Another reporter, a woman in a short skirt and a white button-down shirt stood up. Wilson called her by name and she smiled at him before speaking.
“Doctor, my understanding is that black pox is a mutation of the smallpox virus. And that smallpox, since being eradicated through vaccinations, only exists in two places in the world. One is in the former Soviet Union and one is here at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible then that there’s been some sort of release of this agent from one of these two labs? Either on purpose or by accident?”
“Absolutely not. The first thing I did was check with our laboratories and with Moscow. All smallpox agents are accounted for. They are stored in a frozen state using liquid nitrogen. The only way they could be released is if they thaw, infect someone, and have that person leave the lab and infect others. But there have been no reported cases in either our labs or the Russian’s.”
“Is it possible then that perhaps this virus has been manufactured by another entity. Perhaps a rogue nation like North Korea or Iran?”
Wilson grew noticeably uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and adjusted his glasses. He looked hopefully to the military officer seated next to him.
“Perhaps General Lancaster would be better suited to answer that question.”
The general looked at the reporter sternly, unblinking, and said, “There’s no evidence of that. And until there is I don’t think speculation helps anyone.”
The woman was about to ask something else when she was drowned out by a reporter from Fox News who yelled from a seated position, “Is it true that a high ranking member of al Qaida has taken responsibility for the outbreak?”
Before the general could answer, Wilson said, “Lots of people are going to take responsibility. Being the United States means we are the richest, most powerful nation on earth. When that role was held by Babylon, then Egypt, then Rome, and the French, the English, and so forth, they were all hated. They were all attacked. I have no doubt that several groups will take responsibility for this. But that’s not what the evidence suggests; it suggests this is a naturally occurring phenomena.
“Terrorist organizations attack clusters of people, like the sarin poisoning in the subways of Tokyo. Or the September 11 attacks. They don’t attack a single individual. They would want to maximize exposure to the agent as much as possible. The evidence strongly favors our theory that a single individual returned home from a trip to the jungle and carried this virus with him. Period.”
More questions were thrown at the panel and Wilson fielded almost all of them. Sam saw that Dr. Pushkin was checking his watch. She guessed that he wished he was alone in his lab right now.
There were around twenty or twenty-five more questions before they closed the press conference. Once the cameras were off, Sam saw Wilson and his assistant going from reporter to reporter and having a whispered conversation. Probably reminding them that causing a panic unnecessarily would be extremely detrimental.
Sam stood and made her way down to the long table just as Pushkin rose to leave.
“You didn’t speak much,” she said.
“Ralph seemed to have that particular function covered. You look tired.”
“I’m okay. How was the flight?”
“Awful. But this is one beautiful damned island. Let’s get lunch or breakfast, or whatever the hell mealtime it is.”
They were walking out when Duncan appeared in front of them. He thrust out his hand and Pushkin shook.
“Dr. Pushkin, I’m Duncan Adams.”
“Oh, yes. From USAMRIID, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You two know each other?” Sam asked.
Pushkin said, “Their laboratories are much more secure than ours even though we have a BSL 4 clearance. I’ve had them perform a few diagnoses when I require. Duncan here is a brilliant research scientist. When he wants to be.”
“Which is rarely,” Duncan said. “So where you guys off to now?”
“Breakfast. Join us. I think we may need to do some brainstorming on this.”
CHAPTER 14
Benjamin Cornell’s heart raced as he walked into the California Department of Health. He glanced around to make sure no one had noticed him though he was sure they hadn’t. He’d dressed as normally as possible: Polo shirt, jeans, and sandals. Just an average white guy walking into a public building. He wore glasses and had his sun-bleached blond hair covered in an Oakland A’s baseball cap.
The corridor he walked down was long and there was a receptionist at a booth on his right side. He took a deep breath and walked to her.
“Hi,” he said, putting on his best smile. “I’m here to see Dr. Wharton, please.”
“Fifth floor, two doors on your left.”
“Thank you.”
He walked to the elevators and hit the button for the third floor, his actual destination. If anyone asked the receptionist later, he wanted her to only remember that someone had asked about Dr. Wharton.
The elevator dinged and he stepped on. There were six other people crammed on and he thought of an email joke he had received. Something about being on a crowded elevator and saying, “You’re probably all wondering why I gathered you here today.”
He smirked to himself as the doors opened on the third floor. Ben leaned against the wall and waited until the two other passengers that wanted this floor stepped off. He thought it best not to step off on the same floor as anyone else. Instead, he rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and got off.
There was a Workforce Services suite and he walked toward it until he heard the elevator doors close behind him and then he spun and ran over to the stairs leading down. He took two at a time before he stood in front of the door leading into the third floor and then took a deep breath to compose himself.
He opened the doors and stepped through.
The third floor was better taken care of than the fourth. The carpets didn’t have any stains and the walls were free of clutter. He walked past a set of double doors that had a black sign emblazoned on the glass that took up half the door: MEDICAL RECORDS.
Ben checked the watch on his phone. It was 11:51 a.m. He had four minutes.
He walked down the hallway to a drinking fountain and took a sip of water but his throat was nearly closed up from the amount of adrenaline coursing through him. There were restrooms just around the corner and down a small corridor and he walked to them and went into a stall. He sat on the toilet seat.
Occasionally, not often, but occasionally, it hit him just what an awkward turn his life had taken. He had graduated first in his class from Berkley’s Haas School of Business with his MBA when he was just twenty-one and the world had been his oyster. He’d been offered a consulting job in Manhattan making a hundred and sixty thousand a year and had accepted.
But that felt like a different life now. That was before his son Matthew had developed autism. Before the twenty-four-hour care and the crying and the strained marriage. Before it felt like his soul had been ripped out of his body and crushed. He had to leave the position in Manhattan and he and his wife and Matthew moved back to Northern California. He accepted a job at a non-profit as assistant director, making a quarter of his previous salary. But the job had flexibility so that he could spend more time with Matthew.