Arturo only rolls his eyes in response.

Zanetti taps his temple. “Is he all right?”

“That is a difficult question to assess. Brother Silvio is definitely single-minded.”

“He is a jovial man. He enjoys engaging my workers in conversation. Too much so. They really have no time for such chats. And . . . he can be an alarmist.”

“An alarmist?”

“Yes. He shares stories of the old monastery with anyone who will listen. Legends about curses and so on.” Zanetti clucks his tongue. “Such superstitious nonsense is not always good for morale, you understand?”

“And how do you know it all to be nonsense?”

“I am a man of faith, too. Mass every Sunday. Well, most of them, anyway.” Arturo makes no comment, as Zanetti searches for the right words. “No disrespect, Don Arturo, but I thought you were more . . . worldly . . . than to believe in this kind of folklore.”

The abbot studies him for an icy moment, before the smile finds his lips again. “Regardless, I cannot be of much assistance with Brother Silvio.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I do not even know where he is residing.”

“My associates can easily find out for you,” Zanetti says. “Besides, he is very easy to find. He’s at the construction site almost every day.”

Arturo nods. “Perhaps so. However, I never held much sway over Silvio even when I was his superior. Now that you and your associates have seen to my retirement, I am certain it would be a waste of time for me to speak to him.”

Zanetti doesn’t bother to argue. As he rises to leave, Arturo says, “Can I offer you a small piece of advice, Signore Zanetti?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Every once in a while, science—and, yes, even real estate developers—ought to defer to God.”

Chapter

Ten

The English and Italian meld into an incoherent jumble. Alana has already forgotten many of the names and titles of those crowded around the conference table, but most of them are senior government officials at the civic, regional, and even federal level. Everyone is speaking over each other again.

Dr. Byron Menke, the Canadian epidemiologist leading the World Health Organization’s response team, stands motionlessly at the head of the long table. He’s handsome—with gray-blue eyes and prominent cheekbones—but he’s more noticeable for his ruffled appearance; his brown hair is tousled, and his dress shirt half untucked. His lips are parted in a half smile, as though amused by the kerfuffle around him. After watching a few moments more, he casually raises the thick file in his hand and releases it. It slaps the table with a thud that quiets the room.

This guy is exactly as billed, Alana thinks.

“Let’s begin with what we know, rather than what we assume. Agreed?” Byron glances around the room, seeming to puff his chest slightly.

Heads nod around the conference table. Alana senses that the Italian authorities have already ceded the leadership of the outbreak containment to Byron and his WHO team. She has been around long enough to know that it’s politically expedient for local governments to do so, providing them with a convenient scapegoat when things get worse or go wrong, as they so often do.