“Are you Don Arturo?” Alana asks. “Of the San Giovanni Monastery?”

He smiles wryly. “There is no San Giovanni Monastery anymore,” he says in his flawless English.

“But you were the abbot there? Before?”

“For twelve years. Yes. Come, please, sit.” He extends a hand to invite them to join him, and she senses quiet authority behind his humble brown eyes.

Once seated, Alana explains with deliberate vagueness that she and Byron are part of the international response team dealing with the plague outbreak.

“Doctors.” Don Arturo nods, seemingly impressed. “How can I possibly help?”

“Have you been back to the site since the monastery was demolished?” Byron asks.

“No.” A pained expression crosses Don Arturo’s face. “It is so difficult. Like seeing the remains of your home after it has been destroyed by fire. It was only a matter of time, though. The old building, she was not safe. One small earthquake . . . Or so they said.”

“You didn’t believe them?” Alana asks.

“The developer—our former mayor, Signore Zanetti—he had detailed engineering reports.”

“But you don’t trust him?”

Don Arturo hesitates. “Signore Zanetti, he has . . . grand ambitions. However, the Church tells me the report was accurate. Although I never felt unsafe.” His shoulders bob. “Of course, one never does until the moment the roof falls in.”

“So you never met Vittoria Fornero?” Byron asks, trying to refocus the discussion. “The construction worker who collapsed at the site from the plague?”

“No, never.”

“How about a young carpenter named Yasin Ahmed?”

“Ah, the young man the newspapers say the police are searching for? No, I never met any of the workers. I have not been to San Giovanni since the day they moved us out. It is not . . . my place.”

“What about Brother Silvio?” Alana asks.

“Brother Silvio?” Don Arturo laughs in surprise. “Has he joined the construction business?”

“He has spent a lot of time at the site,” Alana says. “I saw him there once myself.”

“Brother Silvio is nothing if not determined,” Don Arturo says good-naturedly. “He is even older than I am. And he is a little—how do you say . . .”

“Demented?” Byron suggests.

“I would not say for sure,” Arturo says. “He is eccentric, to say the least. Sometimes I wonder if he has lost a little touch with reality. You understand?”

“Yes,” Alana says. “Does Silvio live here now, too?”

“At the seminary? No, no. The Church has put him up in an apartment while he waits for his next placement.”

“Is he here in Genoa?” she asks.

“I believe so, yes.”

“Can you get us his new address?”

“Brother Silvio, he is a character, that one. How he ever found the monastic life is a mystery to me. He loves to talk and talk.”

“Do you know where he lives?” Byron persists.

“I imagine I can find this out. I honestly do not see how Brother Silvio will be of much, if any, assistance to your cause, though.”