, leaning back once more. “All you have to do is go to the State House in Atlanta, visit the Secretary of State’s office and ask for the corporate division. Just tell the clerk the name of the company, and he can look it up. It’s a matter of public record, and if the company is incorporated in Georgia, it will be listed there.”

  “Thank you,” said Marissa, seeing a glimmer of light at the end of the dark tunnel. “How much do I owe you?”

  Mr. Davis raised his eyebrows, studying Marissa’s face. “Twenty dollars might do it, unless . . .”

  “My pleasure,” said Marissa, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and handing it over.

  Marissa returned to her car and drove back toward Atlanta. She was pleased to have a goal, even if the chances of finding significant information were not terribly good.

  She stayed just under the speed limit. The last thing she wanted was to be stopped by the police. She made good time and was back in the city by 4:00. Parking in a garage, she walked to the State House.

  Distinctly uncomfortable in the presence of the capitol police, Marissa sweated nervously as she started up the front steps, certain she would be recognized.

  “Dr. Blumenthal,” called a voice.

  For a split second, Marissa considered running. Instead, she turned to see one of the CDC secretaries, a bright young woman in her early twenties, walking toward her.

  “Alice MacCabe, Doctor Carbonara’s office. Remember me?”

  Marissa did, and for the next few nerve-racking minutes was forced to engage in small talk. Luckily, Miss MacCabe was oblivious to the fact that Marissa was a “wanted” person.

  As soon as she could, Marissa said good-bye and entered the building. More than ever, she just wanted to get whatever information she could and leave. Unfortunately, there was a long line at the corporate division. With dwindling patience, Marissa waited her turn, keeping a hand to her face with the mistaken notion that it might keep her from being recognized.

  “What can I do for you?” asked the white-haired clerk when it was finally Marissa’s turn.

  “I’d like some information about a corporation called Professional Labs.”

  “Where is it located?” asked the clerk. He slipped on his bifocals and entered the name at a computer terminal.

  “Grayson, Georgia,” said Marissa.

  “Okay,” said the clerk. “Here it is. Incorporated just last year. What would you like to know?”

  “Is it a partnership or a public corporation?” asked Marissa, trying to remember what Mr. Davis had said.

  “Limited partnership, subchapter S.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Marissa.

  “It has to do with taxes. The partners can deduct the corporate losses, if there are any, on their individual returns.”

  “Are the partners listed?” asked Marissa, excitement overcoming her anxiety for the moment.

  “Yup,” said the clerk. “There’s Joshua Jackson, Rodd Becker . . .”

  “Just a second,” said Marissa. “Let me write this down.” She got out a pen and began writing.

  “Let’s see,” said the clerk, staring at the computer screen. “Jackson, Becker; you got those?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s Sinclair Tieman, Jack Krause, Gustave Swenson, Duane Moody, Trent Goodridge and the Physicians’ Action Congress.”

  “What was that last one?” asked Marissa, scribbling furiously.

  The clerk repeated it.

  “Can an organization be a limited partner?” She had seen the name Physicians’ Action Congress on Markham’s contributions list.

  “I’m no lawyer, lady, but I think so. Well, it must be so or it wouldn’t be in here. Here’s something else: a law firm by the name of Cooper, Hodges, McQuinllin and Hanks.”

  “They’re partners too?” asked Marissa, starting to write down the additional names.

  “No,” said the clerk. “They’re the service agent.”

  “I don’t need that,” said Marissa. “I’m not interested in suing the company.” She erased the names of Cooper and Hodges.

  Thanking the clerk, Marissa beat a hasty retreat and hurried back to the parking garage. Once inside her car, she opened her briefcase and took out the photocopies of Markham’s contributors list. Just as she’d remembered, the Physicians’ Action Congress (PAC) was listed. On the one hand it was a limited partner in an economic venture, on the other, a contributor to a conservative politician’s reelection campaign.

  Curious, Marissa looked to see if any of the other partners of Professional Labs were on Markham’s list. To her surprise, they all were. More astonishing, the partners, like Markham’s contributors, came from all over the country. From Markham’s list, she had all their addresses.

  Marissa put her key in the ignition, then hesitated. Looking back at Markham’s list she noted that the Physicians’ Action Congress was listed under corporate sponsors. Much as she hated to tempt fate by passing the capitol police again, she forced herself to get out of the car and walk back. She waited in line for the second time, for the same clerk, and asked him what he could tell her about the Physicians’ Action Congress.

  The clerk punched in the name on his terminal, waited for a moment, then turned to Marissa. “I can’t tell you anything. It’s not in here.”

  “Does that mean it’s not incorporated?”

  “Not necessarily. It means it’s not incorporated in Georgia.”

  Marissa thanked the man again, and again ran out of the building. Her car felt like a sanctuary. She sat for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do next. She really didn’t have all that much information, and she was getting rather far afield from the Ebola outbreaks. But her intuition told her that in some weird way everything she had learned was related. And if that were the case, then the Physicians’ Action Congress was the key. But how could she investigate an organization she’d never heard of?

  Her first thought was to visit the Emory Medical School library. Perhaps one of the librarians might know where to look. But then, remembering running into Alice MacCabe, she decided the chance of being recognized was too great. She would do much better to go out of town for a few days. But where?

  Starting the car, Marissa had an inspiration: the AMA! If she couldn’t get information about a physicians’ organization at the AMA, then it wasn’t available. And Chicago sounded safe. She headed south toward the airport, hoping the meager supply of clothing in her suitcase would hold up.

  Joshua Jackson’s he
avy sedan thundered over the wood-planked bridge spanning Parsons Creek, then veered sharply to the left, the tires squealing. The pavement stopped, and the car showered the shoulder of the road with pebbles as it sped down the tree-lined lane. Inside, Jackson’s fury mounted with each mile he traveled. He didn’t want to visit the lab, but he had no intention of being seen in town with Heberling. The man was proving increasingly unreliable, and even worse, unpredictable. Asked to create minor confusion, he resorted to atomic warfare. Hiring him had been a terrible decision, but there wasn’t much any of them could do about the fact now.

  Pulling up to the lab, Jackson parked across from Heberling’s Mercedes. He knew that Heberling had bought it with some of the funds he’d been given for technical equipment. What a waste!

  Jackson walked up to the front of the building. It was an impressive affair, and Jackson, perhaps better than anyone, knew how much money it had all cost. The Physicians’ Action Congress had built Dr. Arnold Heberling a personal monument, and for what: a hell of a lot of trouble, because Heberling was a nut.

  There was a click, the door opened and Jackson stepped inside.

  “I’m in the conference room,” shouted Heberling.

  Jackson knew the room Heberling meant, and it was hardly a conference room. Jackson paused at the door, taking in the high ceiling, glass wall and stark furnishings. Two Chippendale couches faced one another on a large Chinese rug. There was no other furniture. Heberling was on one of the couches.

  “I hope this is important,” said Jackson, taking the initiative. The two men sat facing each other. Physically, they couldn’t have been more different. Heberling was stocky with a bloated face and coarse features. Jackson was tall and thin with an almost ascetic face. Their clothes helped heighten the contrast: Heberling in coveralls; Jackson in a banker’s pinstripes.

  “The Blumenthal girl was right here in the yard,” said Heberling, pointing over his shoulder for effect. “Obviously she didn’t see anything, but just the fact that she was here suggests that she knows something. She’s got to be removed.”

  “You had your chance,” snapped Jackson. “Twice! And each time, you and your thugs made a mess of things. First at her house and then last night at the CDC.”

  “So we try again. But you’ve called it off.”

  “You’re darn right. I found out you were going to give her Ebola.”

  “Why not?” said Heberling. “She’s been exposed. There’d be no questions.”

  “I don’t want an Ebola outbreak in Atlanta,” shouted Jackson. “The stuff terrifies me. I’ve got a family of my own. Leave the woman to us. We’ll take care of her.”

  “Oh, sure,” scoffed Heberling. “That’s what you said when you got her transferred off Special Pathogens. Well, she’s still a threat to the whole project, and I intend to see that she’s eliminated.”

  “You are not in charge here,” said Jackson menacingly. “And when it comes to fixing blame, none of us would be in this mess if you’d stuck to the original plan of using influenza virus. We’ve all been in a state of panic since we learned you took it upon yourself to use Ebola!”

  “Oh, we’re back to that complaint,” said Heberling disgustedly. “You were pretty pleased when you heard the Richter Clinic was closing. If PAC wanted to undermine the public’s growing confidence in prepaid health clinics, they couldn’t have done better. The only difference from the original plan was that I got to carry out some field research that will save me years of lab research time.”

  Jackson studied Heberling’s face. He’d come to the conclusion the man was a psychopath, and loathed him. Unfortunately the realization was a bit late. Once the project had started, there was no easy way to stop it. And to think that the plan had sounded so simple back when the PAC executive committee had first suggested it.

  Jackson took a deep breath, knowing he had to control himself despite his anger. “I’ve told you a dozen times the Physicians’ Action Congress is not pleased and, on the contrary, is appalled at the loss of life. That had never been our intent and you know it, Dr. Heberling!”

  “Bullshit!” shouted Heberling. “There would have been loss of life with influenza, given the strains we would have had to use. How many would you have tolerated? A hundred? And what about the loss of life you rich practitioners cause when you turn your backs on unnecessary surgery, or allow incompetent doctors to keep their hospital privileges?”

  “We do not sanction unnecessary surgery or incompetence,” snapped Jackson. He’d had about as much of this psychopath as he could tolerate.

  “You do nothing to stop them,” said Heberling, with disgust. “I haven’t believed any of this crap you and PAC feed me about your concern for the negative drift of American medicine away from its traditional values. Give me a break! It’s all an attempt to justify your own economic interests. All of a sudden there are too many doctors and not enough patients. The only reason I’ve cooperated with you is because you built me this lab.” Heberling made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “You wanted the image of prepaid health plans tarnished, and I delivered. The only difference is that I did it my way for my own reasons.”

  “But we ordered you to stop,” yelled Jackson. “Right after the Richter Clinic outbreak.”

  “Half-heartedly, I might add,” said Heberling. “You were pleased with the results. Not only did the Richter Clinic fold, but new subscribers to California health plans have leveled off for the first time in five years. The Physicians’ Action Congress feels an occasional twinge of conscience, but basically you’re all happy. And I’ve vindicated my beliefs that Ebola is a premier biological weapon despite the lack of vaccine or treatment. I’ve shown that it is easily introduced, relatively easy to contain and devastatingly contagious to small populations. Dr. Jackson, we are both getting what we want. We just have to deal with this woman before she causes real trouble.”

  “I’m telling you once and for all,” said Jackson. “We want no further use of Ebola. That’s an order!”

  Heberling laughed. “Dr. Jackson,” he said, leaning forward, “I have the distinct impression that you are ignoring the facts. PAC is no longer in a position to give me orders. Do you realize what would happen to your careers if the truth gets out? And I’m telling you that it will unless you let me handle Blumenthal in my own way.”

  For a moment, Jackson struggled with his conscience. He wanted to grab Heberling by the neck and choke him. But he knew the man was right: PAC’s hands were tied. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “Do whatever you think is best about Dr. Blumenthal. Just don’t tell me about it and don’t use Ebola in Atlanta.”

  “Fine.” Heberling smiled. “If that will make you feel better, I’ll give you my word on both accounts. After all, I’m a very reasonable man.”

  Jackson stood up. “One other thing. I don’t want you phoning my office. Call me at home on my private line if you have to reach me.”

  “My pleasure,” said Heberling.

  Since the Atlanta—Chicago run was heavily traveled, Marissa only had to wait half an hour for the next available flight. She bought a Dick Francis novel, but she couldn’t concentrate. Finally, she decided to call Tad and at least attempt an apology. She wasn’t sure how much to tell him about her growing suspicions, but decided to play it by ear. She dialed the lab, and as she suspected, he was working late.

  “This is Marissa,” she said when he answered. “Are you mad at me?”

  “I’m furious.”

  “Tad, I’m sorry . . .”

  “You took one of my access cards.”

  “Tad, I’m truly sorry. When I see you, I’ll explain everything.”

  “You actually went into the maximum containment lab, didn’t you?” Tad said, his voice uncharacteristically hard.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Marissa, do you know that the lab is a shambles, all the animals are dead, and someone had to be treated at Emory Emergency?”

  “Two men came into the lab and attacked me
.”

  “Attacked you?”

  “Yes,” said Marissa. “You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t know what to believe. Why does everything happen to you?”

  “Because of the Ebola outbreaks. Tad, do you know who got hurt?”

  “I assume one of the techs from another department.”

  “Why don’t you find out. And maybe you could also find out who else went into the lab last night.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. No one will tell me anything right now because they know we’re friends. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the airport,” said Marissa.

  “If what you say about being attacked is true, then you should come back here and explain. You shouldn’t be running away.”

  “I’m not running away,” insisted Marissa. “I’m going to the AMA in Chicago to research an organization called the Physicians’ Action Congress. Ever hear of them? I believe they are involved somehow.”

  “Marissa, I think you should come directly back to the Center. You’re in real trouble, in case you don’t know.”

  “I do, but for the time being what I’m doing is more important. Can’t you please ask the Office of Biosafety who else went into the maximum containment lab last night?”

  “Marissa, I’m in no mood to be manipulated.”

  “Tad, I . . .” Marissa stopped speaking. Tad had hung up. Slowly she replaced the receiver. She couldn’t really blame him.

  She glanced at the clock. Five minutes until boarding. Making up her mind, she dialed Ralph’s home number.

  He picked up on the third ring. In contrast to Tad, he was concerned, not angry. “My God, Marissa, what is going on? Your name is in the evening paper. You’re in serious trouble, the Atlanta police are looking for you!”

  “I can imagine,” said Marissa, thinking that she’d been wise to use a false name and pay cash when she’d bought her airline ticket. “Ralph, have you gotten the name of a good lawyer yet?”

  “I’m sorry. When you asked, I didn’t realize it was an emergency.”

  “It’s becoming an emergency,” said Marissa. “But I’ll be out of town for a day or two. So if you could do it tomorrow I’d really appreciate it.”