“Wait here.”
Gabriel set off along the street, searching for a destitute-looking clergyman amid the world’s most exclusive storefronts. Eventually, he passed through an archway beneath the Museo Correr and emerged into the Piazza San Marco. Father Joshua was walking past Caffè Florian toward the campanile. The priest seemed to move across the floodwaters without disturbing the surface. He made no attempt to lift the hem of his garment.
Gabriel hastened after him. “Father Joshua?”
The priest stopped at the foot of the bell tower.
Gabriel addressed him in Italian, the language he had spoken in the Manuscript Depository of the Secret Archives. “Don’t you remember me, Father Joshua? I’m the one who—”
“I know who you are.” His smile was benevolent. “You’re the one with the name of the archangel.”
“How do you know my name?”
“There were recriminations after your visit to the Secret Archives. I overheard things.”
“Do you work there?”
“Why would you ask such a question?”
“Your name doesn’t appear on the staff directory. And unless I’m mistaken, you weren’t wearing any identification that day.”
“Why would someone like me require identification?”
“Who are you?”
“Who doyousay that I am?”
His Italian was beautiful, but it was colored with an unmistakable accent.
“Do you speak Arabic?” asked Gabriel.
“Like you, I speak many languages.”
“Where are you from?”
“The same place you are.”
“Israel?”
“The Galilee.”
“Why are you in Venice?”
“I came to see a friend.” He noticed Gabriel looking at his hands. “I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus,” he explained.
Two women splashed past them. They stared at Gabriel apprehensively but seemed not to notice the man standing in ankle-deep water in sandals and a cloak.
“Were you ever able to find the rest of the gospel?” he asked.
“Not before it was destroyed.”
“The Holy Father was afraid that would happen.”
“Were you the one who gave it to him?”
“Of course.”
“How were you able to open the door of thecollezionewithout a key?”
