“What that means is that they have modified it so that a person can have the disease but not show symptoms for quite a while. Days or even weeks. And all the time they’re walking around, they’re spreading it.”
“Holy shit!”
“Is it the virus that’s being sold, or just the know-how to make it, if someone gets their hands on some Reston?”
Joe shrugged. “Don’t know. The message only said that SISMI had evidence that someone has their hands on the formula for creating a new strain of Reston Ebola virus with a carrier phase and is going to sell it. I presume it refers to the formula.”
“Let us pray that it doesn’t refer to the actual virus, either the original Reston or, even worse, the modified form.”
They were quiet a moment. The world was rapidly becoming a bloody scary place. So many seriously misguided men and women were willing to kill thousands, and technology made it ridiculously simple and possible. A wave of sadness pulled at her.
Joe was absolutely right. She couldn’t walk away.
“So, how’s your love life?”
She laughed. The question was such a complete switch, but she welcomed anything to take her mind off the mission for the moment. “We never talked much about our love lives in Germany, did we?”
“No. I’d say we pretty much had other things on our minds. How have you been doing? I mean, about cutting König loose?”
“It was tough for a while, but I’ve met someone new. His name is, um, James Padgett.” James Padgett! Why would she make up such a dumb thing? “He’s crazy about photography, like me.”
Well that proved it. When she was with Joe, she lost her grip on reality. A mild case of disconnect, to be sure, but enough to make her fabricate a romance!
She countered. “So what about you?”
Now he grinned. “Been really busy for the Company. Until two days ago, I hadn’t even been to my D.C. condo in over a month.”
“I didn’t know you lived in D.C.”
“There’s a lot of stuff, isn’t there, that we don’t know about each other.”
She let it go at that. They settled back to their own thoughts. That was something she remembered liking about Joe. He didn’t need to talk all the time. And he knew when to stop asking questions. At one point he went to the rear and returned in civvies.
Their Alitalia flight, direct to Rome, would take off at 5:30 p.m. They made the Atlanta airport in good time, close to 4:45, and were ushered through security by the local Company man who met them. Using her computer, she checked her e-mail. Nothing important. Everyone was expecting her to be in Costa Rica for another two weeks.
She felt a caffeine twitch. “How about we hit Starbucks for a cappuccino?” she asked Joe as he closed his own laptop.
He nodded, and they made their way to the food court. “I pay,” she said.
He laughed out loud. “Yep. You sure do. Every cup of cappuccino we ever have together, you pay for.”
So Joe remembered their bet. In Germany, she had made a bet with him on who was the bad guy. He had won. She paid for all future cappuccinos.
They checked into the boarding area and, as they sipped, she called her sister Star in La Jolla. First, she asked about their mother’s condition; their mother had had another small stroke.
“It’s not too bad,” Star assured her.
Nova also asked about Maggie and learned that the girl was indeed going to Italy in two days.
Star explained, “It’s another hiking trip like the one the Robertsons took her on last year.”
“After Costa Rica, I might be going to Italy. If I get some time, I might try to hook up with Maggie and the Robertsons. I’ll call if it looks like I might be able to work it out.”
Maggie was the closest thing Nova had to a daughter. She’d been at the hospital, in the birthing room, when Maggie was born. In Nova’s life, Maggie was a bright, lovely light.
She didn’t tell Star about the abrupt change of plans from Costa Rica. Not one person in her life, not even Star, knew about her work for the company.
She called her close friend, Penny. She and Penny, the gay owner of La Jolla’s most prestigious beauty salon, had side-by-side apartments. He, bless his heart, took care of her plants and her cat, Divinity, when she was away.
“The Costa Rica trip might be longer than two weeks. And I may take a side trip to Italy.”
“No problem,” Penny said.
When she and Joe had settled into their seats in Alitalia’s business class, she watched as the flight attendants, both of them, fawned over Joe. Yes, the two women were gracious to her as well, but they absolutely glowed when they talked with Joe.
When she and Joe had privacy again she said, “It’s actually fun to watch you at work.”
“Nova, I swear I usually don’t do a thing. Yes, I know I can turn on the smile and charm if I need to. But it’s always been like this since I was, maybe, fourteen. It’s a blessing, sure. But it’s also a curse. Look at how you’re dressed. Hair hidden by that braid, that gray outfit, no makeup. It must be a relief to, sort of, be able to disappear. A guy can’t change his hair or leave off the makeup.”
“Ah, the burden,” she said, her amusement showing in a wry smile.
One of the flight attendants offered them magazines. Nova took O and InStyle, but for a while she and Joe talked about Italy. Both had been there twice before. Both of them loved the astounding history of Rome, the republic and then the empire.
Dinner was served, including wine. Joe raved about his boeuf bourguignon. Her stuffed manicotti melted in her mouth. They talked long into the darkness. She was tired and she knew he had to be as well, but somehow the flow of conversation about sports and movies seemed too exciting to break off.
But eventually it did. He beat her to sleep. As she started to drift off, she opened her eyes again, just to catch a glance of him sleeping. She couldn’t remember ever having seen him sleeping before.
The urge to reach out and touch the brown hair that curled onto his forehead was so strong that she nearly had to sit on her hand to keep from doing it.
Chapter 7
The home Ahmad had made for his family lay a short five-minute uphill drive from Amalfi’s distinctive Moorish-Norman cathedral. When he arrived, the smell of lamb cooking greeted him. Nissia had promised shish kebab for dinner. He would also have her make atayef. The pancake—filled with walnuts, cinnamon and sugar, and drenched in syrup—was his favorite dessert, and tonight was a night to celebrate.
Leila, his fifteen-year-old daughter, and fourteen-year-old Hanan sat at the dining room table dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Leila was fixing her sister’s hair. Saddoun, his eyes riveted to television news about the Madrid bomb blast, seemed not to even register that his
