We all fall down, p.7
We All Fall Down, page 7
“All right,” Olin finally says. “Stay. Be our official lead there. But, Alana, we cannot afford to upset the apple cart.”
“In what sense?”
“The WHO. We need to work with them. Tread lightly. You, of all people, know how they can be.”
“I do.”
“That is history, Alana,” Olin says. “Learn from it, yes, but do not dwell. It’s not constructive.”
Easy for you to say, you weren’t there in West Africa. “I won’t get in the way.”
“And you won’t antagonize them, either?”
“No. Promise. But, Monique, we need to find out exactly what we are dealing with here.”
There’s a slight pause, and Alana pictures her boss peering warily over her reading glasses. “What are you asking for, Alana?”
“We have to share our samples with the WHO’s Level Five laboratory in Geneva.”
Olin inhales sharply. “Are you suggesting we simply hand over samples of the plague bacteria that the Soviets weaponized?”
“Yes.”
“We are talking about one of the world’s most dangerous pathogens, are we not? On a level with smallpox and anthrax, or worse . . .”
“We don’t have to share live samples. Just give the WHO a map of the bacteria’s genome—its genetic fingerprint—for comparison. And not only the Soviet bioweapons. The American one, too.”
“Is this wise, Alana?”
“Monique, what we are dealing with here is not like any other form of plague we’ve seen in the last fifty years or more.”
“It does not mean it’s a weapon, either.”
“Maybe. But how can we know we’re not dealing with bioterrorism until we compare its genetic fingerprints to those bioweapons? We have to, Monique. You know we do.”
“All right. I will speak to the secretary general about releasing the samples. Of course, I need to consult the Americans, too.”
Alana thanks Olin and promises her another update soon. Moments after she hangs up, a dark blue sedan pulls up beside her. Byron is at the wheel and Justine Williams is in the passenger seat. Alana climbs into the back.
“So, why NATO?” Justine asks, apropos of nothing, as the car pulls away from the curb.
“What about NATO?” Alana says.
“You used to be on our team, right? The WHO. You know. The winning team?”
“Not so sure the WHO is always the winning team.”
“And you think NATO is?” Justine laughs. “Come on, you got to admit, it’s a pretty weird transition from public health to this quasi-military stuff.”
Alana isn’t about to discuss the debacle of her final WHO mission in West Africa. “I come from a military family,” she says instead. “I was in the army before I joined the WHO.”
Justine aims an imaginary rifle at her. “As in combat army?”
“Yes, Afghanistan. I was training to be a trauma surgeon.”
“So what got you booted out?”
Alana eyes Justine for a silent moment, deciding whether to rise to the bait. “I was injured,” she finally says.
“Oh! Like an ambush? A roadside IED? Or friendly fire?”
“Ease up, Justine,” Byron interjects.
She looks at him in feigned shock. “This, from you? The king of tact?”
“What about you, Justine? Why rodents?” Alana asks.
She shrugs. “They’re generally more trustworthy than people.”
“Bet you’ve used that line a few times before,” Alana pushes back. “But it’s not an answer.”
“I grew up on a farm in Kansas. My parents are real hicks,” Justine says with a note of affection. “Come to think of it, that’s probably true of my biological family back in China, too. Who knows? Never met them.” She shrugs. “I was always around animals. Fascinated by them. Way more so than humans. Zoology was the natural choice for me when I went away to college in the big city of Manhattan—the one in Kansas, not New York—and one of my profs got me into rodents. The rest is history.”
“There’s no one in the world better at chasing down zoological vectors and their spread,” Byron says.
“Love all the smoke up my ass, boss,” Justine says. “But all in all, I’d prefer a raise.”
The laughter is contagious, and they make small talk for the rest of the ride.
Byron turns off onto the dirt road and parks his car between the construction vehicles in the same gravel lot as Nico did. Alana notices that the stench of diesel is even thicker today. New frameworks of wood and rebar have already popped up in the base of the gaping excavation pit since yesterday. Numerous workers scurry around the site, but Alana doesn’t see any sign of the old monk whom Zanetti had described as a fixture on the site.
Zanetti greets them alone in front of the trailer-office. He wears another dark suit, and his silver-framed sunglasses match the color of his carefully swept-back hair. He shakes hands with Byron and Justine, and leans in to kiss Alana on both cheeks. “Such a pleasure to see this gorgeous face again so soon.”
Alana suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. “Hello, Marcello.”
“So now the World Health Organization is interested in my condominiums?” he asks.
“Mr. Zanetti, the WHO is interested in the woman we believe is the index case behind the spread of the plague,” Byron says.
“Ah, Vittoria. Such a terrible loss.” Zanetti sighs heavily. “I was told she acquired this . . . thing in Ethiopia.”
“We haven’t confirmed that,” Byron says.
“You will, no doubt,” Zanetti says.
Justine pipes up. “What about rats?”
“I do not understand your question, signora.”
“Rodents.” Justine makes a scurrying motion with two fingers. “Have there been reports of rats, mice, squirrels, et cetera, around here?”
“Not to my knowledge. No.”
“What about carcasses or small skeletons? Have you seen any of those?”
“This was once an old monastery. There could have been rats underground, I suppose. There usually are.”
“Not usually. Always.”
“Mr. Zanetti,” Byron says. “We understand that you saw Vittoria Fornero at a time when she might have been most contagious.”
“I am taking the medicines the Public Health people provided to all of us here.” Zanetti turns to Alana with palms extended. “Alana, we discussed this,” he says, sounding like an exasperated father. “Did you not tell your friends?”
“The infection has spread from Vittoria to others, Marcello. Two more have already died. We want to make sure it doesn’t spread here, too.”
Zanetti motions to the nearby workers. “Do any of these men look as if they have the plague?”
Byron smiles. “Did Vittoria before she collapsed?”
Zanetti eyes Byron coolly, but says nothing.
Realizing they will need Zanetti’s cooperation, Alana opts for a more conciliatory tone. “Marcello, I’m sure we’re driving you crazy with the same questions. But can you tell us, has everyone reported in to work today?”
“I do not check every day. I will have to ask Paolo.”
“Please.” Alana wraps her fingers around Zanetti’s elbow and squeezes. “Meantime, will you tour us around the site?”
Zanetti bows his head slightly. “Prego. A pleasure.”
He calls out to some nearby workers. A few moments later, Paolo, the brawny contractor whom Alana had met the previous day, hurries toward them carrying three hard hats. Paolo and Zanetti exchange a few clipped words, before the developer turns to the others and says, “No one has called in sick. Everyone is accounted for.”
“Thank you, Marcello,” Alana says.
“Come.” Zanetti extends a hand proudly toward the pit. “Come see il futuro di Genova costruita sul suo passato!”
“Which means?” Byron asks.
“Our marketing slogan. How would you say in English? ‘The future of Genoa built on her past.’ ”
Zanetti leads them down a wooden staircase and into the excavation pit. They wander among the diggers and bulldozers, between the wooden frames where the cement has yet to harden. At one point, Justine wanders off. Zanetti doesn’t seem to notice. He’s an enthusiastic guide and treats them more like potential condo buyers than doctors tracking a plague outbreak, painting an optimistic picture of the luxurious residences that will soon tower overhead.
Minutes later, Justine rejoins them at the base of the staircase. She pulls a clear plastic container out of her bag and shows them the dark rice-shaped flecks inside. “Droppings,” she announces.
“From?” Byron asks.
“Can’t be positive. But from the size, I’m guessing Rattus. Our old buddy, the black rat.”
Byron nods. “Where did you find them?”
Justine points to a mound of dirt and rubble about a hundred feet away.
“That would make a good rat’s den,” Byron says.
“Ideal. Very cozy.”
Zanetti crosses his arms. “Show me a construction site that does not have a few rats.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Zanetti,” Byron says. “But we’re going to have to scour that pile. This whole site, if need be. Until we find those rats.”
“So go ahead and look.”
“I mean with an entire team. A proper forensic search.”
“And what do you expect us to do in the meantime?” Zanetti asks, his tone now as cold as his glare. “Stop construction?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. This is a public health emergency.”
“And this”—Zanetti taps the ground with a foot—“is the biggest construction site in all of Genoa. Every delay costs a fortune.”
“Your government has given us the authority to investigate wherever and however we deem necessary.” Byron motions to the rat droppings. “This is as necessary as it comes.”
“Tell that to my lawyer!” Zanetti pivots, and marches up the stairs.
They return to Byron’s car in silence. As Alana opens the passenger door, she senses a presence behind her. She looks over her shoulder to see a young man in a hard hat. As he shifts from foot to foot, Alana recognizes him as the anxious-looking teenager whom she saw leaving the trailer yesterday. He’s not sweating today, but he doesn’t seem much calmer.
He glances around and then asks in barely above a whisper, “Sei un dottore?”
“I don’t speak Italian.”
“A doctor?”
“Yes. How can I help you?”
He looks nervously over either shoulder again and then slips her a damp piece of paper.
“What’s this?” Alana asks as she unfolds the crumpled note, but the young man is already rushing away. She resists the urge to call out after him as she watches him disappear behind a cement truck.
She looks down at the note and sees the name “Emilio” with a phone number scrawled beside it.
Chapter
Fifteen
How much did I drink? Marianna Barsotti wonders as she rolls over in bed. She only remembers a Chianti. It’s possible there were a few bottles. Nothing too out of the ordinary for a Thursday night. But her head pounds so hard it feels as if someone is using her skull for a drum.
Marianna pats the spot beside her. It’s still warm and indented from where he was lying, but he is nowhere to be seen. What was his name again? Alberto . . . Adamo . . . no, Adriano! He was funny, that one. And good-looking in a Sicilian way. But the cologne! She can still inhale the vanilla and spice. They always overdo it with the scents.
She bundles the blanket tighter around her. The chill in her apartment is unusual for April. Maybe she will have to turn on the heat today.
She wonders if her guest is in the kitchen or if he’s already gone. It doesn’t really matter. Marianna won’t see him again. She never does. Since her divorce, she prefers it that way—brief intense encounters. The initial eye contact and slow mating dance that, if all goes well, reaches a frenzied conclusion in her bedroom. At thirty-five, Marianna has no problem attracting new men, but a couple of flings a month is plenty.
Adriano was good in bed. She came twice with him, almost effortlessly. Sometimes, it takes all her energy to climax even once with the awkward or selfish ones. She didn’t mind that Adriano smoked, but his cough was off-putting. It almost prevented her from taking him home. But he assured her it was only a smoker’s cough. Now she wonders. And with her trip to Paris less than a month away, she cannot afford to take any more sick time from work.
Marianna’s head throbs as if the imaginary drummer dropped his sticks and started to just whack her scalp instead. Oh, Mother of God, don’t tell me Adriano gave me the goddamn flu!
Chapter
Sixteen
Alana can see that Nico hasn’t slept. It’s more than just his bloodshot eyes or the dark pouches beneath them. The shadow on his cheeks and, more strikingly, the unruly spikes of hair tell the story. The messiness is so unlike him. She wonders if he remembers texting her at 1:37 a.m. and then again at 2:04 a.m. The two rambling messages—both filled with misspelled words and Italian phrases—expressed his drunken fear that it might already be too late to contain the outbreak. But it was the last two lines in his second text that stuck in her mind and kept her up an extra hour or two. “I cannot resent this plague too much,” he wrote. “After all, it brought you back into my life.”
Alana gets angry again thinking about it. Nico is the one with the family. The adorable kids. The loving spouse. They both had made their choices. And, while she had never felt the urge when she was younger, now, in her late thirties, she wonders more and more what life might have been like had she settled down and had kids of her own. It’s unfair of Nico to drunkenly toss around verbal grenades such as “back into my life.” He has things she might never have.
She knows it’s not the time or the place to confront him over the texts. The little café behind the hospital is teeming this morning. People chat in English around them. She assumes some, if not most, are with the international media, who seemed to have jumped en masse on the outbreak overnight.
They have to lean across the table and speak in low voices to avoid being overheard. “So this Emilio . . . he has not answered your calls?” Nico asks.
“Or my texts,” Alana says.
The creases in his brow deepen. “It probably has nothing to do with the plague.”
“Maybe,” she says, but her gut tells her otherwise. “How is Claudio today?”
“No worse. Perhaps a little better. The plague certainly has not claimed his sense of humor . . . unfortunately.” He squeezes his forehead between his thumb and forefinger. “Alana, did you hear about the latest death?”
“Yes.” Byron woke her at five-thirty with a text detailing the fourth known victim. The young woman had apparently been one of Sonia Poletti’s closest friends. “The infection is grabbing a foothold in the community.”
“At least three more new cases overnight,” he says. “One of them is admitted across town to a different hospital, Ospedale Centralino. And, Alana . . .” He pauses. “This patient only has buboes in his armpits and groin. It’s not in his lungs.”
“How does that happen, Nico?”
“Mannaggia, Alana!” he groans. “How does any of this happen?”
“You know what I mean! The only way to transmit the plague from person to person is through the lungs, not the skin.”
“It’s true.”
“Maybe he picked it up from the same place Vittoria did?”
“The construction site?”
“Where else?”
Nico drains the last sip of his espresso. “Speaking of the site, Marcello came over last night.”
“To see you?”
“I wasn’t home, but Isabella says he was beside himself. He begged her to talk to me. To put a good word in for him with the WHO.”
She grimaces. “Marcello really thinks your wife would try to intervene?”
“He is her favorite uncle.”
Alana senses how conflicted Nico must feel. Perhaps a fight with his wife over her uncle’s request had launched him on the previous night’s bender. Empathy edges out her frustration with him. She rests a hand on his wrist. He looks surprised, but makes no move to pull away. “Why is Marcello so opposed to a search for a few rats?” she asks.
“He thinks the search could bankrupt him. The delays and so on.”
“Or is it possible he’s just worried what they will find?”
“Perhaps. Marcello says that if the press learns that the WHO is searching his site, it will ruin the development. Even if they find nothing, the new condos will still be worthless.”
“He might be right. But his financial viability is the least of our problems.”
He slips his arm free. “Just another victim of the plague, no?”
She looks at him. “Not sure it will help, Nico, but I can ask Byron to conduct the search as discreetly as possible.”
“Discreetly? Byron? Have you met the man?”
She chuckles. “Good point.”
“So what are the next steps?”
“I heard from my boss this morning. NATO is willing to share the genetic architecture of all known plague bioweapons with the WHO lab. The entire genomes.”
“You don’t really believe it will be the source, do you? Bioterrorism?”
“It’s my job to consider the possibility.”
His tired eyes show a glimmer of pity. “Sounds like a morbid job, Alana. Do you not miss the clinical work?”
“Sometimes,” she admits.
He grins, and years dissolve from his face. “Remember Angola? During the cholera outbreak? We made a difference there, you and I.”
How could I forget? she thinks. But she refuses to let herself reminisce. “During the Cold War, the Soviets developed the most elaborate bioweapons program ever seen.”
“Using the plague?”
“There were other diseases, too, like anthrax and smallpox. But the Soviets recognized Yersinia for the ideal weapon it could be. Their scientists developed a highly contagious flea-borne form of the plague as well as an aerosolized version. We estimated that a single airborne release over a densely populated urban center would kill upward of a hundred thousand people.”
