Exposed (40 page)

Razzy’s
Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi washed down a couple more gelcapsules while he read the bottle’s label. He had all the symptoms of the flu, symptoms the medicine claimed to relieve yet he felt absolutely no relief after twenty-four hours of taking the recommended dosage. He wished he could just silence the jackhammer inside his head. Even Joey’s famous syrupy concoction did nothing.

He popped an extra capsule into his mouth and emptied the glass of orange juice just as he noticed another group of diners come through the restaurant door. Ordinarily he’d be pleased. Sunday evening and they were packed, even had a twenty-minute waiting list earlier in the evening. But his best waiter was still out. Something about stitches and a concussion. Rick wished he could blame a Jet Ski accident for his headache.

“Sorry, sugar,” Rita said from behind him. “I had to place them at one of your tables. The new kid’s a bit slow. How about you get their orders and I’ll shuttle all the food?”

“Sounds good.” It had become his easy response when he’d rather say he was out of here.

“You don’t look so good,” Rita told him. “Maybe you should be home in bed.”

I wish,
Rick thought, but said instead, “I’m fine.”

He knew an owner shouldn’t show weakness or vulnerability to his employees and always lead by example. He had read that somewhere. Wasn’t it bad enough he let Rita call him sugar? But then she called everyone sugar in that lovely Southern accent that sounded so sincere each and every time and made you feel special.

Rita had handed out menus when she seated the three newcomers. Rick zigzagged his way through the tables as he tapped his pocket to make sure his notebook and pen were there. He insisted his waitstaff commit orders to memory. And yes, he knew that he should he be leading by example, but with the jackhammer headache he’d already gotten four orders screwed up. Better he slip a notch as an instructor than they eat any more of their profits in his mistakes.

All three menus were still open, tall accordions hiding their faces.

“Good evening. May I get you started with something from our bar? We have our special beach rumbas for half price this evening.”

“What the hell is a beach rumba?” one of the men asked as he slapped down his menu.

“Uncle Vic,” Rick said. “What are you doing down here in Pensacola?” He hoped his smile looked genuine and excited instead of mimicking his inner voice that was shouting, “Oh, crap!”

Razzy’s
Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi washed down a couple more gelcapsules while he read the bottle’s label. He had all the symptoms of the flu, symptoms the medicine claimed to relieve yet he felt absolutely no relief after twenty-four hours of taking the recommended dosage. He wished he could just silence the jackhammer inside his head. Even Joey’s famous syrupy concoction did nothing.

He popped an extra capsule into his mouth and emptied the glass of orange juice just as he noticed another group of diners come through the restaurant door. Ordinarily he’d be pleased. Sunday evening and they were packed, even had a twenty-minute waiting list earlier in the evening. But his best waiter was still out. Something about stitches and a concussion. Rick wished he could blame a Jet Ski accident for his headache.

“Sorry, sugar,” Rita said from behind him. “I had to place them at one of your tables. The new kid’s a bit slow. How about you get their orders and I’ll shuttle all the food?”

“Sounds good.” It had become his easy response when he’d rather say he was out of here.

“You don’t look so good,” Rita told him. “Maybe you should be home in bed.”

I wish,
Rick thought, but said instead, “I’m fine.”

He knew an owner shouldn’t show weakness or vulnerability to his employees and always lead by example. He had read that somewhere. Wasn’t it bad enough he let Rita call him sugar? But then she called everyone sugar in that lovely Southern accent that sounded so sincere each and every time and made you feel special.

Rita had handed out menus when she seated the three newcomers. Rick zigzagged his way through the tables as he tapped his pocket to make sure his notebook and pen were there. He insisted his waitstaff commit orders to memory. And yes, he knew that he should he be leading by example, but with the jackhammer headache he’d already gotten four orders screwed up. Better he slip a notch as an instructor than they eat any more of their profits in his mistakes.

All three menus were still open, tall accordions hiding their faces.

“Good evening. May I get you started with something from our bar? We have our special beach rumbas for half price this evening.”

“What the hell is a beach rumba?” one of the men asked as he slapped down his menu.

“Uncle Vic,” Rick said. “What are you doing down here in Pensacola?” He hoped his smile looked genuine and excited instead of mimicking his inner voice that was shouting, “Oh, crap!”

USAMRIID

Platt sat behind his desk with the chair turned away and toward the window. The rain had started again. A gentle pitter-patter. Drops slid down the glass. Darkness had returned. In his mind he kept calculating the hours and minutes. He still couldn’t shut it off, a ticktock that kept rhythm with the rain.

He hadn’t been able to prove or disprove any of his theories, his speculations, his suspicions by checking their samples of Ebola. McCathy had been the last one to slide his security card and activate the code. How much had he used to test against Ms. Kellerman’s blood and the other victims’? Was it possible for a small amount to go missing without notice?

Exhaustion played wicked tricks on the psyche and Platt kept that in the forefront of his thoughts as he sorted through his suspicions. What if the Ebola that was sent to Ms. Kellerman had come from their labs? What if Janklow knew? Even in the beginning when Platt thought the note and the setup might all be a hoax, Janklow seemed convinced it was the real deal. And why assign McCathy? Why so adamant about it including McCathy, a microbiologist who specialized in bioweapons, when Platt already had enough experience to handle the possibility of bioweapons?

Had Janklow known what they would find in Ms. Kellerman’s house even before they arrived? Had he already been expecting Platt to be his scapegoat and McCathy to corroborate?

He was tired. He was being paranoid
.

He rubbed at his eyes. Sat back. Tried to clear his mind.

But he couldn’t shake Janklow’s words,
“What if they all disappeared?”

Platt checked his wristwatch. It was late. But hopefully not too late.

He fingered a piece of paper, folding and unfolding the already creased three-by-three that had ten numbers scrawled on it, the personal cell-phone number for Roger Bix, the CDC’s chief of Outbreak Response and Surveillance Team.

Platt knew Bix from conferences, a few formal dinners and a few less formal rounds in the hotel bars. Fortunately the two had only shared war stories and never had to work on a case together. If nothing else, Bix might be able to confirm or deny whether there was any Ebola missing from another lab. Platt knew he could do this without admitting or confessing.

It took only two rings despite the late hour.

“This is Bix.”

Platt sat up straight.

“Roger, it’s Benjamin Platt.”

Before he could respond, Roger Bix said, “So how much of the vaccine are you able to scrape together?”

“Excuse me?”

“The vaccine.”

Platt was stunned. Had Janklow gone ahead and called the CDC? What the hell was going on?

“Look, Ben,” Bix continued, misreading Platt’s hesitation. “I appreciate the dilemma you all are facing.” His normal, slow Southern drawl held a tinge of panic. “But like I explained to Commander Janklow, we can’t afford to wait too long. I have a full-blown case of Ebola Zaire right here outside of Chicago. They opened up this poor son of a bitch in surgery. Who knows how many people have been exposed. I’m not just talking about hospital personnel. We’ve got visitors, patients, even newborns down in the maternity ward.”

Platt shoved the cell phone closer to his ear. He couldn’t hear above his heart pounding in his head. He sucked in air. Moved the phone away from his mouth. Let the breath out. There was another case. Another exposure.

“He was here at the hospital. Schroder, Markus Schroder. Here for three or four days. An accountant, for Christ’s sake. How the hell does an accountant come in contact with Ebola?” But Bix wasn’t waiting for an answer. He wasn’t finished. “This is a fricking nightmare and it’s only gonna get worse. I’ve got Homeland Security up my ass trying to keep it quiet. Everybody’s worried about the fricking media starting a panic. I tell you, Ben, I don’t get that vaccine soon and we won’t have to worry about the media starting a panic.”

“Let me get to work on this, Roger. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have the vaccine ready to go.”

“Make it soon, Ben. We both know how quickly this virus moves.”

The click that followed sounded like a trigger hitting on an empty chamber, abrupt and hollow.

Platt felt paralyzed.

There was another case. As far away as Chicago. Had he sent other packages with microscopic bits of Ebola, preserved and sealed in Ziploc plastic bags waiting to be opened? This was bigger than any of them had imagined. No way Janklow could make it all disappear.

Then Platt remembered something. Something Janklow said McCathy had told him about the virus. That it would take as little as a microscopic piece, preserved, sealed and delivered, perhaps even through the mail, to start an epidemic. That was before Maggie handed over the mailing package. Before they knew how the virus was delivered to the Kellerman house. Did McCathy know that’s how it was delivered? Or was it a lucky guess?

USAMRIID

Platt sat behind his desk with the chair turned away and toward the window. The rain had started again. A gentle pitter-patter. Drops slid down the glass. Darkness had returned. In his mind he kept calculating the hours and minutes. He still couldn’t shut it off, a ticktock that kept rhythm with the rain.

He hadn’t been able to prove or disprove any of his theories, his speculations, his suspicions by checking their samples of Ebola. McCathy had been the last one to slide his security card and activate the code. How much had he used to test against Ms. Kellerman’s blood and the other victims’? Was it possible for a small amount to go missing without notice?

Exhaustion played wicked tricks on the psyche and Platt kept that in the forefront of his thoughts as he sorted through his suspicions. What if the Ebola that was sent to Ms. Kellerman had come from their labs? What if Janklow knew? Even in the beginning when Platt thought the note and the setup might all be a hoax, Janklow seemed convinced it was the real deal. And why assign McCathy? Why so adamant about it including McCathy, a microbiologist who specialized in bioweapons, when Platt already had enough experience to handle the possibility of bioweapons?

Had Janklow known what they would find in Ms. Kellerman’s house even before they arrived? Had he already been expecting Platt to be his scapegoat and McCathy to corroborate?

He was tired. He was being paranoid
.

He rubbed at his eyes. Sat back. Tried to clear his mind.

But he couldn’t shake Janklow’s words,
“What if they all disappeared?”

Platt checked his wristwatch. It was late. But hopefully not too late.

He fingered a piece of paper, folding and unfolding the already creased three-by-three that had ten numbers scrawled on it, the personal cell-phone number for Roger Bix, the CDC’s chief of Outbreak Response and Surveillance Team.

Platt knew Bix from conferences, a few formal dinners and a few less formal rounds in the hotel bars. Fortunately the two had only shared war stories and never had to work on a case together. If nothing else, Bix might be able to confirm or deny whether there was any Ebola missing from another lab. Platt knew he could do this without admitting or confessing.

It took only two rings despite the late hour.

“This is Bix.”

Platt sat up straight.

“Roger, it’s Benjamin Platt.”

Before he could respond, Roger Bix said, “So how much of the vaccine are you able to scrape together?”

“Excuse me?”

“The vaccine.”

Platt was stunned. Had Janklow gone ahead and called the CDC? What the hell was going on?

“Look, Ben,” Bix continued, misreading Platt’s hesitation. “I appreciate the dilemma you all are facing.” His normal, slow Southern drawl held a tinge of panic. “But like I explained to Commander Janklow, we can’t afford to wait too long. I have a full-blown case of Ebola Zaire right here outside of Chicago. They opened up this poor son of a bitch in surgery. Who knows how many people have been exposed. I’m not just talking about hospital personnel. We’ve got visitors, patients, even newborns down in the maternity ward.”

Platt shoved the cell phone closer to his ear. He couldn’t hear above his heart pounding in his head. He sucked in air. Moved the phone away from his mouth. Let the breath out. There was another case. Another exposure.

“He was here at the hospital. Schroder, Markus Schroder. Here for three or four days. An accountant, for Christ’s sake. How the hell does an accountant come in contact with Ebola?” But Bix wasn’t waiting for an answer. He wasn’t finished. “This is a fricking nightmare and it’s only gonna get worse. I’ve got Homeland Security up my ass trying to keep it quiet. Everybody’s worried about the fricking media starting a panic. I tell you, Ben, I don’t get that vaccine soon and we won’t have to worry about the media starting a panic.”

“Let me get to work on this, Roger. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have the vaccine ready to go.”

“Make it soon, Ben. We both know how quickly this virus moves.”

The click that followed sounded like a trigger hitting on an empty chamber, abrupt and hollow.

Platt felt paralyzed.

There was another case. As far away as Chicago. Had he sent other packages with microscopic bits of Ebola, preserved and sealed in Ziploc plastic bags waiting to be opened? This was bigger than any of them had imagined. No way Janklow could make it all disappear.

Then Platt remembered something. Something Janklow said McCathy had told him about the virus. That it would take as little as a microscopic piece, preserved, sealed and delivered, perhaps even through the mail, to start an epidemic. That was before Maggie handed over the mailing package. Before they knew how the virus was delivered to the Kellerman house. Did McCathy know that’s how it was delivered? Or was it a lucky guess?