The Confessor

Tiepolo, dressed in an oilskin coat and rubber knee-length boots, made his way ponderously across the flooded square through the gathering dusk. He entered the church and sacrilegiously shouted out that it was time to close up for the night. Adriana Zinetti seemed to float down from her perch high atop the main altar. Antonio Politi yawned elaborately and struck a series of contortionist yoga poses, all designed to demonstrate to Tiepolo the harsh toll the day had taken on his young body. Tiepolo looked toward the Bellini. The shroud remained in place, but the fluorescent lamps were extinguished. With great effort, he resisted the impulse to scream.
    Antonio Politi appeared at Tiepolo's side and laid a paint-smudged paw on his heavy shoulder. "When, Francesco? When are you going to get it through your head he's not coming back?"
    When indeed? The boy wasn't ready for the Bellini masterpiece, but Tiepolo had no choice, not if the church was going to reopen to the public in time for the spring tourist season. "Give him one more day," he said, his gaze still fixed on the darkened painting. "If he's not back by tomorrow afternoon, I'll let you finish it."
    Antonio's joy was tempered by his unreserved interest in the tall, striking creature making her way apprehensively across the nave. She had black eyes and a head of abundant, uncontrollable dark hair. Tiepolo knew faces. Bone structure. He'd bet his fee for the San Zaccaria project she was a Jewess. She seemed familiar to him. He thought he might have seen her once or twice in the church, watching the restorers working.
    Antonio started toward her. Tiepolo thrust out a thick arm, blocking his path, and summoned a watery smile.
    "Is there something I can help you with, signorina?"
    "I'm looking for Francesco Tiepolo."
    Deflated, Antonio skulked away. Tiepolo laid a hand on his chest--You've found him, my treasure.
    "Fin a friend of Mario Delvecchio."
    Tiepolo's flirtatious gaze turned suddenly cold. He folded his arms across his massive chest and glared at her through narrowed eyes. "Where in God's name is he?"
    The woman said nothing, just reached out and handed him a slip of paper. He unfolded the note and read the words written there:
    Your friend in the Vatican is in grave danger. I need your help to save his life.
    He looked up and stared at her in disbelief. "Who are you?"
    "It's not important, Signor Tiepolo."
    He held up the note in his big paw. "Where is he?"
    "Will you help him save your friend's life?"
    "I'll listen to what he has to say. If my friend is truly in some sort of danger, of course I'll help."
    "Then you have to come with me."
    "Now?"
    "Please, Signor Tiepolo. I'm afraid we don't have much time."
    "Where are we going?"
    But she just seized him by the elbow and pulled him toward the door.
    Cannaregio SMELLED of salt and the lagoon. The woman led Tiepolo across a bridge spanning the Rio di Ghetto Nuovo, then into the clammy gloom of the sottoportego. A figure appeared at the opposite end of the passageway, a small man with his hands thrust into the pockets of a leather jacket, surrounded by a halo of yellow sodium light. Tiepolo stopped walking.
    "Would you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?"
    "Obviously, you got my note."
    "Interesting. But you must admit it was short on details, as well as one critical piece of information. How would you, an art restorer named Mario Delvecchio, know that the Pope's life is in danger?"
    "Because restoration is something of a hobby for me. I have another job--a job that very few people know about. Do you understand what I'm trying to say to you, Francesco?"
    "Who do you work for?"
    "Who I work for is not important."
    "It's damned important if you want me to help you get to the Pope."
    "I work for an intelligence service. Not always, just under special circumstances."
    "Like a death in the family."
    "Actually, yes."
    "Which intelligence service do you work for?"
    "I would prefer not to answer that question."
    "I'm sure you would, but if you want me to talk to the Pope, you're going to answer my questions. I repeat: What service do you work for? SISDE? Vatican intelligence?"
    "I'm not Italian, Francesco."
    "Not Italian! That's very funny, Mario."
    "My name isn't Mario."
    THEY WALKED the perimeter of the square, Gabriel and Tiepolo side by side, Chiara a few paces behind. It took a long time for Tiepolo to process the information he had just been given. He was a shrewd man, a sophisticated Venetian, politically