“But there haven’t been any cases reported near Addis,” she says. “Or anywhere else in Ethiopia.”

“Yes, but next door, in South Sudan. Seven cases in the past year alone.”

“From South Sudan to Ethiopia? That’s a fair distance for a flea to hop.”

“Surely that’s up to the WHO to investigate. Not NATO.”

“Why don’t we at least visit her workplace, Nico? Talk to her colleagues?”

Nico studies Alana skeptically for a long moment and then breaks into the first heartfelt laugh she has heard from him all morning. “Why not? It’s been a long while since I chased an outbreak with you. Besides, Alana, those green eyes of yours . . .” She feels her cheeks warming, as he pinches three fingers in front of his face and adds, “A man might crawl over glass for them.”

They reach the garage beside the hospital where Nico’s silver Audi SUV is parked. Nico drives them through the heart of the city, whizzing past more colorful churches and palazzos—adorned with columns, domes, pilasters, and pediments—than Alana can keep straight. As Nico navigates the winding streets, he offers her a crash course on the city’s geography and its past. She has lived and traveled all over Europe, but she can think of few cities that embody as much living history as Genoa does, from the web of narrow medieval streets, known as caruggi, in the old city to the Enlightenment-era splendor of the gold-leaf mansions that line Via Garibaldi.

As they head away from the water, the grand walls give way to the rolling hills above the city. Nico explains how Genoa is built like an amphitheater, rising steadily upward from the horseshoe-shaped harbor. Although he grew up in Rome, his pride in his adopted city is obvious. “In spite of our aging population, the economy here is booming again. You might say Genoa is experiencing a second Renaissance.”

“Seems like an appropriate locale for one,” she says.

“The site where Vittoria was working is particularly high-profile here. Controversial, too.”

“How so?”

“To begin with, Marcello Zanetti is behind it.” He waits for a glimmer of recognition, but she shows none. “You haven’t heard of him?”

“Why would I have?”

“Ah, Marcello is a local celebrity. He was mayor for six years. Many imagined him for higher office.”

“So what happened?”

“He retired from politics to return to his construction business. And this San Giovanni redevelopment is his most ambitious project. It will be the tallest apartment tower in Genoa, with spectacular views from the hilltop.”

“What’s so controversial about it?”

“There was an old monastery there before.”

“And the Church was okay with them tearing it down?”

“Marcello says the place was crumbling anyway.”

“Hold on. You know him?”

“Of course. Marcello is Isabella’s uncle.”

“Your wife’s uncle? That’s kind of coincidental.”

Nico shrugs. “Only to our advantage. Otherwise, how else would we access the site?”

He turns onto a dirt road lined with pylons. Dust flies over the windshield and the vehicle shimmies along for half a mile or so until a massive construction site materializes ahead of them. He pulls over into a gravel-lined lot and parks between a pickup truck and a tractor. They climb out into the warmer sunshine under skies marbled with benign clouds, with the smell of diesel floating on the breeze.