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for something bigger. Not that I have a problem
going after this particular bunch of thugs. But we’ll see if I’m right when we
get the expanded mission brief.”
    Veri shifted position, leaning forward. “Keep your ears
open. The rest of the squad will meet us on the dock.”
    The boat slowed noticeably now; they had begun to maneuver
up to a long, concrete pier with no illumination save for the lights of the
city. Two people moored the boat and returned to the pier. Once the boat was
secure, the captain indicated it was safe to disembark.
    As they left the boat behind, Veri, Cristian, and Bruno
secured their facemasks. They had already started to ration their surgical
masks, stretching their life over more than the recommended one day. The masks
were becoming grimier by the hour. Bruno hoped that, no matter the shade of
grey, they would still provide some kind of protection.
    The revelation that the doctors were not in quarantine in
London, but were actually dead, had caused a firestorm. Even the notoriously
lurid British media refused at first to show pictures of what the doctors
looked like after death. But then the pictures leaked out, circulating first on
people’s phones, then throughout the commercial media. Diseases like
flesh-eating staph, Kaposi’s sarcoma, and necrotizing pneumonia had consumed
the doctors. In the media, some medical professionals theorized that whatever
it was must have ravaged the victims’ immune systems, leaving them vulnerable
to opportunistic infections. Like they all had “hyper-AIDS,” one said. British,
French, and Italian authorities tried to quarantine everyone who had come in
contact with the doctors. The media said it would be too late—quarantine hadn’t
worked during the swine flu pandemic that broke out in Latin America a number
of years back, and it had barely stopped Ebola in Europe. The doctors had come
into contact with hundreds of people during their European travels, including,
of course, high-level government officials. While there were no reports of the
disease outside of London, Paris, or Rome, Bruno knew it was only a matter of
time before it spread.
    The two who had moored the boat joined the three figures
standing on the pier. In the semi-dark, Bruno couldn’t make out their faces,
other than to see they, too, wore masks. There was enough light to see their
uniforms, which were the same as worn by the trio from Capri. The Carabinieri
had abandoned their cheerful blue attire for dark navy tactical uniforms. They
were thick and practical, complete with helmets and body armor, and black boots
heavy on the feet. All of them carried 9mm submachine guns slung across their
chests.
    As the two groups of officers approached, they all held
their hands out with palms down, as if showing their nails to each other. No
one shook hands.
    “Good,” grunted Veri. “Everyone’s clear.” Given that no one
was exactly sure of the disease’s incubation period, a hand check wasn’t
perfect, but it was a quick method to see if anyone had tremors, the initial
symptoms of infection. Yet Bruno wondered whether they should even bother,
since no one was sure if people were contagious even before the tremors began.
Maybe the real purpose of the check was to give people a false hope that let
them continue to function. Otherwise, no one would set foot outside their home,
and then things would really go to shit, and fast.
    One of the five stepped forward. Bruno thought he had met
him before, the bright-blue eyes standing out even in the shadows against the
man’s tan skin, but it was difficult to tell with everyone masked.
    “Veri, good to see you again,” he said. He motioned toward a
waiting blue van.
    “Lieutenant Colonel Costa.” Veri nodded in acknowledgment.
    The back doors of the van were open, and all eight of them
entered, the last person shutting the door.
    Bruno now remembered Costa, the provincial commander in
Naples. Bruno surmised that if lieutenant colonels were