“Rafael Pasqua,” Alana says.

Silvio’s eyes light with recognition. “Prego! The other good doctor. You read the diary, yes?”

“Not in full yet,” Alana says. “But a friend of mine did. He described some of the highlights. For example, the crypt under the monastery.”

Silvio tilts his head in curiosity. “Yes? What about it?”

“The monks built it to enshrine the rats.”

“They did.”

“But also to keep them alive for future generations,” she says. “In case God wanted them to be released again.”

“Well, of course no one could ever reach the crypt once it was built,” Silvio explains. “We did not speak of rats anymore. They were only . . . symbolic. But I always believed there to be a kind of divine presence below us.”

“Is that why you warned Emilio about tampering with the hallowed ground?” Alana asks.

Silvio nods.

“And what about the rat keeper? Was that a role that had been passed down through the years?”

“No. Not since the Middle Ages,” Silvio scoffs. “Most of the brothers did not even know of the rats. Or what the . . . scivolo . . . was built for—”

“The scivolo?” Nico interjects. “Like a slide?”

“Yes, like when you throw the dirty clothes down the hole?” Silvio fumbles for the English translation. “Except this one is for garbage.”

“A chute?” Alana offers.

“Sì,” Silvio says. “Made of stone. Don Marco had the brothers install it. The only connection to the crypt. But not so long that the rats could ever reach it from below. We would throw food that is rotting down the scivolo. It was a tradition.”

Alana jerks her head back in surprise. “So, it’s true! The brothers have continued to feed those rats for over six hundred years!”

Silvio grimaces. “What rats?”

“The ones who brought the Black Death back to Genoa.”

“No! They would have died off long ago.”

“They didn’t,” Alana says. “Our team trapped one of them.”

“Non è possibile.” Silvio shakes his head adamantly.

“The plague, Brother Silvio. Don’t you see? It returned as soon as they tore down your monastery. As soon as those rats were freed.”

He goes quiet for a long moment. “Could it be? The plague returned from San Giovanni? From our very monastery?”

“Yes,” Alana says. “And we think someone deliberately released those rats.”

“Why would anyone do this?”

“We can’t answer that, not yet. But who else at the monastery would have known about the rats?”

Silvio only shakes his head.

“Then who else read Pasqua’s diary?” Alana asks.

“I . . . I cannot say,” he says, avoiding her gaze. “Maybe ask Don Arturo. He knows such things better than I do.”

Chapter

Forty-Nine

He feels so exposed sitting at the far terminal in the Internet café. His fingers tremble on the keyboard. To calm his breathing, he has to remind himself that the seats beside him are unoccupied and that no one seems to be paying any attention to him. He is accustomed to going unnoticed. Brother Silvio used to describe it as God’s gift to him. “You must view it as more of a blessing than a curse, my boy. Some people thrive in the shadows.”