“Are you sure it’s him?”

He nods. “I saw the copy of his passport.”

“Where is the ship now?”

“Moored outside of Port Said.”

“Already? How long have they been there?”

“Since early this morning.”

She grabs his arm. “Has anyone left the ship?”

“No. We’re in contact with the captain. He understands no one is to get on or off until we arrive.”

“Does he know about Stefano?” she asks, releasing her grip.

Sergio shakes his head. “We didn’t want to alarm him or put the rest of the crew at risk. We don’t even know if Stefano is armed.”

“So how do we get there?”

“Our navy has an amphibious landing ship, the San Giorgio, in the region. It should reach Port Said in less than three hours.”

Alana was army, not navy. She can’t remember exactly which class of vessel qualifies as an amphibious landing ship, but she recalls it’s large enough for both fixed-wing and rotary-wing aircraft to land on. She assumes the plan must be to launch a raid on the freighter by air. “Are we heading to the San Giorgio now?”

“Yes.” Sergio shows a hint of a smile. “It is not quite . . . direct.”

After their driver drops them off at a helipad outside of Naples, a small noisy chopper carries them to an Italian military base outside of Rome. From there, they board an air force jet that flies them to a base in Egypt, outside of Alexandria. Alana spends most of the flight on the phone, updating Monique Olin and then Byron. She’s disheartened to hear that all the gains in Genoa have been more than offset by the outbreak in Naples, where the plague continues to spiral out of control and the hospitals have been flooded with suspect cases.

On the tarmac in Alexandria, a sleek gunmetal-gray helicopter is waiting for them with its rotor already turning. As they lift off, the talkative pilot explains with great pride, in broken English, how his AB 212 chopper has a range of several hundred miles and flies as smoothly as a seagull. Alana’s slight airsickness tells her otherwise.

Forty minutes later—and four hours after they left Italy—a naval ship appears out of the mist below them.

“Is that her?” Alana asks Sergio over the headphones.

“The San Giorgio, yes. A COMSUBIN team is already waiting for us onboard.”

“What’s that? Special ops?”

“Yes. Italian special operations maritime assault force. Similar to your Navy SEALs.” Then he adds, with obvious pride, “Only COMSUBIN has a much longer history.”

The pilot eases the helicopter down on the ship’s deck. There are two other choppers, larger than theirs, lined up on the deck beside them. Mechanics are attending to both aircraft while sailors load equipment and boxes inside each of them.

An officer in forest-green fatigues appears outside the door of the helicopter. He reeks of special forces, from his thick neck and chest to his crew cut and rigid posture. He salutes crisply and then shakes hands with Sergio. They speak in Italian for a few moments. Sergio turns to Alana. “This is Capitano Monti. He will lead the assault team onto the Cielo di Asia.”