“I do.”

“That is history, Alana,” Olin says. “Learn from it, yes, but do not dwell. It’s not constructive.”

Easy for you to say, you weren’t there in West Africa. “I won’t get in the way.”

“And you won’t antagonize them, either?”

“No. Promise. But, Monique, we need to find out exactly what we are dealing with here.”

There’s a slight pause, and Alana pictures her boss peering warily over her reading glasses. “What are you asking for, Alana?”

“We have to share our samples with the WHO’s Level Five laboratory in Geneva.”

Olin inhales sharply. “Are you suggesting we simply hand over samples of the plague bacteria that the Soviets weaponized?”

“Yes.”

“We are talking about one of the world’s most dangerous pathogens, are we not? On a level with smallpox and anthrax, or worse . . .”

“We don’t have to share live samples. Just give the WHO a map of the bacteria’s genome—its genetic fingerprint—for comparison. And not only the Soviet bioweapons. The American one, too.”

“Is this wise, Alana?”

“Monique, what we are dealing with here is not like any other form of plague we’ve seen in the last fifty years or more.”

“It does not mean it’s a weapon, either.”

“Maybe. But how can we know we’re not dealing with bioterrorism until we compare its genetic fingerprints to those bioweapons? We have to, Monique. You know we do.”

“All right. I will speak to the secretary general about releasing the samples. Of course, I need to consult the Americans, too.”

Alana thanks Olin and promises her another update soon. Moments after she hangs up, a dark blue sedan pulls up beside her. Byron is at the wheel and Justine Williams is in the passenger seat. Alana climbs into the back.

“So, why NATO?” Justine asks, apropos of nothing, as the car pulls away from the curb.

“What about NATO?” Alana says.

“You used to be on our team, right? The WHO. You know. The winning team?”

“Not so sure the WHO is always the winning team.”

“And you think NATO is?” Justine laughs. “Come on, you got to admit, it’s a pretty weird transition from public health to this quasi-military stuff.”

Alana isn’t about to discuss the debacle of her final WHO mission in West Africa. “I come from a military family,” she says instead. “I was in the army before I joined the WHO.”

Justine aims an imaginary rifle at her. “As in combat army?”

“Yes, Afghanistan. I was training to be a trauma surgeon.”

“So what got you booted out?”

Alana eyes Justine for a silent moment, deciding whether to rise to the bait. “I was injured,” she finally says.

“Oh! Like an ambush? A roadside IED? Or friendly fire?”

“Ease up, Justine,” Byron interjects.

She looks at him in feigned shock. “This, from you? The king of tact?”

“What about you, Justine? Why rodents?” Alana asks.

She shrugs. “They’re generally more trustworthy than people.”

“Bet you’ve used that line a few times before,” Alana pushes back. “But it’s not an answer.”