“Unless we’re talking bioterrorism.”

“Of course. It always has to come back to that with you.”

She takes a long breath. “Byron, Brussels is willing to release the DNA blueprints on the Cold War–era bioweapons.”

After a slight pause, he says, “Okay, let’s compare them. At this point, I’m willing to try anything.”

“What about the vaccine?” Alana asks.

“We don’t have any here yet. And unless you can convince your government—”

“I work for NATO, not the Americans.”

“Well, unless someone can convince the U.S. military to release their supply—as in yesterday—the vaccine will do us no good. Besides, even if they had enough to share—and that’s a huge if—we have no idea how effective it would be.”

Nico nods in silent agreement.

“What about mass prophylaxis?” Alana suggests. “Starting everyone in the affected neighborhoods and hospitals on preventative antibiotics?”

“We’ve already begun,” Byron says. “But you know what’s bound to happen if we put everyone on antibiotics willy-nilly?”

“Resistance,” she concedes.

“Exactly. We’ll inadvertently breed out the most antibiotic-resistant strains of Yersinia. And then we’ll have no treatment options left for the sickest patients.”

“So it’s a catch-22.”

“A razor-thin balance, at least. If we cover everyone with antibiotics, we risk creating an even worse outbreak. But we have to cover the most vulnerable.”

Alana locks eyes with Nico. He looks as despondent as she feels. “What about the airport and train stations?” she asks.

“We’ve started to screen all departing travelers, just like we did for Ebola,” Byron says. “But there must be a thousand ways to get out of Genoa. Land, sea, or air. Besides, someone could hop on a plane while incubating the plague without ever knowing it.”

“What’s your next step?”

“Epidemiology 101. Contact-chasing. We keep tracking anyone who might have crossed paths with infected patients. At least that’s one thing this media circus can help with.” He pauses to mutters something indistinct to someone else, then says, “Oh, hopefully we’ll secure our court order to search the construction site by this afternoon. It would be a help if your friend Nico could convince his uncle to just let us start now.”

“I’ll run it by him,” Alana says.

Nico shakes his head vehemently.

“One last thing,” Byron says. “The lab in Geneva confirmed that this strain of the bacteria is not the same subtype as the one currently active in Ethiopia. So Vittoria definitely didn’t pick it up there. In fact, so far, this bug doesn’t match any known isolate of Yersinia.”

None of this fits! Alana wants to scream. “Byron, it’s more important than ever to consider the possibility of a genetically engineered strain—” But the line goes dead before she can even finish the thought.

“I thought Canadians were famous for their politeness,” Nico says.

“I think he’s trying to single-handedly torpedo that reputation.” She runs a hand through her hair. “No known matches, Nico.”

His silent acknowledgment is troubling. She soon lapses into her own thoughts.

As they drive eastward, the city transforms in front of Alana’s eyes. Genoa’s high curved walls and grand buildings, with their bright colors and intricate embossments, give way to more working-class neighborhoods. One street begins to resemble the next, all of them lined by drab low-rise apartment blocks of indeterminate age with laundry drying from lines strung between windows.