“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 percentshare 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 justthoughtyou saw him.”
“A hallucination, you mean?”
Chiara said nothing.
