We all fall down, p.8
We All Fall Down, page 8
“A hundred thousand?” He cringes.
“And that was a conservative estimate. They never did use it, of course, but it didn’t stop them from mass-producing the stuff.”
“But this all would have been decades ago, no?”
“Maybe so, but after the Soviet Union fell apart, the Russians lost track of some of their supply of bioweapons. Particularly in their labs in former satellite states such as Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, and Ukraine.”
“How could they let that happen? Like losing track of a nuclear bomb. Alana, if this outbreak is related to that . . .”
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. She has harbored the fear since the moment she first laid eyes on the dying Vittoria. “Did you ever hear how the plague reached Europe during the Middle Ages?”
“What do the Middle Ages have to do with biological warfare?”
“Caffa.”
“What is Caffa?”
“A port in the Ukraine. On the Black Sea. Now known as Feodosiya. But in the fourteenth century, Caffa was the key trading port between East and West. And you’ll never guess which great merchant seafaring state colonized Caffa at the time.”
“Genoa?”
She nods. “In 1347, the Mongols laid siege to the walls of Caffa. They probably would have made short work of it, too, if the plague hadn’t swept in from Asia around the same time. The Mongols died off in droves. They assumed the Genoese inside the fort were somehow responsible. So—in maybe the first-ever documented example of biological warfare—the Mongols began to catapult rotting corpses of their own soldiers over the walls of Caffa. Soon the Genoese became sick, too. It caused mass panic, and many of them fled for home.”
“Bringing the plague back to Europe with them?”
“Exactly. Via the so-called plague ships,” she says. “To Sicily, to Venice, and eventually, of course, right here to Genoa.”
They lapse into a despondent silence. Alana feels her phone vibrate. Relieved for the distraction, she reaches for it. Her pulse picks up as soon as she recognizes the cell number for Emilio’s. The text reads: “Via Capodistria e Via Vincenzo Bellini. Un’ora.”
Alana turns the screen out to show Nico. “Emilio wants to meet!”
He nods. “In one hour. I know that neighborhood. Cornigliano. I will take you.”
“Should we let Byron know?”
“Byron has more than enough on his hands.”
Alana vacillates a moment. If they arrive with too many people, Emilio may not show or might be too spooked to talk. She replies to Emilio’s text with one word: “Sì.”
Nico drives, but with less urgency than on their last frantic ride. Alana’s phone rings, and when she sees Byron’s name on the call display, she answers on speakerphone.
“Where are you?” Byron demands.
She glances at Nico, who shakes his head. “Tied up. NATO business.”
“Nice to know NATO has more pressing priorities when all hell is breaking loose around here.”
“What happened?”
“Multiple new patients. Worse, there are two cases on the other side of the city that are definitely the bubonic plague. Neither have any connection to Vittoria Fornero or Sonia Poletti. We can’t even say for certain that Vittoria is Patient Zero anymore.”
“For this to be spreading through the skin, not the lungs . . .”
“There has to be some kind of animal reservoir. It must be incubating among rats or other rodents before being transmitted by fleas.”
“Unless we’re talking bioterrorism.”
“Of course. It always has to come back to that with you.”
She takes a long breath. “Byron, Brussels is willing to release the DNA blueprints on the Cold War–era bioweapons.”
After a slight pause, he says, “Okay, let’s compare them. At this point, I’m willing to try anything.”
“What about the vaccine?” Alana asks.
“We don’t have any here yet. And unless you can convince your government—”
“I work for NATO, not the Americans.”
“Well, unless someone can convince the U.S. military to release their supply—as in yesterday—the vaccine will do us no good. Besides, even if they had enough to share—and that’s a huge if—we have no idea how effective it would be.”
Nico nods in silent agreement.
“What about mass prophylaxis?” Alana suggests. “Starting everyone in the affected neighborhoods and hospitals on preventative antibiotics?”
“We’ve already begun,” Byron says. “But you know what’s bound to happen if we put everyone on antibiotics willy-nilly?”
“Resistance,” she concedes.
“Exactly. We’ll inadvertently breed out the most antibiotic-resistant strains of Yersinia. And then we’ll have no treatment options left for the sickest patients.”
“So it’s a catch-22.”
“A razor-thin balance, at least. If we cover everyone with antibiotics, we risk creating an even worse outbreak. But we have to cover the most vulnerable.”
Alana locks eyes with Nico. He looks as despondent as she feels. “What about the airport and train stations?” she asks.
“We’ve started to screen all departing travelers, just like we did for Ebola,” Byron says. “But there must be a thousand ways to get out of Genoa. Land, sea, or air. Besides, someone could hop on a plane while incubating the plague without ever knowing it.”
“What’s your next step?”
“Epidemiology 101. Contact-chasing. We keep tracking anyone who might have crossed paths with infected patients. At least that’s one thing this media circus can help with.” He pauses to mutters something indistinct to someone else, then says, “Oh, hopefully we’ll secure our court order to search the construction site by this afternoon. It would be a help if your friend Nico could convince his uncle to just let us start now.”
“I’ll run it by him,” Alana says.
Nico shakes his head vehemently.
“One last thing,” Byron says. “The lab in Geneva confirmed that this strain of the bacteria is not the same subtype as the one currently active in Ethiopia. So Vittoria definitely didn’t pick it up there. In fact, so far, this bug doesn’t match any known isolate of Yersinia.”
None of this fits! Alana wants to scream. “Byron, it’s more important than ever to consider the possibility of a genetically engineered strain—” But the line goes dead before she can even finish the thought.
“I thought Canadians were famous for their politeness,” Nico says.
“I think he’s trying to single-handedly torpedo that reputation.” She runs a hand through her hair. “No known matches, Nico.”
His silent acknowledgment is troubling. She soon lapses into her own thoughts.
As they drive eastward, the city transforms in front of Alana’s eyes. Genoa’s high curved walls and grand buildings, with their bright colors and intricate embossments, give way to more working-class neighborhoods. One street begins to resemble the next, all of them lined by drab low-rise apartment blocks of indeterminate age with laundry drying from lines strung between windows.
Eventually Nico pulls the car over to the curb near an intersection. Alana checks her watch and realizes they’re a few minutes early. She scans the narrow street. An elderly woman sweeps the sidewalk in front of a café. Four screaming boys chase a soccer ball down the street. Two young black women in headscarves push strollers past. But she sees no sign of anyone who could be Emilio.
“Over there,” Nico says. Alana follows his gaze, but she has to squint to see the figure.
Someone is standing back in the shadow between two buildings, beckoning them with a hand held close to his chest. As they approach, he retreats from view.
They find Emilio wedged in the doorway of a building with his back against the entry. Dishes clatter somewhere behind him. The faint stench of garbage wafts over them. Emilio shuffles from foot to foot, his eyes constantly scouring the street. Alana wonders if he might be high.
Emilio motions at Nico with his chin but keeps his eyes on Alana. “Who is the man?” he asks in a thick Italian accent.
“Dr. Oliva. A doctor, like me. He is a specialist at Ospedale San Martino. Vittoria was one of his patients.”
Nico speaks to Emilio in a rapid-fire exchange that leaves Alana in the dark. “Please,” she finally interrupts. “English.”
“Sorry,” Nico says. “Emilio says there was something strange about the construction site. Like it was . . .” He turns to Emilio and says, “Maledetto,” and the boy nods vigorously. “Cursed. Apparently the old monk—the one we saw being escorted away from the site—he warned Emilio. Something about tampering with sacred grounds.”
“Sì, sì!” Emilio wipes his sweaty forehead. “Bad, very bad. As soon as he got sick! Brother Silvio speak true. Terribili segreti.”
“Terrible secrets,” Nico translates.
“And then he disappear!” Emilio cries. “Andato!”
“He?” Alana says. “Vittoria didn’t disappear, Emilio. She is dead.”
“Vittoria?” Emilio grimaces. “No, no. No. Not Vittoria. Yas!”
Alana glances at Nico who shakes his head, as bewildered as she is. “Who is Yas?” she asks.
“My friend, Yas,” Emilio says as if she should already know. “Yasin Ahmed. He works like me. At San Giovanni. Yas got sick before Vittoria!”
Chapter
Seventeen
Today is the seventh day of February. Three days have passed since my audience with the Archbishop, and his soldiers have yet to return for me. I expect them still. The Archbishop all but accused me of sorcery. In these turbulent times, there is hardly a more serious charge.
I returned to the market this morning in search of food and supplies. A quiet had fallen over it that was somehow more discomforting than the raucous hubbub of my previous visit. There were few vendors or shoppers and besides, little was available to purchase. The stalls were as barren as they had been after the last great drought.
On my way home, I passed the row houses that had been the target of such scrutiny. The doors and windows were still boarded shut. Not a single sound emanated from inside. But the terrible fetor seeping through the cracks told me all I needed to know about the fate of the residents.
I am relieved that my dear Camilla has been spared from having to witness all of this suffering. For her, the loss of decency and humanity would have been even more troubling than the ubiquitous death.
At times, in moments of weakness to be sure, I think I would welcome a quick end to this life for the chance to be reunited with Camilla, if only in the ground. However, I know it to be the coward’s path. I am beholden to duty and obligation. My services are more sought-after than ever before.
Among the many people who came seeking my care today, the most unexpected was my old colleague Jacob ben Moses. His youngest daughter, Gabriella, brought him to my surgery. Jacob could not have made the trip on his own. He could barely stand. At first glance, I thought he had contracted the plague. However, I soon saw that both of his eyes were blackened. The right one was swollen shut. I noticed that he was cradling his left arm against his chest. I looked closer and saw the deformity at his elbow, where the forearm was bent at an unnatural angle. The bones were clearly out of the joint. With his daughter’s assistance, I positioned him on a stool and supported his arm with mine. He did not utter so much as a moan as I applied force until a loud clunk indicated that the bones had slid back into place.
Jacob laughed in relief. He bent and extended his arm to prove to himself that he once again could. As often as I have seen my own patients suffer, he said, one can never appreciate another’s pain until one has endured it himself.
Who did this to you? I asked.
What is done is done, he said. And you have reversed the damage. Thank you, Rafael.
I turned to his daughter and repeated the question. I had only met Gabriella once before, prior to her husband’s death the previous winter. I knew her to be the youngest, by several years, of Jacob’s three living offspring. His unexpected blessing, as he had once described her. She possessed a kind face that was striking in its contrast with hair as dark as nightfall but eyes as pale as the summer sky. There was sadness in those eyes, but also resolve.
Our neighbors beat my father, Gabriella said. The very same Christians who rush to see him in the middle of the night if their wives or children take ill, even though their own Church forbids them to.
Enough, daughter, Jacob said.
It is true, Father. They will borrow our money, bargain for our wares, and take whatever else they need from us. But as soon as ill fortune befalls them, they always blame us.
We are fortunate, daughter. Other kingdoms have forced Jews to live in ghettos. Or banished them altogether. The gentiles treat us well here in Genova.
Your face would suggest otherwise, I said.
They blame us when the crops fail or if their livestock are not thriving or if the weather is too hot or too cold, Gabriella said. The worst is when they return home drunk from the tavern with heavy gambling losses. That is somehow always the fault of the Jew.
Forgive my daughter’s outspokenness, Jacob said.
Gabriella was too impassioned to desist. You Christians will forever hold the Jews responsible for the death of your Messiah. I wish only that you would acknowledge Gesù Cristo was one of us himself.
That is enough, daughter.
Fear clouded Gabriella’s pale eyes. Doctor Pasqua, the neighbors, they were accusing Father of somehow being responsible for the spread of this pestilence, she said. One of them even suggested that he might have poisoned the well.
They are terrified, Jacob said. They are desperate for an explanation for something that is beyond explanation.
They look for a scapegoat, Father.
Maybe it is best if you depart Genova for a while? I suggested.
Jacob shook his head. They may accost us, yes. They may even strike us in frustration. However, I know these neighbors to be decent people. They will not do worse. And it shall pass. It always does.
I could see that Jacob had made up his mind, so I said nothing more.
However, as I record this now, I think again of those doomed residents who were effectively buried alive by order of the council at the mere suggestion of the pestilence spreading from within their homes. No, my learned colleague is wrong in his belief. Dangerously so. They will do worse. And this shall not pass.
Chapter
Eighteen
Alana braces herself as she steps into Byron’s temporary office inside City Hall. It’s as messy as she expected, with boxes piled haphazardly, paper strewn across his desk, and a jacket crumpled on the floor behind his chair.
“Let me understand this, Alana,” Byron says pleasantly, as he leans back in his chair. “NATO is now running an investigation parallel to ours?”
“No. Emilio—the young construction worker I texted you about—contacted me. I had no idea what it was about until I met him.”
His grin only widens. “Of course. Could have been about anything, right? Traffic congestion in Genoa, global warming, the isolating effect of social media on millennials . . .”
She feels her cheeks heating. “He wanted to meet urgently.”
“And you decided you didn’t need to include me?”
“I’m qualified to handle it. And, besides, I don’t work for the WHO anymore. My capacity in this investigation is now official. And separate from yours.”
“Alana, I have been up-front with you from the outset. I’ve included you—when I didn’t have to—in every development. I haven’t hidden a thing.”
Byron’s unrelenting smile tells Alana just how pissed off he is. She squirms inside. It reminds her how her dad, who was an amazingly soft-spoken man for an army surgeon, used to react when he was most disappointed in her. Once, after she had caved in the side of his car on an unlicensed joyride, he didn’t say a word to her for a week, offering her only grim smiles instead. It was worse than the grounding and all her mother’s yelling.
“You’re right.” She clears her throat. “I should’ve called you, Byron. I’m sorry.”
He acknowledges her apology with a half shrug. “Our lab in Geneva received the genomic data NATO sent us on those plague bioweapons,” he says as he sits up straighter. “We’ll hear if there’s a match within forty-eight hours or less.”
“Good.” But two days strikes her as far too long.
“All right, say we assume for a reckless moment that terrorists have gotten into the bioweapons business. How would they possibly get their hands on the plague?”
“Central Asia would be their best bet,” Alana says. “We’ve been keeping our eye on the region for years because it was once home to the major Soviet biological warfare program.”
“That would’ve been thirty years ago or more.”
“Maybe, but when the Soviet Union collapsed, the Russians were negligent in cleaning up the mess. There’s this place in the Aral Sea called Vozrozhdeniya Island. It straddles the border of Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan. You should see it.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. Last year. We were invited by the Kazakh government, but they had to sneak us in, since the Uzbeks didn’t want us there. The island was the nerve center of the old Soviet bioweaponry program for developing anthrax and the plague. The Russians abandoned it in the early nineties with minimal containment effort. There’s still equipment and discarded canisters—I even saw one marked with a biohazard symbol—scattered around the site. They buried some of the most sensitive material less than six feet underground. And what concrete they did pour is less than six inches thick.”
“Guess they figured it wasn’t going to be their problem anymore.”
“The worst part? It’s not even an island anymore.”
“Did the Russians take the water with them?”
“The Soviets originally chose Vozrozhdeniya Island because it was so close to land. Around the same time, they started damming the rivers that fed the Aral Sea, which is really just a big lake. Predictably, water levels dropped. Eventually a natural land bridge formed to the island.”
