The next two days were fairly uneventful, and immensely frustrating. There just wasn't enough information forthcoming to help them formulate a game plan. Elizabeth tried to help them, but there wasn't even enough to bring her expertise into it. All they knew was that the clock was counting down to…who knew what.
Now she sat at the table in C-5 with Tara, poring over a layout of the WHO conference hall, looking at sight lines and anything else they could think of. Sue had gone with Lucy to get lunch, and to check with Howie for any word on the street—unlikely, but worth a shot. Myles and Dimitrius were with her grandfather, and Jack and Bobby were over at the smaller, informal conversation area in the conference room, going over the information from Intel yet again.
Elizabeth sat back, rubbing her eyes. It didn't matter; she could still see the layout. She sighed heavily. "Do you all ever get used to this? The interminable waiting with nothing solid to go on?"
Tara stood up, stretching, then leaned against the table. "No, not really. This is the worst part of the job. Knowing that something bad is going to happen — just having to wait for it to poke its head up, and praying we still have time to stop it." She grinned down at her friend. "Wishing you were still working on your research project about stress in law enforcement?"
"Are you kidding?" came the reply. "I'm glad it's done. My objectivity about the subject is gone now. If it weren't for the classified part, this would make a terrific case study. And I could write it first-person."
Tara nodded. "It's a unique feeling, all right." She gave Elizabeth another soul-penetrating gaze. "But the waiting isn't all of it, is it?"
Another sigh. "No. I mean, there have been other times when he's on a case, and we haven't seen or been able to talk to each other. I think there was one space of a week. I understood that when I started dating him. But this time, when he calls in to give you reports, I can hear you talking to him, and I know I can't. That's the hard part—actually being part of this. Knowing that I can't distract him is one thing — actually doing it is another." She looked up at Tara. "I'm glad you're here, though, my friend. That helps a lot. Hey, I meant to ask you — how can Myles call in if this is so highly classified? Wouldn't you be worried about someone tapping in?"
Tara crossed her arms over her chest. "We have a direct link through the Director's Office, with the kind of scrambler/encrypter that they use for the President. We got special permission to use it."
"Wow."
"'Wow' is right. As for the other problem…" Tara's voice softened. "Would it help you to know that he asks how you're doing every time he calls? After all the official stuff, of course."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "He does? But I've heard your end of the conversations…"
Tara smiled. "Well, he usually asks if 'everything's' okay, but I know what he's really asking." She looked over at Bobby and Jack, and her smile immediately changed to concern. "Hey, what's going on? Bobby looks positively ill."
Elizabeth followed her gaze. The Australian was sitting at a small desk, his back to Jack, reading a black folder that hadn't been in the Intel stuff. His face was chalk-white. His breathing was shallow, and a little rapid, as if he were in shock. "I don't know. Shall we go find out?"
The two women walked over to the informal area, and Tara nudged Jack, who was going over the other Intel information. "Jack, what's Bobby reading?" she whispered.
He looked up. "That's a folder we found in with David Dillingham's research notes. I haven't read it yet." Then he got a good look at Bobby's face. "Now I think I don't want to."
Jack walked over to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"
Bobby snapped the folder shut. "Uh…" He looked up at Jack, and the look in his eyes could only be described as sheer horror. "No…at the moment…okay …probably not the best word for me." He was trying very hard to keep his cool.
Tara reached for the folder. "What are you reading, anyway?"
He snatched it out of her reach. "No!" At her expression, he added, "Please…don't read it."
"Why? What is it?"
His eyes dropped to the folder, his hands actually shaking as he held it. "It's a case report from a clinic in Zaire – an Ebola victim. It's very…detailed."
Jack surveyed his friend again, then silently held out his hand for the folder. Bobby took a deep breath, and handed it to him. Jack flipped it open to the middle, read what seemed to be about two paragraphs, and swallowed hard. He looked at Tara and Elizabeth, his eyes something like what they saw in Bobby's, then he turned and put the folder in a file cabinet they had in the room. He then locked the drawer. "That's information no more of us need to know. We'll return it with your grandfather's other notes, Dr. Dillingham, but until then it stays in that cabinet. Is that clear?"
They nodded. Tara asked, "It's that bad?"
Bobby cleared his throat. "Uh … let's put it this way — without going into detail…Ebola pretty much eats you alive from the inside out. Extensive cell damage — the virus literally stuffs them until they burst. It's not a pretty way to go."
Her eyes grew wide. "Oh. Um…you need a minute?"
"Please."
Tara nodded, and she and Jack went back over to the main table. Elizabeth started to follow, then turned back to him. The psychologist looked at him, her mind switching into her own field and evaluating what she saw. "Bobby, are you…?"
He held up a hand. "I'll be okay, doc. Just…some parts of this job take a little extra time to process, that's all."
"Uh-huh. Nice try."
He managed a wan smile, though it still didn't reach his eyes. Then he shook his head. "Later, okay? There'll be plenty of time later to…debrief. Thanks, though."
She nodded. "I understand. Just thought I'd offer."
s
s
It was Wednesday afternoon. Myles watched the micrograph screen, a sample of blood from one of the three research monkeys Dr. Dillingham had brought with him from his home lab. By now he could easily pick out the Ebola virus, and watched it interact with the monkey's blood cells.
Dimitrius had drawn "sitting duty" with Myles; four hours on, four hours off, the whole time that Dr. Dillingham iwasn't/i in the lab. During those times, D was stationed just outside the sealed area, while Myles was in the lab with the virologist. The only other person they saw was Dr. Dillingham's assistant, Paul Greise.
"In the lab with" was a relative term, though. Since Ebola was classified as a Level 4 Bio-agent, ordinary lab procedures weren't enough. Inside the main lab was a smaller enclosure, with double-glass windows looking out into the main lab. To enter the smaller room, one passed through three separate "airlocks" – in the first one, you changed from street clothes into scrubs, then stood under an ultraviolet light (under which viruses fall apart) for a minute or so. The second "airlock" provided rubber gloves, to which you taped your scrubs, and your scrub pants to your socks. Then you stepped into a "space suit" – a pressurized, heavy-duty plastic suit, complete with heavy rubber gloves, that meets government specs for work with airborne hot agents. It had its own air hose, which could be plugged in at various places in the lab. The third airlock was lined with nozzles – this was the decontamination shower. From there, you stepped into the lab.
Myles was on the outside of the enclosure, but he could still watch the two scientists, and see most of the equipment they used. The research monkeys were off to one side, in their own glass cages with independent air lines. On the sides of the cages were portals for taking samples. From what he'd been told, one monkey was healthy, and two had been infected just four days ago with Ebola-Zaire. Of those two, only one was receiving Dr. Dillingham's serum.
Right now, he tried not to look at them — one was clearly ill, but didn't seem to be on the brink of death. The other had "crashed and bled out" earlier today, would likely be dead inside of an hour. He couldn't look at that cage without feeling sick; there was a full two inches of blood and discharge in the bottom of the glass box, from which the two men were now taking samples.
Myles had to admit, as gruesome as parts of it could be, it was interesting to watch them work. He knew basically what was entailed in working with "hot" bio-agents, having been in too many situations around them. But to watch the process of taking them apart to see what made them tick…it gave him a new respect for the CDC and others who spent years, sometimes their entire lives, trying to make his job easier by finding ways to combat these biological nightmares.
He tried not to ask too many questions, and was surprised at how amiably David Dillingham responded to the ones he did ask. For all his arrogance and stubbornness, this was a man who knew his subject, and could translate it easily into "slightly-higher-than-layman's" terms.
Finally, the two scientists finished; the corpse and the remaining material in the cage were placed in a biohazard container, which was then put into a small incinerator. Five thousand degrees Fahrenheit would be enough to destroy the lethally "hot" material. The cage was washed out with a strong bleach solution. They then set the tray of samples in the refrigerator, tidied up the lab, and came back through the airlocks. This time, the chemical shower was on.
When they were back in their street clothes, Paul Griese excused himself, saying he had a late afternoon class, and he'd see them tomorrow. David Dillingham bid him good night, then came over to where Myles was sitting, and began to jot notes in a binder on the counter.
Myles let him work in silence for several minutes. Then he spoke. "Dr. Dillingham?"
"Yes?" The virologist looked up from his notes.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but…may I ask you something?"
"You mean, something else?" was the reply, but the man smiled.
"Well, yes," Myles said, a little ruefully. "How can you tell which strain of Ebola you're dealing with? You've shown me all four, plus Marburg, over the past two days, and they all seem to look alike."
David Dillingham sighed. "That, Agent Leland, is probably the biggest crux of the problem in developing a treatment. The filoviruses that comprise the Ebola/Marburg family all look remarkably alike. For example, you can't tell Ebola-Reston, which doesn't transmit to humans, from Ebola-Zaire, the deadliest of the strains, just by looking at them. They're so close that it's difficult to explain how they are different. The only difference seems to be at a genetic level – there's something slightly different about one of the genetic proteins in Ebola-Reston that keeps it from transmitting to humans. But, that's why Ebola-Reston has never been downgraded out of Level 4. The way Ebola can mutate…"
Myles nodded, his face a shade paler than it had been. "I understand. So, given that, how can you develop a treatment?"
"I've been working on pinpointing the traits of the genetic material in the Ebola virus – each of the strains. Then, by working on treatments that block the proteins that are similar in all of the strains, instead of where they differ, we think we've developed the beginnings of something that will help, no matter which strain we're dealing with." He sighed again. "It's difficult to explain…"
"That's all right, Dr. Dillingham. I get the basic idea. Has part of your research also been to develop a quick test to determine which strain you're looking at?"
The virologist nodded. "We did find a chemical that reacts with a particular protein present only in Ebola-Zaire. So, we can at least recognize that. But often, particularly in third-world clinics, they don't even realize they're dealing with Ebola until it's too late. The symptoms are so similar to typhoid or malaria; by the time they realize, thirty people could be dead, with another twenty, or two hundred, waiting in the wings."
s
s
Wednesday night was equally as uneventful as the rest of the time. Myles, on break for a few hours, picked up his cell phone and dialed a number.
Elizabeth, at Tara's apartment with the rest of the team, taking a much-needed change of scenery, jumped up from her seat when she saw the caller ID on her phone. "Uh, Tara?"
"Yeah?" Tara was dishing up spaghetti sauce, while Sue sliced garlic bread.
"May I borrow your guest room for a minute or so?" She waved the cell phone.
Tara grinned. "Of course, take as long as you need. We're going to start without you, though."
"That's okay – go ahead." She answered the phone as she stepped into the quiet room. "Hi!"
His baritone voice warmed her like a fire. "Hey, how's my best girl?"
She laughed. "I'd better be your only girl, or you're in big trouble." She curled up in an armchair by the window. "Our mutual friend driving you crazy yet?"
"Nah — actually, I'm learning a lot."
Her voice grew serious. "I bet." She didn't say anymore about it, because of Ted Garrett's warning. No discussion of the case outside of C-5. So she forced her voice back to lightness. "I miss you."
"I miss you, too – that's why I called. Just needed to hear your voice. I can't talk long."
She smiled. "I understand. I'll let you get some sleep before your next shift. I…" She paused.
Silence for a moment. Then: "What?"
She almost said it. Then, sighing, she chickened out. "Nothing. I'll tell you later."
Another pause. "Are you sure?"
She brightened again. "Yes. We have plenty of time. Go get some sleep."
"Good night, Elizabeth." As Myles hung up, he wondered what she'd been going to say, then wondered if it was the same thing that had crossed his mind. His dreams that night were much more pleasant for having talked to her.
s
s
Thursday morning, Myles walked back into the lab with David Dillingham. "Hey, isn't Paul usually here before you?"
"Hmm…yes, he is. I know he was getting out of a class to help me this week — maybe they had a test he couldn't get out of. He usually calls, though. If he doesn't show up in fifteen minutes or so, I'll try him on his cell phone."
The virologist suited up and went into the "hot zone," going first to the refrigerator and pulling out the tray of samples they'd taken the day before.
Myles wasn't paying a whole lot of attention, until he heard a gasp over the intercom. He looked up. "What is it, Dr. Dillingham?"
The virologist was staring at the tray. "There's a vial missing."
"Are you sure?" Myles' heart was down around his gut and pounding like a bass drum. "David…are you positive?"
"Yes, I'm positive. They were all here last night when Paul and I came out. Now, there's one missing." He looked up with a dismayed expression. "And there's only one other person besides myself who has the clearance to get all the way in here."
Myles nodded gravely. "Paul Greise." He ran out into the hallway and through the sealed doors. Dimitrius looked up at him in surprise.
"D, get over to HQ and tell Jack we have a problem." His voice was devoid of emotion, but his eyes made up for it. "It appears that Dr. Dillingham's assistant has removed a vial of Ebola-laced blood from the lab."