The Icon (28 page)

“You didn’t lose him, you took care of Ms. Kessler. That was the correct thing to do. Now you are wounded, and I can be of little help in a fight. And he has this bodyguard. The business has become too dangerous.”

Benny stared at him for several seconds.

“You’re saying we should give up.”

“Turn it over to the authorities. It’s what I was telling Matthew. The odds are not in our favor, and the goal is insufficient to the risk.”

“The goals are different for each of us. Your boy is an innocent, chasing a painting that will only bring him grief whether he finds it or not. You are right to tell him to stay out of it. Our goal is much simpler.”

“Your goal.”

“My goal, then. Simple, direct, well justified, and I am capable of carrying it out.”

“Yet your arm is bandaged, and we still do not know if we are even chasing the right man.”

“Damn you,” Benny said, mashing out the cigarette in the filthy ashtray. “We’ve just been through this. I got cut doing what you asked me to do. It would have been much easier just to eliminate those two.”

“It won’t be easy the next time. They will know you now.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself? Finding Müller was your idea. Now we are close and you want to give it up. What the hell have you been after all this time?”

There must be something in his face, Andreas decided, that kept inviting the question. And no matter how many times he recounted the arc of this journey in his own mind, it yielded no obvious answer. The dream of confronting Müller had lived within him for more than fifty years. It lived still, an unconscious reflex, like breathing. Yet something had changed. There were times when he could recall his brother Mikalis, the child Mikalis, so clearly that it was as if he had just seen him days before, scampering across the square toward him: round, dark eyes; stick-figure arms and legs; tousled hair; a small scar on his forehead from an errant rock thrown by Andreas himself. The fiery Mikalis from the war years, however, the young man martyred in the church, had achieved the murky indistinctiveness of myth. The same was true for all of them. Stefano, Glykeria, brave Giorgios, poor unfortunate Kosta—all the dead had become vague memories. The events remained etched firmly in his mind, and he knew they were real, but the players had become ghosts, as if such courage, treachery, grief could never have been the stuff of true lives. Even that hardened killer Captain Elias seemed insubstantial, a role he had once played and then put away. Which was more or less the case.

What was real to him now was his son’s illness-ravaged body, his grandson’s dangerous predicament. The young, ruthless Fotis was a shadow; the old, scheming Fotis—kind, cantankerous, desperate for life—was the man he contended with now. It was hard to keep the desire for revenge hot for decades. Who knew when a word, a scent, would transport him back to those bad days? It still happened, but less frequently, and more of his time and energy went to the living, as was only right. He wanted to protect each of these people from harm, from the past, and from each other, and it seemed an impossible but worthy task, sufficient in itself.

“I do not want to see the boy hurt, Benny. And I don’t want you hurt any further.”

“You are not considering that the other side will not let this go, whatever we do. They are still searching. Meeting with the girl shows how reckless
they’ve
become. She doesn’t know anything, but they were willing to seize her on an innuendo. Who will they try next?”

“They know we are on to them now. They will be more careful.”

“Don’t depend on it. These old men do not behave logically about this painting.”

It was true, of course. With death so near, they felt they had nothing to lose, and immortality, real or spiritual, to gain. They were capable of anything.

“Then we must be on guard. And seek further protection from the police.”

“Our best defense is to hunt down the threat ourselves.”

“My friend,” Andreas spoke gently, unsure for a moment what he wanted to say. “Do you have anyone you are close to now? A wife, a lover?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Where is your son?”

“In Israel. With his mother. Like good Jews should be.”

“Why aren’t you with them?”

“We’re divorced, years ago. You knew that. Anyway, I can’t live in that country anymore. It’s all factions and I’m still considered an unstable fellow. I can’t even bear to visit.”

“Does the boy come here?”

“Yes. Sometimes he sees me and sometimes he doesn’t. What are you getting at, Spyridis? That I need love?”

“A man’s family steadies him. Risks are considered in proportion to what might be lost. A man who feels he has nothing to lose is a strong weapon, but a dangerous one. I was feeling that way when I came to you two weeks ago. I no longer do.”

They were quiet for a time while Benny smoked a third Gauloise. Andreas regretted the personal questions, the lecturing tone. Benny was too old to be treated that way. The mood had come upon the old man without warning.

“What do we do with these two?” the big man asked, pointing his chin down the street toward Matthew’s apartment. “I can’t keep playing bodyguard, I’ve got better things to do.”

“Ms. Kessler should report yesterday’s incident. It might gain her some protection. The police might even be able to find del Carros.”

“Why? He didn’t actually do anything. His man cut me when I stuck a gun in his ribs.”

“We can ask her to leave your name out of the report, if that is what bothers you.”

“It’s nothing to me. I’m a licensed investigator, the gun is registered. But it may look bad for all of you. Why is the girl talking to buyers after she has sold the piece? Why is a suspect’s grandfather putting an investigator on his girlfriend? Anyway, I wouldn’t count on police protection. They’re very stingy about handing that out.”

“Matthew can go to my son’s house for a while. The woman can go with him, if she likes. They should be safer out there.”

“Will you call your man back? Morrison.”

“Yes. It was too late last night when I got the message. I will call him this morning.”

“And you will tell me if he has discovered anything of interest?”

“Perhaps.”

Benny exhaled furiously.

“Don’t play with me, Spyridis, or I’ll wash my hands of you.”

“That would be tragic.”

T
his time it was Morrison who wanted to meet. Andreas joined him at the corner of Fiftieth Street and Fifth Avenue, beneath the looming facade of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and they walked east toward Morrison’s next appointment.

“How’s your son?”

“I think he has improved,” Andreas replied. “I cannot explain it.”

“Don’t try. That’s good news.”

“We shall see.”

“And how was your grandson’s trip to Salonika?”

“Robert, please, we have only a few blocks.”

“You think this is chitchat? He’s in deep, my friend. There are two people dead in Greece, and your buddy Dragoumis is AWOL.”

“Are you part of the investigation now?”

“No. Just curious.”

“You are, as they say, covering your ass.”

“You bet I am. I’m the one who gave clearance for your grandson to leave the country. Now it appears that the matter has escalated. You don’t think you owe me some answers?”

“So you have no information for me?”

“I have information. I believe in sharing. I’m a sharing kind of guy. Share with me, Andy.”

Very well, then. Andreas considered what to say.

“Matthew was nowhere near where the incident took place. Someone tried to assassinate Dragoumis in the mountains. At least two were killed, one of them his nephew. The authorities there suspect
November 17,
which means that no one will be caught. Myself, I am skeptical.”

“Why?”

They stopped at a streetlight on Park Avenue. A tattooed bike messenger zipped down Fiftieth Street, crossed himself, then pedaled furiously into traffic, just ahead of a roaring Brinks truck. Andreas found Morrison’s questions tiresome.

“The nephew was shot by a forty-five, and there was a motorcycle, which all sounds correct for
17.
But Dragoumis is too old and obscure a target for them, and it happened too far from Athens.”

“Who do you suspect?”

“Everyone. Fotis has many enemies. Anyway, you are bound to know more than I do, so why not simply tell me?”

“I don’t know that much,” Morrison claimed as they crossed the avenue. “They identified the second man. Serious prison time for everything from extortion to weapons sales. He was so mangled they thought he might be your friend at first. Now they think the hat and cigarettes were a kind of calling card from Dragoumis, letting whoever ordered the hit know that he had gotten the better of them.”

“How did Fotis escape the scene?”

“Not sure. They did find an abandoned car near a small airport in Kozani.”

“He’s back here,” Andreas said with certainty.

“Could be. I assumed he’d go into hiding.”

“He will, but he came back here first. I tell you, Robert, I do not believe that icon ever left New York.”

“You’re right about that.”

“Ah, now we come to your information.”

“The NYPD has been looking into Dragoumis’ employees, especially the one who disappeared after the theft. Anton Marcus, aka, Marchevsky. They picked him up at Kennedy the night before last. False passport, ten thousand in cash on his person. He’s actually a tough cookie, wouldn’t tell them anything. But there’s a guy he used to work for, Vasili Karov, liquor wholesaler, Russian mob. Apparently Dragoumis gets a lot of his boys from Karov, and there is some question whether they ever really leave Karov’s orbit. You following me?”

“I am not yet senile.”

“So anyway, they figure Karov may be mixed up in this. They shook him down once before but got nothing. This time, they tell him that Anton squealed, which is bullshit, but they must have made some good guesses. Two lawyers and eight hours later he cuts a deal, tells them everything. It’s pretty much what you guessed. Dragoumis and Karov cooked it up between them. The other Russian wasn’t supposed to get shot, but no one told him the plan and he put up too much of a fight. The icon gets put aside for Dragoumis. The Russians get three other paintings which they take at the same time. Except that Karov says Dragoumis tricked him, left the wrong painting for him to steal. Anyway, Karov figures that was his excuse to shaft the Greek and sell the switched painting to a new buyer.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Why would Dragoumis go to the trouble of setting this up just to leave the wrong painting? And why does Karov care, when the painting isn’t his in the deal? He’s making an excuse for double-crossing your pal.”

“What was the name of the new buyer?”

“Del Rios? Something like that. Probably a false name. Cops are looking for him now.”

“Did Karov say how much he paid?”

“A hundred and fifty, I think.”

Not enough. The Russian might be bending the truth, but there was truth there. Del Carros—surely the name Morrison was fumbling for—had been willing to pay Ana Kessler a million and a half. Unless he was a complete fool, Karov would not settle for so little.

“When did this exchange take place?”

“Four days ago.”

Before del Carros cornered Ana. Yet it was obvious from that meeting that he was still hunting for the icon. He had purchased the fake knowing it was fake. Why? To put Fotis off his guard? So Fotis still had the icon, had never parted with it. Andreas felt certain.

They crossed Second Avenue and walked a little way without speaking. The old man understood that now was the time to pass on what he knew about del Carros, and what he guessed about Dragoumis. To let go of these last bits of secret information and be truly done with it. Still, he hesitated. Morrison touched him on the shoulder.

“One more thing. A Felix Martín flew into Newark from Mexico City five days ago. Argentine citizen. Probably means nothing. There must be a hundred guys in Buenos Aires alone with that name, but it is one of the aliases your German used to use. Just thought I’d mention it.”

Andreas said nothing. He had resisted Benny’s words the day before, and even now he wished that he was a man who believed in coincidence. Morrison began walking again, and Andreas fell into step behind him. They emerged onto First Avenue with a brilliant afternoon light striking the white-and-black tower of the UN, and a huge gray freighter moving down the East River.

“There’s a great Greek restaurant just one block up. We’ll go there sometime. So, Andy, you got anything else to tell me? You sure do seem to be thinking hard about something.”

“Trying to put some things together.”

“You let me know if you do. I have to run.”

“Thank you, Robert. I will keep you informed.”

“That would be a first.”

Ioannes folded the pages carefully and placed them in the envelope. They would open the way for him, he had to believe. In the beginning was the word. In what direction these words of Theodoros would push the boy, he could not guess, but something must be attempted. One voice had now separated itself from the rest, and it had become more and more adamant about the need for decisive action. He had decided to surrender to that voice.

After studying the map, he took the PATH train in from New Jersey, became lost in the bright tunnels and plazas beneath Penn Station, but finally found the platform for the number one train, which carried him to Columbus Circle. From there, he walked diagonally through Central Park toward his destination. He got lost here too, on the twisting paths and roadways, but he did not mind so much. The park was alive with growth this early May, faded yellow daffodils, just-blooming red tulips, sweet white and pink apple blossoms, cherry trees, lilac. He had not known the place could be so beautiful. And he understood that he was meant to appreciate it, even now, especially now, in this time of turmoil. It was always this way, moments of great beauty accompanying darkness of the soul. It was a gift not to be despised or ignored, and Ioannes drew breath deeply and smiled at everything around him.

He had dismissed the useless investigator Jimmy, had stopped taking calls from Bishop Makarios. He had even left a call from the secretary of the Holy Synod in Greece unreturned. They had all made a mess of things. All those involved in the matter had been thinking only about themselves—small, mean plans. A bolder vision was required, and Ioannes had some sense of what he must do, though very little sense at all of how to accomplish it. He only knew that the boy was the key.

The broad stairs of the museum were thronged with the usual students, tourists, homeless people, smoking and drinking soda and enjoying the day. Ioannes weaved through them and passed in the central door, through the grand hall of a foyer and over to a little alcove he had spied out on his last visit. The elevator was at the end. A key or card would be required to operate it, and so the priest merely waited by the doors, as if he were precisely where he ought to be. Within ten minutes a woman appeared beside him, trim, middle-aged, with glasses and a name tag hanging about her neck: Carol Voss. She smiled at Ioannes.

“You realize that this is a staff elevator?”

“Yes.” A whole world of corridors and rooms existed behind, beneath, between what the common visitor saw, he knew. As in a cathedral or monastery. The inner sanctum. “I am meeting one of the curators.”

“They’re supposed to come down here and escort you in. Who are you meeting?”

“Matthew Spear.”

“Oh, Matthew’s a friend of mine. We’re in the same department. But I’m sorry to say that he isn’t here today. In fact, I’m not sure exactly when he returns.”

“Really. How unfortunate. You say you are a friend of his?”

“That’s right.”

He had cut himself off from all investigative assistance. He could not hope to find the boy on his own, and must depend now on the greater design. There would be a purpose to whatever happened. The voice spoke quietly but firmly:
trust her.
Ioannes reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew the envelope, held it out to her.

“You will give this to him when you see him, please?”

“Um, sure, I don’t see why not.” She took the envelope.

“It is extremely important that he receive it. As soon as possible. And also very important that no one but Matthew should see it. I pray that you understand me.”

She was a quiet soul, like him, and she sensed his urgency in his stillness.

“I promise to keep it private. I don’t know when I’ll see Matthew, though.”

“I am confident that he will return here soon. I place my hopes in that, and in you. Bless you.” He turned and moved away before she could say anything in return, but he had made his impression. She was not the kind of woman to shirk the duty he had placed upon her.

The sky above the avenue had grown strange. Still blue to the south, fierce gray clouds to the north. Ioannes could not tell which way the clouds were moving, or what the evening’s weather held. It did not matter greatly. He would walk in the park once more, extract some sweetness while he still might, before the terrible task beckoned again.

There was something both touchingly intimate and maddeningly claustrophobic about her forced captivity with his family. His father was ill, though less so than she had expected, and still quite handsome, in a harsher way than Matthew. He stayed in his study, reading or sleeping, accepting the occasional visit. The mother had left Ana alone at first, when they arrived the night before, but had been at her all this next day. Trying to feed her every ninety minutes. Asking all sorts of questions about Matthew, as if Ana were a wife or girlfriend of long standing, instead of someone who had met her son only a few weeks before, someone who felt that she might already love him without really knowing him at all.

“She likes you,” Matthew said, when they were alone for a while, his mother shopping, his father asleep.

“Is that why she keeps scowling at me?”

“That’s just her normal expression. She likes talking to you.”

“She’s plying me for information about what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry, she doesn’t really want to know.”

“Anyway, what difference does it make if she likes me?”

“None at all, but she does. Trust me.”

“Would I be sitting here in your parents’ kitchen, after everything that’s happened, if I didn’t trust you?”

He put his lips to hers and her body responded immediately, despite their exertions during the last two nights. They barely made it upstairs to the guest room, his old bedroom. There was something vaguely taboo about doing it in the afternoon in his parents’ house, with his father asleep below. She understood very well that there was a good deal of seeking for relief and comfort mixed in with the lust, but it didn’t make the sex any less intense or satisfying.