Outside, a taxi is idling near the entry. Alana climbs inside and the young driver greets her with an over-the-shoulder grin. But his expression turns from welcoming to wary when she informs him that she’s heading to the Ospedale San Martino. Only after she manages to convey that she is a dottore, not a potential patient, does he agree to drive her there at all.

As soon as the cab pulls away, Alana phones Sergio Fassino. She spent much of the previous day with the intelligence officer after the search for the missing Yasin Ahmed intensified. By day’s end, they still hadn’t found him, but AISI agents had rounded up the imam at the Al Halique Mosque along with two other men from the mosque who were on the Italian equivalent of a no-fly list.

Despite the early hour, Sergio answers on the second ring, sounding as if he has been up for hours. Alana has little doubt that his blazer is buttoned and his tie already knotted. “The imam and the two others from the mosque claim they know nothing of Yasin Ahmed’s whereabouts or any of his recent activity,” Sergio offers, before she can even inquire. “The imam was the only one to admit being even familiar with Yasin.”

“Do you believe them?”

“Not necessarily,” Sergio says. “We searched their homes overnight. We discovered militant propaganda on one of the computers. But we have not found anything to connect any of them to Yasin or this outbreak. Still, we will keep an eye on them.”

“No other leads on Yasin’s whereabouts?”

“We’re interviewing more friends and family, but nothing so far,” Sergio says. “His cell phone has not been active in over a week. The last traceable signal came from the construction site where he was last seen.”

“His mother and Emilio both say Yasin was already sick that day,” Alana thinks aloud. “Yet he still worked at the site?”

“Apparently.”

“Why would you do a day of hard labor if you were trying to spread an infection as a weapon of mass destruction?”

“To expose as many people as possible?” Sergio suggests.

“All right, then why not go somewhere crowded? A concert? A soccer game? Or just board an airplane?”

“Perhaps he didn’t want to draw attention.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of terrorism?” It was one of the inconsistencies that had been gnawing at her overnight. “If Yasin is our Patient Zero—our bacterial ‘suicide bomber,’ as it were—he couldn’t have done any of this without support. A lot of it. And if other terrorists are involved, why has no group stepped forward to claim credit?”

“Maybe they are waiting for the damage to increase? Until the body count is high enough to draw even more attention.”

“I suppose,” she says, but something doesn’t sit right.

Alana hangs up just as the driver pulls up to a curb. He points to the front window and indicates the hospital, which is at least two blocks away. She accepts the premature stop with a simple “Grazie” and pays in cash.