Alana doesn’t comment on Nico’s appearance now, but her expression must give something away. “A long night,” he explains with a forced smile. “Not every day do you lose a patient to the plague.”

She only nods. There was always an excuse back then, too.

“And Vittoria’s wife, Maria . . .” He massages his temples with his free hand. “She is beside herself with concern over their children. The twins.”

Alana stiffens. “Are they sick?”

“No. Italian mothers, they do not do so well with bambinos with colds. Imagine the plague . . .”

Six more days until they are clear, Alana thinks, but she doesn’t need to remind Nico of the incubation period for Yersinia pestis. “Is the family quarantined?”

“Yes. At their house.”

“And what about her workplace?”

“Quarantined?” He shakes his head. “She wasn’t coughing until the day of her collapse. And it is an outdoor construction site.”

“Still, Nico . . .”

The fog of his hangover seems to lift, and his gaze sharpens. “My patient is dead. The only case. It is a matter for Public Health now.” He frowns. “And you, Alana? Why are you so invested?”

“The pneumonic plague in Europe! I know it’s only a single—probably imported—case. But, Nico . . . in your wildest dreams, did you ever imagine you would see that?”

“Ah. So you will remain here merely out of . . . medical curiosity?”

She shifts from foot to foot but maintains their eye contact. “I’m with NATO now.”

He grimaces. “NATO?”

“Yes,” she says, lowering her voice as if to compensate for his. “Infectious diseases surveillance.”

“Ah, of course. Stopping bioterrorism.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” she says, though she can’t help but glance around to ensure no one on the street is listening. “Besides, natural epidemics pose just as much of a potential security threat as biological warfare. Especially the plague.”

He chuckles, not buying it. They wordlessly set off for the Ospedale San Martino, walking along the winding Via Cairoli until it expands into the majestic Via Garibaldi. The street is lined with towering palazzos, all baroque arches and pillars splashed with opulent colors. Despite their hurried pace, Nico acts as guide, naming each architectural gem built by a powerful banking family during the Renaissance.

As impressive as the historic street is, Alana is too preoccupied to pay attention. “I won’t stay too long,” she says. “There are another four or five days where we still could see spread of the plague from Patient Zero.”

“Vittoria. Her name was Vittoria Fornero.”

“Look, I’m sorry for her family, but my concern lies with the potential spread.”

“You are, of course, assuming she is Patient Zero.”

Alana has wondered that ever since she first heard about the case. “I was hoping to speak to Vittoria’s wife.”

“Why? What could she add?”

“Details about their African trip. How Vittoria might have been exposed.”

“I already discussed this with Maria.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Vittoria, too, before she slipped into the coma. She took a day trip without the rest of the family—outside of Addis Ababa—to the Menagesha National Forest. There are many wild animals in that park. All potential carriers for plague-infected fleas.”