We all fall down, p.11
We All Fall Down, page 11
She innately trusts Claudio. Moreover, she knows Yasin Ahmed’s name will soon become public, but until then the information is still classified. She backs a step away from the bed. “I should let you rest.”
“Ah, sometimes I forget that you are a regular Jane Bond.”
“Not quite.”
“Tell me, how does an infectious disease specialist end up running NATO?”
“Running? Hardly. I’m just a peon.” She snorts. “I ended up working at NATO by chance. Like most of my other life decisions.”
Claudio stares at her expectantly. Behind his levity, there’s an intensity that Alana finds compelling. “I was on my way to becoming a trauma surgeon with the army, like my mom and dad, but my shoulder was torn apart in Afghanistan. My surgical career was over before it even started. Not to mention my tennis game.” She’s surprised to find herself opening up to him in a way that she rarely does, even to close friends.
“Tennis, my favorite. You play?”
“I did. Varsity-level at college. Loved it. It was my favorite release. But I can’t serve a ball now without dislocating my shoulder.”
“A shame. We could’ve played. My game is only so-so, but I’m a world-class cheater.” His grin dissipates. “So once you couldn’t operate anymore . . .”
“Didn’t know what I was going to do with myself. One day, I ran into my favorite prof from med school. A microbiologist. Dr. Crawford. He was ancient and eccentric as hell, but he always made the field of infectious diseases feel so vital. He used to portray it as a microscopic battleground as important as any war. Dr. Crawford convinced me to give it a whirl. After finishing my residency, I ended up at the WHO because, in my mind, it embodied the battle.” She laughs self-consciously. “Or maybe the truth is that I just love to travel. My whole life, I’ve never really settled in one place. Even as a kid, I was always on the move with my parents from base to base and country to country.”
“So why NATO?”
“My last mission with the WHO in Liberia, it . . . disillusioned me. And I’m nothing if not pigheaded—just ask my dad. I quit on principle. Or maybe impulse? On my way out of Geneva, at the airport, I had another chance encounter, with an old family friend who works for NATO. He encouraged me to speak to his colleague Monique Olin, who happens to be the assistant secretary general. My medical and military background fit what Monique was looking for. One thing led to another, and here I am . . .” She runs a hand over her gown. “In this fumigator getup.”
“It suits you. You look like a sexy beekeeper. Now I understand why you have Nico so flustered.”
“He’s married, Claudio.”
“Technically, yes.”
Alana squints in suspicion. “What does that mean?”
“He never told you about Isabella?”
“Very little. What about her?”
“There was another man.” Claudio shrugs. “Nico and Isabella were already separated when he found out she was pregnant with Simona. He thought it would be a good idea if he stayed and gave it another try. I didn’t think so. I still don’t. Things are not good between them.”
Alana says nothing. She can’t even discern her own response to the news. She wonders why Nico wouldn’t have told her any of this. While she’s still digesting it, her phone vibrates in her pocket under her gown. The rapid triple buzz identifies Byron as the sender.
She bids a quick goodbye to Claudio and heads out. As soon as she strips out of her protective gear and clears the final security hurdle, she calls Byron and arranges to meet him across the street from the hospital.
Outside, Alana weaves through the hive of media at the main door. She crosses the intersection to where Byron and Justine wait on the sidewalk.
As Alana approaches, Justine shakes a finger at her. “Your friend went and did it!”
“Which friend?”
“That developer. Zanetti!”
“He’s not my friend.”
“You two seemed pretty cozy.”
Alana crosses her arms. “What the hell are you talking about, Justine? What has he done?”
“He cleared the construction site. Every last trace.”
“What? You couldn’t find any rats?”
“Find any? It’s like rats never existed in Genoa. Our first visit there, I found two piles of droppings within five minutes. This time I couldn’t find so much as a single hair after hours combing the site.”
Byron shakes his head. “Zanetti stalled us with a court injunction long enough for his team to sanitize the site.”
“Why would he do that?” Alana wonders aloud.
“Because he’s corrupt as sin!” Justine cries.
“Even so,” Alana says. “If Yasin Ahmed really was spreading the plague at the construction site and other places across the city, why would Zanetti need to cover it up?”
“He obviously ordered the cleanup before he heard about the other cases,” Byron says.
“Besides, crime scenes aren’t usually helpful for condo sales,” Justine says. “Try selling your house after someone’s been iced in the bedroom.”
Alana ignores the morbid joke. “So you don’t expect to find any live rats at the site?”
“I’m more likely to find a brontosaurus stomping around,” Justine says. “They did a very thorough job.”
“Can you prove Zanetti did it?” Alana asks.
“How do you prove something that no longer exists? Someone covered up the evidence. No question.”
Alana remembers her first visit to the construction site. “There was this monk from the old monastery. I saw him there my first day. Zanetti told us he loitered at the site. Emilio mentioned him, too. What was his name? Brother . . .” She snaps her fingers. “Brother Silvio. Yes, that’s it . . . Silvio.”
“How can he help us?” Justine asks.
“Not sure,” Alana admits. “I assume he lived there a long time. He might know things about the site. Also, it sounds as though he was chatty with Emilio. Maybe he talked to Yasin, as well?”
Justine rolls her eyes. “Oh, this sounds like a sure bet.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Alana asks.
Before Justine can respond, Alana feels her phone vibrate again. This time the slow staccato tells her that it’s from her boss. She pulls out her phone and looks at the screen. The message from Olin only contains a single hyperlink and no other text. Alana clicks on it and her screen fills with an online article. The headline screams: “Plague outbreak linked to terrorism!” On the next line down, the subhead reads: “Authorities searching for fugitive Yasin Ahmed.”
Alana turns the screen around and holds it out to the other two. “What the fuck, Byron?”
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Mamma tells Rosa that Papà has gone to live with the angels. Rosa doesn’t understand what she means. Why would Papà live with the angels when they moved into such a nice house with Nonna? And besides, Papà promised to take her to the park on Saturday. The big swings. Papà always keeps his word.
“Everything is going to be fine, precious one,” Mamma says as she sits behind Rosa and weaves her hair into braids.
But if that is true, Rosa wonders, why is Mamma crying so hard? “Papà won’t stay with the angels too long, Mamma,” Rosa says. “He will miss us too much.”
The laughter only makes Mamma sob louder. Rosa doesn’t know how else to comfort her. And she feels guilty for lying. She told her mother that she had drunk all the yucky medicine that the doctor promised would keep her safe after what happened to Papà. But Rosa couldn’t swallow it. It tasted worse than that oily fish her auntie cooks. So Rosa only pretended to swallow the medicine and went and spat it out in a tissue after each spoonful.
Rosa feels chilled. For a moment she wonders if Nonna or Papà opened a window. But Nonna is not home and Papà is with the angels. “Mamma, you won’t go live with the angels, will you?” she asks.
Her mother kisses the top of her head and wraps her arm tightly around Rosa’s chest. “No, no, darling. I will never leave you.”
Rosa squeezes the back of her mother’s hand. “Promise, Mamma?”
“I promise, precious!” Mamma grabs Rosa’s hand and clutches it in hers. “I will never let you go.”
Rosa doesn’t understand why the room is getting so cold. She snuggles in closer to Mamma, but it doesn’t really help. “Mamma, can I have ribbons on my braids?” Rosa asks.
“Of course, darling. What color?”
Rosa hesitates. “I like pink and blue.”
Mamma laughs through her tears again. “Why not both, then?”
“Why not, Mamma?” Rosa echoes as her legs and arms begin to tremble from the cold.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Nico hasn’t said more than three words since he got behind the wheel. Alana can’t remember seeing him this angry. She tried to talk him out of confronting Zanetti, but recognizing how futile it was, she insisted on accompanying him instead.
They are heading south of the city along the Ligurian coastline. The two-lane highway is congested with late afternoon traffic. Nico drives aggressively, quick on his horn and veering out often into the opposite lane to look for any opportunity to overtake the cars ahead.
Alana finally breaks the silence. “I saw Claudio this afternoon. He’s doing better.”
Nico only nods.
“He also told me some things.” She clears her throat. “About you and Isabella.”
Nico glances over at her. “Like?”
“He said you two went through a . . . rough patch around the time Simona was born.”
“A rough patch?” Nico snorts. “I suppose you could call it that.”
“How would you describe it?”
“Isabella thought I had become distant. And that I was working too much.” He shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe she was right.”
“These things usually take two.”
“Then again, I thought she was fucking one too many men.”
Alana’s gaze drops to her lap. “I’m sorry, Nico.”
“Her boss. At the bank. Can you believe it? Such a cliché.” He scoffs. “And I was the one who had ‘the wandering eye.’ Isabella, she would get so jealous.” Alana doesn’t say anything, so he continues. “Never once, Alana. Not with Isabella or you or anyone else have I ever crossed that line.”
“I believe you, Nico.”
“We had troubles. What marriage doesn’t? But to climb into bed with Roberto? What kind of answer is that?”
“Was that what she was looking for? An answer?”
“She tells me she was lonely. Feeling neglected.” He exhales heavily. “I work too much. I know. And yes, I probably drink too much wine, too. But we all need to unwind somehow, no?”
Alana doubts Nico believes the rationalization any more than she does, but it’s not the moment to argue.
“Sometimes, when I look at little Simona, mia bambina preziosa,” he shakes his head, “I wonder if she’s even mine.”
“Of course she is! Regardless of the circumstances.”
“What Isabella has done . . . I am not sure I can get over this.”
“You say that now, but your feelings might change over time.”
Nico’s only answer is to veer left and accelerate into the oncoming lane to overtake the car ahead of him. A motorcycle flies toward them directly ahead. Alana grips the armrest. “Nico . . .”
He swerves back into the right lane, missing the motorcycle by what seems like only yards. The biker rides his horns and flips his arm furiously as they pass.
“Nico! Is it worth getting someone killed?”
“This is how we drive here.”
“How you drive!”
His shoulders bob up and down.
“Besides,” she says. “Even if you don’t kill me on the road, Byron probably will.”
“For what?”
“Going to see Marcello without him.”
“Marcello is not Byron’s uncle.”
“Maybe so. But after the Emilio incident, I promised to cooperate fully with him.”
Ignoring the comment, Nico motions ahead out the window to the striking cluster of colorful villas that are perched along the coastal waterfront at the foot of rolling hills. “They call this area Golfo Paradiso. These beautiful old seaside towns. Suburbs of Genoa.” He barely slows as he turns off at an exit. “Marcello lives here, in Bogliasco.”
The road quickly tapers into a narrow stone street. They follow it for a few blocks farther before Nico turns into the driveway of a red stucco villa. Though it has a lovely view of the ocean, the house is no bigger than the neighboring villas and far more modest than what Alana had expected from the developer.
Just as Nico parks the car, Alana’s phone vibrates. She glances at the display and, recognizing Sergio’s number, answers the call on speakerphone.
“Where are you?” the AISI agent demands.
“Just outside the city. Why?”
“We need you here.”
Alana glances at Nico, who holds up a finger and mouths the words, One hour.
“We can be back in town in an hour or so,” Alana says.
“No longer,” Sergio says. “We’re assembling the team now. We’ll be ready in an hour. And, Alana, no one else. Only you.”
“The team?” She peers at the phone. “What’s going on, Sergio?”
“Ibrahim Hussein.”
“Who is he?”
“One of the men we interviewed from the Al Halique Mosque.”
“What about him?”
“We kept all three men from the mosque under surveillance after releasing them. The imam and the second man, they returned home. Not Ibrahim Hussein. He made his way to an apartment in the Cornigliano neighborhood.”
“What’s so suspicious about that?”
“Hussein didn’t go there directly, Alana. He took three buses and a taxi.”
“As if trying to lose a tail?”
“And he almost did,” Sergio says. “This apartment, it’s less than a mile from where Yasin’s family lives.”
“Is he still there?”
“As of now, yes.”
“What else do you know about him, Sergio?”
“The windows are shuttered but we were able to lower a listening device from the rooftop. There are at least two others inside with Hussein.”
Her pulse pounds in her temples. “What have you heard so far?”
“Hussein told the other two that the authorities were onto them,” Sergio says ominously. “He keeps telling them that they need to act now or go into hiding.”
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Marcello Zanetti adjusts the tight knot on his navy tie as he steps onto the driveway to greet his nephew-in-law and the woman from NATO who was meddling at his site.
Zanetti hugs Nico, who is uncharacteristically stiff in his arms, and then kisses Alana on both cheeks. He steps back to appraise her again for a moment. She’s undeniably attractive, with long auburn hair, angular cheeks, and full lips. Her dark green eyes are striking, a color that reminds him of the ocean churning in a storm. But she’s too slender for him. And, besides, he doesn’t trust her; especially not now, when she seems as on edge as Nico is.
Zanetti buries his suspicions behind a welcoming smile. “Nico, what would my niece think?” He winks conspiratorially. “You alone with this vision? Out on a romantic seaside drive.”
Nico ignores the comment. “Is Anna home?”
Zanetti isn’t about to let them know that his wife has left him. Instead, he says, “She is never home. This board and that board.” He laughs. “Apparently Genoa would have no art, opera, or culture of any kind without my wife’s constant presence.”
Nico heads through the open doorway without invitation. Zanetti follows him in, as does Alana. They step down into the sunken den that, Zanetti proudly knows, reveals the villa’s hidden grandeur to first-time guests. The bright open floor plan is all-white and is furnished with sofas and chairs of the finest Italian leather. Marble countertops complement the kitchen’s sleek cabinetry and appliances. And a retractable glass wall leads to the wraparound mahogany deck that is perched over the sea. The wall is open now, and the warm breeze drifts through the room.
Zanetti motions to the leather couch facing the water. Alana sits beside Nico. Still standing, Zanetti motions to the décor. “So, Alana, you like?”
“It’s quite spectacular,” she says.
“We renovated last year. It was all Anna. Every single detail down to the lining of the drawers.” Zanetti smiles again as he wonders if his wife is even still in the city. Could she be ill? He hasn’t heard from her in days. “What would you like to drink? Grappa? Wine? I have a Barolo from just north of here that is quite tasty.”
“Not for me, thanks,” Alana says. “We’re in a bit of hurry, Marcello.”
“Nico?” Zanetti asks.
He shakes his head.
“Nico, since when do you say no to a glass of Barolo—”
“This is not a social call.”
Unfazed, Zanetti sits down in the chair across from them. “They seldom are with you, these days.”
Nico eyes him with a sternness he hardly recognizes in his nephew-in-law. “What have you done, Marcello?”
“Done?” The hair on Zanetti’s neck bristles. “With what?”
“The construction site.”
“Not as much as I would like. This wild goose chase—searching the site and questioning my employees—has already cost me two days in delays. That is a fortune in my business.” Zanetti breathes slowly, swallowing his annoyance. “And for what?”
“You destroyed evidence, didn’t you?” Nico snaps.
Zanetti squints, as if genuinely confused by the accusation. “What are you saying, Nico?”
“The rats! You got rid of every last trace of them.”
“Chi vi ha detto—”
“English, Marcello, please!”
“Who told you this? The Chinese lady?”
“Justine is a world expert,” Alana says. “She claims the site has been tampered with to eliminate all trace of rodents.”
