“Which is?”

“Ebola kills most of its sufferers. It’s too damned lethal. It usually burns itself out by running out of fresh victims. But if we are looking at a survival rate of one-half or two-thirds for those infected, then the plague can just keep spreading and spreading.”

He nods grimly. “And it has a separate animal reservoir—in rats and fleas—whereas Ebola only infects primates.”

“Yup. The Black Death could be as big a killer now as it was in medieval times. Half of Europe gone in three years. We’re talking tens of millions of people in today’s terms. Maybe more.” She hums the tune to a familiar nursery rhyme and then, as she lets the straw topple to the table, mutters, “Ashes, ashes. We all fall down.”

“Come on, Alana. You’re getting a little carried away.”

“Am I?” She raises her empty glass and shakes it in the direction of the waiter. “We might be truly fucked this time around, Byron.”

“So this is you after two drinks, huh?”

Alana laughs. “Yeah, but they’re doubles.”

“Can’t wait to see what a third does for you.”

“Puts me to sleep, I hope.”

His smile fades. “Tell me about West Africa, Alana. Seriously.”

“What’s to know?”

“I heard it’s why you left the WHO.”

“You heard right.”

He leans closer. “What went so wrong?”

“I’ve seen a lot of pointless death in my day. I’ve been to some of the most hopeless places the world has to offer. And before the WHO, I was stationed for four months in Afghanistan. Christ, I almost died there. But Liberia . . .” She closes her eyes. “That was worse. Way worse.”

“Worse how?”

“The WHO sent us in unarmed and unprepared. We were as useless as a rescue boat without life preservers . . . or rope . . . or a fucking rudder or compass, for that matter.” She looks up at him. “There were only three of us on my team. It was so bad, so much worse than what we expected. I warned Geneva every single day. And they just sat on my reports. All we wanted to do was to protect local doctors and nurses who were caring for the sick and dying. They were begging us for simple stuff like sterile gloves and masks, body bags for the dead. The most basic infection-control gear. And all I got from Geneva was the runaround.”

“That surprises you? You know how the bureaucracy creaks along at the WHO. Takes a special task force just to get the printer paper refilled.”

“Tell that to Moses Conteh.”

“Who?”

“A local doctor who ran a clinic in Ganta, in the north. Maybe the bravest guy I’ve ever met. Moses worked day and night with Ebola victims. He used to plead with me for supplies to protect his staff. Right up until the day the virus killed him.” She shakes her head. “Moses was thirty-four years old.”

The waiter drops off a fresh vodka for her and sweeps the last glass away with a quick “Prego.”