The exact circumstances of the painting’s recovery were not made public, which gave rise to much unfounded speculation in the Austrian press. A website that regularly trafficked in false or misleading stories went so far as to accuse Lavon of being an Israeli agent. The story happened to be accurate, thus proving Rabbi Jacob Zolli’s contention that the unimaginable can happen. Normally, Gabriel would not have bothered with a response. But given the current climate of anti-Semitism in Europe—and the ever-present threat of violence hanging over Austria’s tiny Jewish minority—he thought it best to issue a denial through the Israeli Embassy in Vienna.

He was less inclined, however, to repudiate a British tabloid report regarding his presence in the Sistine Chapel on the night of the historic conclave, if only to annoy the Russians and the Iranians, who were rightly paranoid about his capabilities and reach. But when the story jumped from publication to publication like a contagion, he reluctantly instructed the prime minister’s irascible spokeswoman to dismiss it as “preposterous on its face.” The statement was a classic example of a nondenial denial. And with good reason. Numerous Vatican insiders, including the new supreme pontiff and the 116 cardinals who elected him, knew the story to be true.

So, too, did Gabriel’s children. For three blissful days, as the rains fell upon Venice without relent, he had them entirely to himself. Board games, art projects, old movies on DVD. Occasionally, when the combination of shadows and light was favorable, he lifted the flap of an envelope emblazoned with the armorial of His Holiness Pope Paul VII and removed the three sheets of rich stationery. The salutation was informal. First name only. There were no preliminaries or pleasantries.

While researching in the Vatican Secret Archives, I came upon a most remarkable book …

FINALLY, ON THE MORNING OF the fourth day, the clouds parted and the sun shone over the whole of the city. After breakfast, Gabriel and Chiara dressed the children in oilskin coats and Wellington boots and together they waded over to the Campo di Ghetto Nuovo to assist with the cleanup. Nothing had been spared, especially the museum’s beautiful bookstore, which lost most of its inventory. The kitchen and common room of the Casa Israelitica di Riposo were in ruins, and both the Portuguese and Spanish synagogues suffered severe damage. Once again, thought Gabriel as he surveyed the destruction, calamity had befallen the Jews of Venice.

They worked until one and then took their lunch in a tiny restaurant hidden away on the Calle Masena. From there it was a short walk to the first of two apartments that Chiara, without bothering to inform Gabriel, had arranged for them to see that day. It was large and airy and, perhaps most important, dry as a bone. The kitchen was newly renovated, as were the three bathrooms. The price was high, but not unreasonable. Gabriel was confident he would be able to shoulder the additional financial burden without having to sell knockoff Gucci handbags to the tourists in San Marco.

“What do you think?” asked Chiara.

“Nice,” said Gabriel noncommittally.

“But?”

“Why don’t you show me the other apartment?”

It was located near the San Toma vaporetto stop on the Grand Canal, a fully refurbished piano nobile with a private roof terrace and a high-ceilinged, light-filled room that Gabriel could claim as his studio. There he would toil night and day on lucrative private commissions in order to pay for it all. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there were far worse ways for a man to spend the autumn of his years.

“If we sell Narkiss Street,” said Chiara.

“We’re not going to sell it.”

“I know it’s a stretch, Gabriel. But if we’re going to live in Venice, wouldn’t you prefer to live here?”

“Who wouldn’t? But someone has to pay for it.”

“Someone will.”

“You?”

She smiled.

“I want to see his books.”

“Where do you think we were going next?”

Francesco Tiepolo’s office was on the Calle Larga XXII Marzo in San Marco. On the wall behind his desk were several framed photographs of his friend Pietro Lucchesi. In one was a youthful version of Lucchesi’s successor.

“I suppose you had something to do with it.”

“What’s that?”

“The election of the first pope from outside the College of Cardinals since the thirteenth century.”

“Fourteenth,” said Gabriel. “And rest assured, it was the Holy Spirit who chose the new pope, not me.”

“You’ve been spending too much time in Catholic churches, my friend.”

“It’s an occupational hazard.”

Tiepolo’s books were hardly immaculate, but they were in far better shape than Gabriel had feared. The firm had little debt, and the monthly overhead was low. Mainly, it consisted of the rent for the San Marco office and a warehouse on the mainland. At present, the firm had more work than it could handle, and several projects were in the pipeline. Two were scheduled to commence after the date of Gabriel’s retirement, which meant Chiara would be able to hit the ground running. Tiepolo insisted they keep the firm’s name and pay him a fifty percent share of the annual profit. Gabriel agreed to keep the name—he did not want his many enemies to know where he was living—but he balked at Tiepolo’s demand for half of the company’s profits, offering him twenty-five percent instead.

“How will I possibly live on such a paltry sum?”

“Somehow you’ll manage.”

Tiepolo looked at Chiara. “Which apartment did he choose?”

“The big one.”

“I knew it!” Tiepolo clapped Gabriel on the back. “I always said you would return to Venice. And when you die, they’ll bury you beneath a cypress tree on San Michele, in an enormous crypt befitting a man of your achievements.”

“I’m not dead yet, Francesco.”

“It happens to the best of us.” Tiepolo gazed at the photographs on the wall. “Even to my dear friend Pietro Lucchesi.”

“And now Donati is the pope.”

“Are you sure you didn’t have anything to do with it?”

“No,” answered Gabriel distantly. “It was him.”

“Who?” asked Tiepolo, perplexed.

Gabriel pointed toward the cloaked, sandaled figure walking past Tiepolo’s window.

It was Father Joshua.

62

PIAZZA SAN MARCO

GABRIEL HURRIED INTO THE STREET. Like most in San Marco, it was covered in several inches of water. A few tourists were milling about in the dying twilight. None seemed to notice the man in a threadbare cloak and sandals.

“What are you looking at?”

Gabriel wheeled around to find Chiara and the children standing behind him. He pointed along the darkening street. “The man in the hooded cloak is Father Joshua. He’s the one who gave us the first page of the Gospel of Pilate.”

Chiara narrowed her eyes. “I don’t see anyone in a cloak.”

Neither did Gabriel. The priest had disappeared from view.

“Maybe you were mistaken,” said Chiara. “Or maybe you just thought you saw him.”

“A hallucination, you mean?”

Chiara said nothing.