The Icon (6 page)

He arrived early and chose a booth in back, too near the hot, musty stink of the deep-fryer. Morrison arrived a few minutes later in his trademark blue suit and gray raincoat, the uniform, though today it was appropriate to the weather—windy, and threatening rain.

“You look well.”

“I look terrible, and so do you,” Andreas shot back, as much to unsettle the man as to state the truth. It had been years since they had last met, and the years had not been kind to Morrison. He had gotten heavy; gone gray at the temples; and his gaze no longer darted so much but had a set, glazed cast about it. Perhaps there had been some unpleasant fieldwork. Perhaps family. Andreas could empathize, but the other man was certain not to speak of whatever it was.

“I’m OK, not enough sleep is all. I am sorry about your boy. Alex, right?”

“You went to the trouble of checking my file. I am honored.”

“Jesus, Andy, I happened to remember. You always insult people you need favors from?”

“Yes, it’s a Greek custom. We hate to be in anyone’s debt, so we offend them right at the start to let them know they do not own us.”

Morrison shook his head, appeased or amused.

“Is that true?”

“No. I am an uncivilized old man, my apologies. Yes, Alex.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“A blood disorder. You would know the name if I could remember it. Such illnesses are rare in my family, but for one so young…I do not understand.”

“There’s no understanding these things. God works in mysterious ways, the shit.”

Andreas decided that he liked this older, crankier version of Morrison better than the insolently confident fellow he’d known before. A weary, bleached-blond waitress took silent but visible offense at their order of coffee, and the agency man felt compelled to add eggs and toast.

“Haven’t had breakfast.”

“You should always eat breakfast, Robert.”

“I know, my wife tells me every day.”

“Personally, I would not eat breakfast here, but I am very careful about food.”

“I wasn’t actually planning on it.”

“She intimidated you. She is Peloponnesian, that one, fierce. The cook also, not a very clean-looking fellow. And the Mexican dishwasher has a cold. No, I would not eat here.”

“I’ll have an orange juice to kill the germs.”

“Orange juice. Have garlic.”

“In my eggs?”

“Better than in your coffee. I’m looking for a man.”

“Official business?”

“I have no official business any longer. This is, as you say, a favor. I want to know if this man entered the country in the last two weeks. Probably somewhere in the New York region, though possibly farther away. I can give you all of his known aliases.”

“That’s too wide a net. Point of origin?”

“South America. Argentina, but it’s likely he would pass through another country first.”

“So he knows what he’s doing.”

“Yes, but I believe he may have lowered his guard in this instance. He will not expect to be tracked, and he will be in a hurry.”

“Physical description?”

“Medium height, blue eyes. Older, in his eighties.”

“This guy wouldn’t be German by any chance? Dead for about thirty years?”

Andreas leaned back against the creaking imitation leather, disappointed by this development. He had counted on Morrison’s relative youth to keep him in the dark.

“We never spoke of this before.”

“Come on, Andy,” laughed the government man, “it was your obsession. It’s all in your file. But the guy is supposed to be dead.”

“They showed me a grave. A wooden cross and some turned earth behind the last house he owned. I never saw a body.”

“This was Argentinean intelligence?”

“The grave was fresh. No more than a day or two old. They could have dug it an hour before I came up the hill.”

“People do just die, my friend. A lot of those old Nazis managed to die a natural death.”

“It was too convenient. They were protecting him. They still are, I’m sure. Maybe you are, too.”

“Me?” Morrison smiled innocently.

“The fine organization you work for. It’s interesting that my hunt for Müller is so detailed in my file, when I could get no help from you people at the time.”

“Resources were thin. He was small-time, a major or a colonel, I think. Not even a general, let alone some architect of the Reich. You needed the Israelis.”

“He was small-time for them, also. They did give me a few leads in the end. That was how I found the house.”

“But the Argentineans intercepted you.”

“As soon as I stepped off the bus in a nearby village. They knew exactly who I was. They were polite, said that there had been a development which would please me. Took me up the hill to the house. Showed me the grave.”

“It does sound awfully tidy.”

“Will you help me, Robert?”

Morrison stuck a fork into the hefty pile of eggs just placed before him. Then paused, looking perplexed, or perhaps nauseated.

“It’s sticky.”

“Send it back.”

“The situation is sticky. If there was some reason we didn’t help you back then, I don’t know what it was, and I don’t feel like blundering into it now.”

“All these years later, what can it matter? Indulge an old man.”

“There’s no upside to this. If he’s dead, I’ve wasted my time. If he’s alive, and I put you on to him, things could get ugly. I can’t have you terminating this guy on American soil.”

“Who said anything about that?”

“Isn’t that what you were aiming for back then? Why else do you want to find him?”

“I have questions. More important, I must keep an eye on him to protect others.”

“You think he means to try something? I’ve got to know about that if you do.”

“I have no idea what he intends. Understand, Robert,” and Andreas leaned across the chipped Formica, fixing the other man in his unblinking gaze, “all you can tell me is that he entered the country. I will still have to find him, which will likely prove impossible, but at least I will be on my guard. You will be protecting
me
with this information. Do you see?”

“I see that you’re a smooth-talking old bastard.”

“Have me watched.”

“Can’t afford that.”

Andreas reached into his coat and removed a slip of paper, which he placed on the table. Morrison studied it a moment, chewing his toast.

“The aliases?”

“As many as I know of.”

“He could have come up with twenty more in the last thirty years.”

“True. But without someone hunting him, I doubt he would bother. It’s troublesome work, creating identities. Anyway, at least one of these was used within the last ten years, in eastern Europe. I’ve marked it. Of course, it may not have been him.”

This was becoming too much information for the agency man, who had come to the great metropolis with other priorities and now shifted restlessly in his seat. Andreas was content. It was best that the tired bureaucrat remember as little of this conversation as possible.

“If I pick this up,” said Morrison, nodding at the paper, “it doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything. I may do the search and still decide to do nothing. You might not hear from me.”

“I understand.”

The younger man sighed and slipped his wallet from his suit jacket, sliding out a twenty as he slid the white scrap of paper in.

“Unless this guy is on a watch list, it’s very unlikely I’ll find him. Don’t call me about this. I’ll call your hotel if I have anything to report.”

“You never let me pay.”

“It’s my country. You can buy me dinner in Athens.”

“You always say that, but you never come.”

“One of these days.”

F
otis was on his usual bench, turned three-quarters from the sun, gray overcoat and fedora, white mustache like a beacon. Bright pink patches stood out on his prominent cheekbones, and he stared distractedly into space while feeding bits of soft pretzel to a flock of pigeons at his feet. Fotis occupied such a powerful place in his imagination that Matthew was constantly surprised to see what an old and delicate-looking man his godfather had become. And why not? He was pushing ninety. Yet there was more than age at work, some deeper change was under way that came clear only from weekly contact. Fotis was ill. The old charmer—or schemer, as Alekos always called him—would never let on, but he was not well, and his illness was bound to add a sense of urgency to all his latest efforts. Matthew sat.

“Kaliméra, Theio.”

Fotis turned slowly and smiled at him.

“It
is
a good morning. I can feel the sun. I think we have survived another winter.”

“Winter was over weeks ago.”

“You can never be certain. March is the worst month. It tempts you with warmth and flowers, then buries you in snow. April is better; I think we are safe now. How is your father?”

“Improved. They may send him home.”

“Excellent. And how was it between him and your grandfather?”

“Not bad. A little tense. They sent me out of the room at one point, so I don’t know everything that happened, but they seemed to be communicating when I got back.”

Fotis shook his head. “Poor man.”

“How are you?”

“The same, always the same.” He patted his godson’s knee. “That is my secret. Let us walk.”

They went north, the sun at their backs. The wide path through the zoo grounds was full of shrieking children, and Matthew gripped his godfather’s arm protectively. Fotis smiled benevolently at the zigzagging horde, taking an old man’s delight in their youthful energy, even when a small boy collided with him. They watched the seals on their rock island, and caught a glimpse of the polar bear doing lazy laps in his pool.

“Has the deal gone through on the house?” Matthew asked. Fotis had described a place in Armonk he was going to buy, and on a lark Matthew and Robin, who had grown up there, drove around the town until they found it. Just a few weeks back, days before she ended things.

“The house.” Fotis seemed surprised. “I did not remember mentioning the house to you. No, I have decided not to purchase it after all. Too great an indulgence.”

This was curious. His godfather had seemed extremely excited about the house when they last discussed it, and Matthew had the impression the deal was virtually done. Another of the old man’s little mysteries. Meanwhile, he realized it was up to him to raise the subject that was on both their minds.

“I saw the Kessler icon yesterday.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s wonderful. I mean, it’s suffered a lot of wear, but there is something very powerful about it. Very moving.”

“So, you would say its value is more spiritual than artistic?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, value to whom?”

“Precisely.” The older man paused before taking on a long, sloping incline in the path. “Will you recommend purchasing the work to your superiors?”

“My department chief needs to see it, probably the director. The decision will get made at a higher level.”

“Come now, you have no influence at all?”

“I am the Byzantine specialist, I’m sure they’ll give me a voice. For its age alone we should buy it, and it’s also a great work of art. It could be the crown jewel of the new galleries.”

“Certainly.”

“But there are so many agendas. The museum can’t buy everything it should.”

“You would like for them to acquire it.”

“Speaking selfishly, I’d like to have it around, to be able to study it whenever I wanted. We don’t have a lot of icons, none like this one.”

“There are none like it, I would guess. But will it go on a wall for all to see, or will it sit in a case in your wonderful temperature-controlled basement, for only scholars’ eyes?”

“That’s a concern, I confess.”

“I sensed as much. You’re a very conscientious boy. Now,” he took Matthew’s arm and began walking again, “tell me about the icon itself.”

Matthew described the work while they proceeded, past a lush slope of yellow daffodils and white narcissi, through a small field of fruit trees, fat with just-splitting buds. He attempted to keep his language technical, yet feared that too much of his emotional response to the image showed through. It seemed impossible to use the academic voice, to keep that professional distance when speaking or even thinking of this particular piece, and he had yet to address with himself what that might mean. The older man listened quietly, his face neutral, until they paused at the Seventy-second Street crosswalk.

“Marvelous. I would very much like to see it again one day.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged, wherever it ends up.”

Fotis looked at him with damp eyes, which may just have been from the wind.

“I knew you were the right one to look at that icon.”

“I should thank you for putting in a word with their lawyer. It was a nice coincidence that you knew him.”

“We are in the same club, but it’s nonsense to thank me. The museum would have sent you in any case.”

“Maybe the family wouldn’t have thought of the museum if you hadn’t mentioned it. Whatever happens now, I’ve been able to see it, so I’m satisfied.”

“I am told that you made a very favorable impression upon Ms. Kessler.”

“The lawyer told you that?”

“Why should it be a secret? In fact, she may want you to come back and do a second examination. For herself this time.”

Matthew shrugged uncomfortably.

“That really wouldn’t be kosher while the museum is considering.”

They crossed the road and started down the steep, looping path to the boat pond.

“Unless I am mistaken, it is she and not the museum who will decide the work’s fate.”

“Of course.”

“And she will need help with that decision. She trusts you already.”

“It’s awkward.”

“You are assuming that you will be placed in a position contrary to your conscience. There is another way to look at the matter. Ms. Kessler may need to be
told
what to do.”

“I don’t know that I understand you.”

“You do not, yet.”

They said no more before they reached the bottom of the path. Fotis gripped his arm more tightly, and Matthew realized that his godfather had a pained look on his face, physical pain, possibly quite acute. The jaw clenched and the eyes closed, and Fotis swayed a moment, breathing deeply through his nose.

“Theio,
are you OK?”

Equanimity returned to the old man’s face after several moments.

“The air is lovely today, is it not, my boy?”

“Do you want to sit?”

“A few minutes, perhaps.”

They shuffled to a bench set back from the water’s edge, a little past where the hawk watchers huddled about their telescopes. Fotis sat heavily. Concerned as he was, Matthew said nothing more. This was not the first time he’d seen these symptoms, and questions would only make the old man retreat. His pain was his own, as jealously guarded as his other secrets. The pond’s surface was a dark glass, reflecting a shadowland version of the brick boathouse across the way. Behind that, tall trees, just touched with lime green, soared up well past the level of the street behind them, and above the trees the square stone towers of Fifth Avenue were bathed in yellow-white light.

“Can I get you anything?” Matthew asked, but Fotis waved him off.

“Fate is a peculiar thing. We believe that we command our own lives, but events will occur, again and again, which lead us in a certain direction. Do you not find this to be true? We can resist. We can go along, pretending we are still in control. Or, we can try to determine what fate wants of us, and help to make it happen.”

“I’m not much of a believer in fate.”

“That is because you are young. One must believe in one’s own power at your age. In another time, however, the young sought advice from the old. The old were understood to hold wisdom from experience. This is no longer the way.”

Matthew took the hint and shut up.

“You have said some interesting things today,” Fotis went on. “It is possible that your unconscious already perceives a dilemma which your conscious mind has not grasped, because a choice has not yet been put before you. So. I was contacted a few days ago by a highly placed official of the Greek church. Regarding the icon. They are very much determined to acquire the work, and they want help from me in the matter.”

A rush of anxiety coursed through the younger man. He sat forward on the bench, both disbelieving and struck by a strange sense that he had expected something very like this.

“Why would the church contact you? How do they even know about the icon?”

“The church has many resources, and I have many friends within the church. They place a high value upon recovering stolen art treasures, especially those of great religious significance and power. Kessler’s ownership of the icon was not a secret.”

“You only conjecture that it’s stolen.”

“No,” the old man countered instantly, then seemed to restrain himself. “You must have seen documents from the lawyer. What do they say of its provenance?”

“It’s more or less in line with the work you and I have discussed.”

“The Holy Mother of Katarini.”

“They don’t use that name, but it’s an obvious match. Preiconoclastic, original source unknown. The last few centuries in a church in Epiros.”

“And how did it come to be in Kessler’s possession?”

“He claimed to have purchased it from a fellow Swiss businessman.”

“So that fellow is the thief. Or the one before him. What does it matter? Somewhere along the line it was stolen. What Greek would have willingly parted with it?”

“Maybe one who needed money after the war.”

“It was taken
during
the war, I tell you. The Germans took it with them when they left.”

Now we’ve arrived at it, Matthew thought. His godfather had been hinting about something for weeks.

“How do you know that?”

Fotis sighed, smoothing his hands out across his gray pleated pants.

“Very well. Very well, I told you I had seen the work before.”

“Yes. That’s how we got talking about it in the first place.”

“I didn’t tell you everything. It was during the war that I saw it, in that church in your grandfather’s village. It was your
Papou,
in fact, who arranged for me to see it. I have never forgotten that time. Less than an hour, but I was completely possessed by its beauty, by the power emanating from within it. You know I was with the guerrillas. I was in charge of the resistance in that area, and I sent a man to get the icon from that church. Before the Germans took it, or burned the place without knowing what it was. They burned so many villages, churches and all.”

The old man paused, lost in a vision of houses aflame. Matthew watched the men who watched the birds. He sensed that this story would end up troubling him, and not just because the museum would never touch stolen work. The information, which he was hungry to learn, would come at the price of his neutrality. Every word got him deeper into whatever it was his godfather had planned. Yet how could he resist? These old guys gave up their secrets so infrequently.

“What happened?”

“Yes, what. I’m still not sure. The man I sent was my best man.
To Fithee
we called him. We all went by different names, so the Germans could not get information about our brothers, or our families. It must sound foolish to you now.”

“To Fithee.
The serpent.”

“The Snake, if you like. Because he was so good at slipping into and out of places. And for other reasons. He had his own ideas of how best to do things, but I trusted him.”

“And he failed.”

“No, he succeeded. Too well. He understood the icon’s value even better than I did, and he decided to take it at all costs.” Fotis wet his lips with his tongue. “He killed a priest.”

Matthew sat back on the bench. This was uglier than he would have guessed.

“Why?”

“I speak too quickly. I do not know for certain that he did it. The priest intervened somehow, and he died.”

“What happened to the icon?”

“The church was burned, by the Germans, I think, though he might have done that also. At the time, I assumed the icon burned with it. Later I learned that my man had given it to a German officer.”

“Given it?”

“Traded it, for guns and ammunition. To fight the communists. Once we knew the Germans were beaten, that became the priority. So you see, he was not being a thief, but a patriot. For all I know, he was under orders from someone above me.”

Matthew tapped his feet to drive out the chill, as well as quell his agitation. The icon was suddenly marred, as if blood had been flicked across its surface. He would not be able to see it in the same way. Fotis seemed to read his thoughts.

“Many have killed for this work, and others like it, over the years. It should not surprise you, my boy. Or are you shocked to find blood on your godfather’s hands?”

“You didn’t send him to kill the priest.”

“No. But I commanded him, controlled him, I thought. He had his own game; everyone did. It’s a sad story. I am sorry to upset you. You would like to see the work in a purely artistic way, but since you are a kind of historian, I thought you should know.”

“This wasn’t a history lesson. You were talking about the Greek church, remember?”

“Indeed. My only point was this. We’ve discussed the minor importance the work would have to your museum. You know, or you should know, the value the icon had, not only as a source of faith, but as a source of healing, in the old country. This would seem to me sufficient reason to return it there. If not, well, then you have my sorry tale of its theft, and at what cost in blood. Can there be any doubt after that as to what the correct course should be?”