They continue down the hallway and stop at the second-to-last apartment. Sergio and the other agent stand in front of the door, while the rest of them line up behind. Sergio raps firmly. Tense moments pass before the door finally opens a crack. Alana can see the junior AISI agent instinctively slip a hand inside his jacket. Her shoulder aches in anticipation.

Sergio speaks through the gap. A timid voice responds on the other side. The other agent relaxes his hand. After a lengthy Italian exchange, the door opens wider.

A thin black woman with a white veil wrapped around her head and neck stands at the threshold. She rocks on her feet and keeps her chin down. She speaks in a soft but urgent staccato.

“What is she saying?” Byron demands.

Sergio holds up a hand to interrupt the woman.

“This is Yasin’s mother, Thewhida Ahmed,” Sergio says, which surprises Alana because the woman looks no older than she is. “A widow. She admits that Yasin lives here but she swears she hasn’t seen or heard from him in almost a week. She says she’s extremely worried about him.”

“Yasin didn’t tell her where he was going?” Byron asks.

Sergio shakes his head.

Nico elbows his way between the two agents and speaks to Thewhida. After a few moments, he turns to Alana. “She says the last time she saw her son—six days ago—he was complaining of a fever. He left for work and never came home.”

“Was he coughing?” Byron asks.

Nico shakes his head.

“What about rashes or buboes?” Alana asks.

Before Nico can ask, Sergio speaks up in Italian. The woman raises her hands and stumbles back as if he pulled a gun on her.

“What did he say to her?” Byron asks.

“He asked whether her son associates with radicals or Islamists,” Nico explains.

Sergio’s tone turns soothing, but it only seems to agitate Thewhida more. She speaks even faster.

Nico translates for Alana and Byron in snippets. “Yasin is a good boy . . . Religious, yes . . . Not political . . . Doesn’t associate with radicals . . . She forbids it.”

Sergio asks something else. Thewhida begins to answer, but her voice cracks and her words dissolve into incoherent sobs. Nico reaches out to console her, but she recoils from his touch and covers her face. She mutters something in a whisper.

“The Al Halique Mosque,” Nico translates.

Sergio looks over his shoulder at the others. “I know the Al Halique Mosque.”

“How?” Alana asks.

“Last year I interrogated the imam after three teenagers from the mosque were caught trying to get to Syria.” He pauses. “To join ISIS.”

Chapter

Nineteen

Today is the eighth day of February. It is also the day I have been stricken with the plague.

In truth, the first chill came over me yesterday while Jacob ben Moses and his daughter were still present. When it passed without another soon following, I tricked myself into believing that the cool evening combined with my light dress were to blame. The chills returned once I retired to bed. Not even the extra blanket provided me warmth. As soon as the fevers and violent shakes, known to us practitioners as rigors, possessed me, I was certain it was plague.