The Icon
ICON
A NOVEL
For Caroline
What
is
God and eternal life in Paradise? Paradise is this fire, and God is this dance, and they last not just a moment but forever and ever.
—Nikos Kazantzakis,
The Fratricides
1
The blue sky that had oppressed him for days was gone,…
2
Andreas clutched the narrow armrests and prayed for the…
3
The night before, Matthew had the dream again. A painting…
4
In the beginning was the word. In the end, words weren’t…
5
Fotis was on his usual bench, turned three-quarters from the…
6
Dust motes hung in the white shafts of light between the…
7
I made fresh coffee this time.”…
8
He was supposed to wait on the sidewalk for the black sedan…
9
The priest sat in a low chair in the corner, yet seemed to command…
10
He should have known better. The whole thing had felt…
11
It had been his intention to go back into Manhattan that same…
12
No activity was visible around his godfather’s house, and…
13
He had stood right there by the window, face in shadow, as…
14
For a long time after he woke, Fotis thought he might be…
15
The rain-dampened woods around the house produced a fine…
16
Dark hair and eyes, olive skin, immaculately groomed and…
17
Matthew had been awake most of the night, and the few…
18
The tables around them in the cramped airport bar were…
19
This was a bad idea, Ana thought. She had thought it from the…
20
The platform was emptier than he would have liked. Matthew…
21
This time it was Morrison who wanted to meet. Andreas…
22
The hospital in Queens was not as impressive as the one in…
23
We need to talk, Mr. Spear. Matthew. There can be no further…
24
Steam heat clamoring to life awakened him. The room was…
25
Jan had not liked the plan one bit, but their options were few.…
26
The muffled boom reached Matthew through the cool tiles of…
F
rom the summit of the high hill called Adelphos, above the wind-bent cedars that shrouded the caves, he could see the Pindos Mountains rise like a gray cloud to the east, could see brown ridges march north toward Konitza and the Albanian border, could almost imagine he saw the sun glint off of the Ionian Sea to the west. And below, steep green valleys and rocky villages, marked out by tall stone church towers. The hill was a place Captain Elias had gone often as a child, when he would conjure a life beyond these mountain walls: in Athens, to the south; or across the sea in America, where his uncle had gone. He might be a soldier, doctor, traveling musician, or spy—the role did not greatly matter; every dream was a dream of escape. In none of those dreams did he ever imagine returning to these hills, a hunted man in his own country.
It was after midnight when Father Mikalis arrived at the Cave of Constantine. Though his visits to the guerrillas had been rare of late, he knew where to find them. Elias, who seldom slept anymore, summoned the young priest to his lantern-lit circle in the back. The captain had warned Mikalis weeks before that the Germans were watching him more closely, so all the men understood that his present visit must be of great urgency.
“Bless us, Father.”
Dirty hands grasped gently at the flowing black cassock as it passed, beseeching pardon for things they had done and would continue to do, to the Germans and their countrymen alike, in the days to come. Like children, thought Elias, watching his men. Crude and murderous until the stern father was before them, then meek and repentant. It was not the young cleric they saw now but God himself, the first touch of the mighty one in months for some, and the cave’s darkness only heightened the effect. Whispered blessings were returned to them, but the words did not reach Elias, and he was content with that. He alone was not surprised to see the priest.
“Welcome, Father,” the captain said as Mikalis’ long, handsome face appeared out of the shadows. “Come for a sermon, or a drink?”
“Don’t be foolish. With news.”
Elias noted once more how much age, bred of three years’ hard experience, had settled in the lines of the priest’s face. In truth, there had always been something old about Mikalis, something unconnected to earthly experience, an ancient spirit that showed itself at odd moments in the center of those dark eyes. Elias had seen it when they were both children. There was still a young man’s eagerness, a young man’s sense of mission. Mikalis had witnessed atrocities, had given absolution for those same atrocities, had never lost hope. That required a certain kind of strength, the captain conceded, a kind he himself did not possess. And yet, the priest had never committed a violent act, had never driven the life out of a fellow man with his own hands. Surely that had to make all the difference. Priests should be murderers. How else could they understand?
“Tell me your news,” Elias said at last.
“The Germans will burn the village tomorrow.”
In the shadows, Spiro cursed, but the others were silent.
The captain considered, not for the first time, how to respond. It was important that he seem to take the threat seriously, yet he must be circumspect, keep Mikalis talking. Above all, keep him here.
“Who told you?”
“What does it matter who? What’s to be done?”
“It matters a great deal. Certain names would convince me that it’s true, others that it is not.”
“Four trucks full of soldiers arrived a few hours ago. You must have seen them.”
“We did.”
“Forty or fifty men. They’re here for some purpose.”
“Looking for us, maybe,” someone wondered.
“No,” Elias said. “Too few of them for that. They don’t come into the hills with less than a battalion now.”
“Since we blew up the fuel depot,” added Spiro.
“You’re proud of that raid?” asked the priest. “They shot forty-three men in the square of Prasinohorion the next day.”
“I know it,” the captain answered.
“Forty Greeks for one German. You think that’s a good trade?”
“One German and a fuel depot. The fuel was the point; I wouldn’t have killed anyone if I could have avoided it. Worse is coming. In the Peloponnisos they’re attacking armed convoys, in daylight, killing dozens of Germans.”
Elias was aware of the envy in his tone. If he only had the communist guerrillas’ numbers and resources, he wouldn’t have to play the dirty games his superiors dreamed up.
“I’m sure that makes your English friends happy,” the priest said scornfully, “but it’s just getting a lot of simple people killed.”
“It’s a war, Mikalis; more will die.”
“Many will die tomorrow if you don’t help. The old men will try to defend their houses.”
“That would be stupid,” snapped Elias, “but look, you have it wrong. They
will
burn the village, they’ll burn all the villages, whether we fight them or lie down, but they won’t do it until they withdraw from the region. And that time is not yet come.”
“The English tell you this?”
“It’s how they do things. Meantime, we’ve conducted no operations near here. They have no reason to burn the place. Otherwise, they would already be at it.”
They stared at each other across the lamplight, two young men, neither yet twenty-five, forced into parts intended for more experienced souls. Mikalis had returned from the seminary three years earlier, days before the Germans arrived, to assist the ailing Father Pantelis. Six months later he was burying the old priest and assuming his duties. Disruptions from the war kept the local bishop from assigning a new priest, and Mikalis, who had grown up in the village of Katarini, became its spiritual shepherd at the age of twenty-one. Elias had been at the military academy when war broke out. He was an artillery observer when the army routed the Italians, but had been back in Athens when the Germans launched “Marita,” a whirlwind assault that enveloped and shattered the Greek army within days. As the government packed up and sailed to Crete, he rode a horse north to help organize the resistance in these hills. The old men are weak, his grandmother had told him before he left Athens, all the good men are dead.
“People are starving down there,” the priest insisted.
“I know that, too.”
“Of course you know, your men have taken everything. These people have given their food, their sons, their lives for you. What are you prepared to do for them?”
“Not waste their sacrifice.”
“Nothing, then.”
“I have only twenty men here.”
“Where are the rest? Every boy in the four villages has gone to join you, if only to get something to eat. You should have twice that many.”
“They’re on an operation.”
“Without you?”
“Who told you the Germans would burn the village?”
The priest shook his head in disgust.
“All you want is that name. If he’s wrong, shoot him as an agitator. If he’s right, shoot him as a collaborator. Either way you’ll do nothing.”
The fact that the truth was more damning than the priest’s insinuations did not prevent the words from stinging. Before Elias had taken over this group of
andartes
—a motley assortment of republican and royalist-minded farmers and ex-soldiers—they had spent more time fighting the local communist guerrilla band than either faction had spent fighting the Germans. It had taken the British commandos to halfway reconcile the feuding parties and direct their actions in any meaningful way. Despite a deep suspicion of the foreigners, and his shame at the necessity of being instructed by them, Elias had to concede that he had learned much from the Englishmen. How to plant explosives. How to kill silently. How to work side by side with men who might, on another day, be your enemies. Perhaps he had learned some lessons too well. He had seen how much stronger and better organized the communists were; now the Italians had surrendered, and it was only a matter of time before the Germans withdrew. He could no longer ignore the warnings of his superiors regarding where the long-term threat to the country lay. Thus the present, hateful subterfuge.
“Captain.” Kosta’s voice reached them from the mouth of the cave, in a tone demanding attention. Elias, Mikalis, and a few others shuffled through the darkness, gathering their old, battered rifles as they went. “Above, Leftheris has seen something.”
The cave entrance was screened by a short stand of cedar, but the ledge above commanded a view of the entire valley. Leftheris grabbed the captain’s sleeve as he came up, and pointed toward a low hilltop a kilometer or so away. Elias recognized the black silhouette of the church tower against the indigo sky, then saw the odd, multihued flickering of light below. Flames, seen through the rose window. Something had gone wrong.
“Looks like they got started early,” said Kosta, “and with your church, Father.”
“Quiet, you ass,” said Spiro.
Elias grabbed Mikalis’ shoulder, even as the priest began to struggle down the slope.
“There’s no point. The whole thing will be on fire before you get there.”
“The Holy Mother,” whispered Mikalis, and several of the men crossed themselves in the darkness. Most had not known until that moment that their protectress was still in the church, hidden behind a false wall. In his mind’s eye, Elias saw candlelight on gold leaf, saw the sad black eyes burning out of the wood as the object was brought forth, saw a church full of strong, cynical men fall to their knees in reverent silence. Saw even the Snake hypnotized by its beauty. Love of the icon could undo all his plans.
“Where is it?” Leftheris asked. “Will someone down there retrieve it?”
“No—no one else knows where it is.”
“What do we do?”
“Leave it,” the captain pronounced, but they were all speaking at once now. The fire had not been part of the plan, but it would hide the icon’s disappearance, assuming the Prince had been quick enough to get it out first.
“Listen to me,” Mikalis broke in. “If we can’t put out the flames, at least I can save the Holy Mother. Let me go.”
“We all go,” said Spiro.
“No,” Elias commanded, but he could feel the men balking at his resistance. They seldom disobeyed orders, and never contradicted him to his face, but he was fighting a higher power here and risked losing control. Besides, something had gone wrong, and he should see what could be salvaged. He took the priest by the shoulders and pushed him in the direction of Leftheris.
“Keep hold of this one,” he told the sentry. “Kosta, Spiro, come with me.”
“But how will we find the Mother without him?”
“I know where it is.”
The priest’s objections pursued them briefly down the rugged hillside, then all was silence. Trees loomed and disappeared in the dark; they crossed a low stone wall. There was no clear path from the cave to the church, but each man knew the way easily, even on a moonless night. Elias could hear old Spiro’s labored footfalls behind him, but Kosta was impossible to pinpoint, though the boy was just yards away. Everyone had said Elias was mad to take Kosta under his tutelage, but he had known better. Few men could be trained to move silently, convey complicated messages in code, kill without hesitation. It had been strange for Elias to be teaching these skills so soon after learning them himself, but Kosta had proved an apt pupil. It was always the outcasts who were the best at the game.
Stamatis Mavroudas was Katarini’s leading merchant, a black-marketeer and suspected collaborator with the Germans, and so his son Kosta, while tolerated for his good humor, was trusted by no one. That meant nothing to Elias; insurgency work was full of compromises. And the boy had taken to him quickly, all the more so since the father had virtually disowned him: what idiocy, to join the guerrillas when there was money to be made from this war. Now it was rare to see Kosta and the captain apart. Elias wondered at the cost to the young man. Cut off from his family, with no real friends, Kosta seemed unmoved by the occasional deaths of comrades, and a little too eager for the kill when the time came. Yet he was completely dependable, able to execute the most difficult tasks with speed and creativity. Elias could have used ten more men like him.
In a short time they ascended the slope below the church, and crawled on hands and knees until they could crouch behind the north wall of the front courtyard. The old stone edifice was lit from within, wild, jumping flames playing against the sooty stained glass. The crack of burning timber was audible, and the cool air stank of smoke. Across the courtyard a dozen German soldiers milled about, some still strapping on helmets and checking rifles, seemingly having arrived only minutes before the guerrillas, and so far unaware of them. An officer was backing out of the church entry, from which black smoke billowed. Probably Müller, the SS man, thought Elias, but it was hard to tell in the strange light. There was nothing in the officer’s hands, no treasure taken from within. Had he arrived too late?
The captain swore silently. The plan was turning to shit. It had been a miserable scheme from the start; damn the Snake for talking him into it.
“Spiro, go and see if the crypt entry is clear.”
The old
andarte
slipped away silently.
Now the German officer—definitely Müller, the Prince as they called him—was moving off, around the south side of the church, and most of the soldiers followed. A glance passed between Kosta and the captain, and the younger man looked away quickly. Was he ashamed of his commander, ashamed of his own knowledge? Kosta was the only other person besides the Snake and Müller to know the captain’s plan, and had run messages between various parties when Elias needed to be elsewhere. Was the secret proving too great for him?
There was a commotion of snapping branches from the base of the hill behind them, and the two guerrillas swung their rifles up to fire.
“Hold,” said the captain.
Mikalis emerged from the trees and came recklessly up the slope, Leftheris on his heels. Kosta slid down the incline and yanked the priest to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Leftheris, unable to look the captain in the eye. “He said I would be damned if I didn’t let him go.”
