“Her,” said Gabriel. “And the child.”

“Are you sure? They need a great deal of work.”

Gabriel smiled sadly, his eyes on the canvas. “It’s the least I can do for them.”

HE REMAINED IN THE CHURCH until two o’clock, longer than he had intended. That evening he and Chiara left the children with their grandparents and dined alone in a restaurant on the other side of the Grand Canal in San Polo. The next day, Thursday, he took the children on a gondola ride in the morning and worked on the Tintoretto from midday until five, when Tiepolo locked the church’s doors for the night.

Chiara decided to prepare dinner at the apartment. Afterward, Gabriel supervised the nightly running battle known as bath time before retreating to the shelter of the chuppah to deal with a minor crisis at home. It was nearly one by the time he crawled into bed. Chiara was reading a novel, oblivious to the television, which was muted. On the screen was a live shot of St. Peter’s Basilica. Gabriel raised the volume and learned that an old friend had died.

3

CANNAREGIO, VENICE

LATER THAT MORNING THE BODY of His Holiness Pope Paul VII was moved to the Sala Clementina on the second floor of the Apostolic Palace. It remained there until early the following afternoon, when it was transferred in solemn procession to St. Peter’s Basilica for two days of public viewing. Four Swiss Guards stood watch around the dead pontiff, halberds at the ready. The Vatican press corps made much of the fact that Archbishop Luigi Donati, the Holy Father’s closest aide and confidant, rarely left his master’s side.

Church tradition dictated that the funeral and burial of the pope occur four to six days after his death. Cardinal Camerlengo Domenico Albanese announced that it would take place the following Tuesday and that the conclave would convene ten days after that. The vaticanisti were predicting a hard-fought and divisive contest between reformers and conservatives. The smart money was on Cardinal José Maria Navarro, who had used his position as the Church’s doctrinal gatekeeper to build a power base within the College of Cardinals that rivaled even the dead pope’s.

In Venice, where Pietro Lucchesi had reigned as patriarch, the mayor declared three days of mourning. The bells of the city were silent, and a moderately attended prayer service was held in St. Mark’s Basilica. Otherwise, life went on as normal. A minor acqua alta flooded a portion of Santa Croce; a colossal cruise ship plowed into a wharf on the Giudecca Canal. In the bars where locals gathered for coffee or a glass of brandy against the autumn chill, one rarely heard the dead pontiff’s name. Cynical by nature, few Venetians bothered to attend Mass on a regular basis, and fewer still lived their lives in accordance with the teachings of the men from the Vatican. The churches of Venice, the most beautiful in all of Christendom, were places where foreign tourists went to gawk at Renaissance art.

Gabriel, however, followed the events in Rome with more than a passing interest. On the morning of the pope’s funeral, he arrived at the church early and worked without interruption until twelve fifteen, when he heard the hollow echo of footfalls in the nave. He raised his magnifying visor and cautiously parted the tarpaulin shroud that covered his platform. General Cesare Ferrari, commander of the carabinieri’s Division for the Defense of Cultural Patrimony, better known as the Art Squad, returned his gaze without expression.

Uninvited, the general stepped behind the shroud and contemplated the enormous canvas, which was awash in the searing white light of two halogen lamps. “One of his better ones, don’t you think?”

“He was under enormous pressure to prove himself. Veronese had been publicly recognized as the successor of Titian and the finest painter in Venice. Poor Tintoretto was no longer receiving the sort of commissions he once did.”

“This was his parish church.”

“You don’t say.”

“He lived around the corner on the Fondamenta di Mori.” The general swept aside the tarpaulin and went into the nave. “There used to be a Bellini in this church. Madonna with Child. It was stolen in 1993. The Art Squad has been looking for it ever since.” He peered at Gabriel over his shoulder. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”

Gabriel smiled. Shortly before becoming chief of the Office, he had recovered the most sought-after stolen painting in the world, Caravaggio’s Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence. He had made certain that the Art Squad received all the credit. It was for that reason, among others, that General Ferrari had agreed to provide round-the-clock security for Gabriel and his family during their Venetian holiday.

“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” said the general.

Gabriel lowered his magnifying visor. “I am.”

“Any problems?”

“For inexplicable reasons, I’m having a bit of trouble recreating the color of this woman’s garment.”

“I was referring to your security.”

“It seems my return to Venice has gone unnoticed.”

“Not entirely.” The general glanced at his wristwatch. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to take a break for lunch?”

“I never eat lunch when I’m working.”

“Yes, I know.” The general switched off the halogen lamps. “I remember.”

TIEPOLO HAD GIVEN GABRIEL A key to the church. Watched by the commander of the Art Squad, he engaged the alarm and locked the door. Together they walked to a bar a few doors down from Tintoretto’s old house. The papal funeral played on the television behind the counter.

“In case you were wondering,” said the general, “Archbishop Donati wanted you to attend.”

“Then why wasn’t I invited?”

“The camerlengo wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Albanese?”

The general nodded. “Apparently, he was never comfortable with the closeness of your relationship with Donati. Or with the Holy Father, for that matter.”

“It’s probably better I’m not there. I would have only been a distraction.”

The general frowned. “They should have seated you in a place of honor. After all, were it not for you, the Holy Father would have died in the terrorist attack on the Vatican.”

The barman, a skinny twentysomething in a black T-shirt, delivered two coffees. The general added sugar to his. The hand that stirred it was missing two fingers. He had lost them to a letter bomb when he was the commander of the Camorra-infested Naples division of the carabinieri. The explosion had taken his right eye as well. The ocular prosthesis, with its immobile pupil, had left the general with a cold, unyielding gaze. Even Gabriel tended to avoid it. It was like staring into the eye of an all-seeing God.

At present, the eye was aimed toward the television, where the camera was panning slowly across a rogues’ gallery of politicians, monarchs, and assorted global celebrities. Eventually, it settled on Giuseppe Saviano.

“At least he didn’t wear his armband,” murmured the general.

“You’re not an admirer?”

“Saviano is a passionate defender of the Art Squad’s budget. As a result, we get on quite well.”

“Fascists love cultural patrimony.”

“He considers himself a populist, not a fascist.”