by Neil Olson
“Why don’t we go see this man right now?”
“Because he’s not there. He left the city for a few days.”
“So we sit?”
“I’m sure there are other things you could be investigating. Do not let me hold you.”
“You know more than you’re telling. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“I need to emphasize that if you are going to follow me, you must do exactly as I instruct. I will not tolerate interference, whatever Makarios says.”
“All of you are the same,” the little man whined. “Think you know another man’s business better than he does. Why? Because a divine light leads you? Priests should not lead investigations.”
“Tell it to God, brother.”
The Connecticut coast sped by outside the scratched, dirty train window. Deep coves and marsh grass, still going from dead beige to pale green. White egrets wading about or lifting slowly into flight. Marinas, empty beaches, the bare gray outline of islands. Then dense stretches of wood, trees mostly bare but acquiring bright green or red halos of tiny leaves about them. The world returning to life. Andreas looked away from the window.
The trip to Boston had been a waste of time. He had seen the widow of one of his operatives. The man had done good and unrewarding intelligence work for twenty years and lost his pension when he came to live in America, rather than return to a Greece run by the colonels, a place he no longer recognized. Andreas had been unable to help him then, and could do very little now but pay respects. He had made dozens of such visits in recent years. They did not get easier. The American contact he’d met in Cambridge was an old friend, but he was at a lower level than Morrison, semiretired and teaching college, and could be of no help. It had sickened Andreas to sit there, trying to remember what a good man this was, how important human contact was for any soul, yet only be able to think in terms of the utility of the meeting. Information gained versus time lost. Had the ability to think in any other manner slipped away from him forever? He had even resented the widow, a woman of great kindness and courage, whom he would never see again. Disgraceful.
He was eager to get back to Alekos. That was certainly part of it, but his son was probably grateful for the break. The two could not spend much time in each other’s presence, whatever degree of underlying love there might be. Andreas would have to return to Athens soon, unless Alex took a turn for the worse. The hotel bill grew unwieldy, and there was a claustrophobia about New York he could not tolerate. The main thing was to make sure that Matthew had not gotten himself involved in any serious way with Fotis’ scheming. That was where his primary energy should have been focused all along, but he had gotten Müller’s scent in his nose again. Best to let that go. In any case, Benny had found nothing so far.
He had resisted acquiring one of those portable telephones that everyone carried, and he deeply resented the seven meaningless phone conversations that went on simultaneously in the seats around him. Yet he could see how they were useful; they might have been indispensable to his kind of work, in fact, if they had existed twenty years before. Being without one, however, he waited for the ten-minute break in New Haven to go down into the dank, silent tunnels beneath the tracks and place a call by public telephone. He began dialing Matthew’s number, almost by instinct, but hung up and then dialed Benny’s instead.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m on the train. What is it?”
“I’ve found him.”
Andreas exhaled and closed his eyes.
“Are you certain?”
“Ninety-five percent. You’ll have to fill in the rest. When are you back?”
“Two hours.”
“Tonight isn’t good. Too much activity. Tomorrow, first thing, we’ll pay him a visit.”
11
I t had been his intention to go back into Manhattan that same evening, but his mother had convinced Matthew to stay the night. Early Sunday morning he called his grandfather’s hotel but could get no answer in the room. Then he visited briefly with his father. Alex was too tired to rise, and Matthew settled for squeezing his hand, hoping that his expression would make the apology which his lips could not seem to issue. He took the train into Grand Central and walked to the hotel. It was Easter Sunday for the Western church, Palm Sunday for the Orthodox. Matthew had thought of going to services, but his mind would not be at ease while matters remained so confused, and he was certain that his grandfather would not be at church.
In the cramped lobby, the concierge took his name and telephoned the room.
“You can go ahead up.”
“He’s back?”
“He returned with another gentleman twenty minutes ago. Room 511. The elevators are to your right.”
Matthew had been ready to wait a good deal longer, and now he felt unprepared. It was difficult to maintain his anger, and his grandfather could use many means to deflect him. He must be firm, speak all that he knew, and demand answers.
A hard rap on the door brought footsteps and a muffled greeting.
“It’s Matthew.”
The door swung open, and a man stood there, tall, gray, and smiling.
“You are Andreas’ grandson?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes, yes, come in.”
The older man stepped aside, and Matthew entered. The room was not large. A double bed, television, desk, and two chairs, with a muted floral theme on the walls, cushions, and bedspread. Andreas was not to be seen, but there was someone clattering around in the bathroom.
“Sit,” said the man, placing himself in the chair closest to the door. Matthew remained standing, but wandered over to look down at the concrete courtyard below. He had learned not to ask questions of his grandfather’s business associates. The man’s presence was frustrating, as Matthew intended to press Andreas hard, but he was determined not to be run off. He would wait it out. The click of the bathroom light switch made him turn.
A short, thick, nearly bald man with deep-set eyes stood there, draped in a leather jacket two sizes too big for him. The light was off in the bathroom, and there was really nowhere else that Andreas might be. He was not here, and the two men were between Matthew and the door. Panic took the form of a blurry numbness, and he did not trust his voice to speak.
“Please sit,” said the older man again. “We should know each other.”
Matthew sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. The bald one remained standing, patting his pockets distractedly, an annoyed expression on his face.
“You came looking for your Papou,” said the gray-haired man.
“So did we. As you can see, he is not here.”
The man was about Andreas’ height and weight, and the face had the same rectangular shape. Even similar features. Add the dark suit and shirt buttoned to the collar, and Matthew could see how the concierge might be fooled at a glance. Yet the man was a good ten years younger than Andreas, and far more kindly in his expression.
“What are you doing in his room?”
“Waiting. We are waiting, like you.”
“I think you were doing more than waiting before I came in.”
“Yes, well, we did avail ourselves of his absence to look around. I assure you that we have taken nothing.”
“You shouldn’t be in here at all.”
“By law, you are correct. But extralegal imperatives are sometimes stronger. In any case, we did not break down the door. We were given the key.”
“Is there any point in asking what you were looking for?”
“We’re not precisely certain. Maybe something that would give us a clue to where the icon is now. Yes, the icon, paidemou, don’t look surprised. What did you think this was about?”
“He knows,” said the bald one, in an irritated voice. “He knows where it is. Don’t you?”
Matthew processed answers, true, false, and in between. Which would protect him? Which would endanger someone else? Fear paralyzed his thinking. Could he si
mply get up and leave?
“You are in no danger,” the older man said gently. “But we must learn where the icon is. It is terribly important.”
“Why?”
“A fair question, and the answer is complicated. I believe that several people involved with the icon’s sale, including perhaps yourself, are operating under a misunderstanding. Truly, a deliberate deception. Tell me, have you met a priest named Tomas?”
After pausing too long to deny it, Matthew nodded his head.
“And he put himself forward as a representative of the Greek church?”
“Yes,” Matthew said, concern for his safety giving way to a deeper fear. “He’s not?”
“He is, or was. He is a priest of the church in America, but Tomas has occasionally done business on our behalf. He was pursuing an opportunity to acquire the icon for us. In the last week or so, however, he allowed his own interests to overcome his spiritual obligation. I believe. Truly, we do not know where Tomas is right now, so we cannot say exactly what has happened. I am being very honest with you, more than I should be, perhaps. In any case, we do not believe he is in possession of the icon.”
Which question to ask first?
“I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“The apology should be mine. Ioannes is my name. Father John, if you prefer. Many of my American friends call me that.”
“I’m Greek.”
“Of course you are.”
“So you’re from the church in Greece?”
“Yes.”
“And you came here to check up on the deal?”
“Tomas’ actions bred suspicion. Unfortunately, his superiors did not oversee him carefully, and we did not follow up with them until it was too late. I am here to see what can be rescued. The icon is of enormous importance to us. The joy at its discovery when Tomas contacted us was great, I assure you.”
“Wait. You didn’t know about Kessler having the icon already?”
“There were rumors, Kessler’s ownership among them. Most people thought it was in a vault in Switzerland. I had assumed it was destroyed.”
“So Tomas came to you.”
“That’s right.”
“You never contacted anyone here to act on your behalf? Someone outside the church, I mean.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
Matthew’s thoughts lost their grounding. The entire business was beyond his grasp, and a sickening realization loomed. And yet, having been fooled so easily up to now, how could he simply accept what he was hearing? Should he abandon his faith in Fotis so quickly?
“You know, I have to say, Tomas was at least as credible as you guys. He went through all the proper motions. He put down a lot of money. Where did that come from?”
Baldy spoke sharply in Greek, something to the effect that they were wasting time. Father John answered him quietly: where were they going in such a hurry? Then the older man leaned forward and stared earnestly at Matthew.
“Obviously, Tomas had a backer. The person who was really after the work all along. Perhaps you know who that person is.”
Matthew shook his head, in resistance rather than denial.
“You have no reason to trust me,” the priest continued, “but I am asking you to do so. For the good of the church, for the good of others who have been deceived, and in memory of those who have died for the work, I ask your assistance. Please, tell me where the icon is.”
Matthew’s inclination to trust was enormous, but he was coming to see it as a character flaw.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
The bald one cursed, and Matthew stepped into the relative safety of the blue-tiled fluorescent chamber. Cold water on his face felt good but did not clear his mind. This priest was convincing. He exuded compassion and honesty to a degree that was nearly hypnotic. Could he be believed? Was it more complicated? A church faction fight, perhaps? The conclusion he kept returning to was the same one that had made him hold his tongue before: he could not turn his godfather over on such a slender thread of trust. He would have to investigate the matter himself, quickly, as he had been intending to do by coming here. That meant losing these two. Would they let him walk out? Did they have the means of following him without his realizing? There wasn’t time to lie low for a day or two, every hour might count.
Through the door he could hear a cell phone ringing. When he composed himself and stepped out, Matthew saw the bald one just putting his phone away as he jabbered excitedly to Father John. The swift, heavily accented Greek mostly eluded him, but through the buzz of words he clearly heard a familiar name. The priest looked up.
“Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine. I have to leave.”
“An associate of my friend here has made a discovery among Father Tomas’ abandoned possessions. A name, known to us. Fotis Dragoumis. I think he is related to you?”
Matthew nodded.
“You are close to him?”
“Yes, I am.”
“He is, perhaps, a dangerous man to deal with?”
“I don’t think of him that way. It might be dangerous for you.”
“Nevertheless, we must see him. I think you should come with us. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“We will not force you. It is completely your decision. Somehow I feel your presence will make things less hazardous for both sides.”
Matthew absorbed the import of those words. The urge to be included in whatever fell out was overwhelming other considerations.
“I need to call him.”
“I cannot stop you. But if you do, he will be gone when we arrive, and neither you nor I will see that icon again. I think you know this.”
Still he hesitated. The priest was guessing; he couldn’t know for sure that Fotis had the icon.
“Scatá,” spat Baldy, bolting forward. Instinctively, Matthew’s arms shot out, the heels of his hands catching the other man hard in the chest, staggering him so that he grabbed at the mattress to keep from falling. Meaning to rush for the door, Matthew instead found himself advancing, a sudden unexpected rage replacing his fear in an instant, filling him. He hadn’t thrown a fist since adolescence, but he wanted to beat the stocky little man senseless. Baldy recovered swiftly and sprang at him, his heavy fist catching Matthew in the stomach, awkwardly, but hard enough to bend him double with a deep, nauseating pain. He braced for another blow, but then the priest was between them.
“Stamáta! Stop it, both of you.” Father John helped him to a chair, but Matthew would not sit, merely leaned on the pale wooden arm, pulling hard for breath. Baldy straightened his jacket, a combination of rage and surprise distorting his features. “Demetrios was not after you,” the priest said firmly, “he was headed for the door.”
Matthew had realized that a moment after he struck, and yet the anger remained, barely under control. And wholly misdirected, he now understood. His hands shook. The floor seemed to drop away, like the shaky scaffolding that Fotis had built beneath him. A lie; he had built it himself, using the shoddy materials his godfather supplied, the half-truths and flimsy reasoning. Ignoring every sign, letting the worthy goal justify all. He had been played. It was just as his father had warned him, he could keep the truth at bay no longer.
“OK,” Matthew said, once his breath returned. “I’ll go with you. But we do this my way. Fotis is very sharp, and he’s well protected.”
The priest smiled.
“Then we shall count on you to protect us.”
It was cold. Andreas had not been on the streets this early in a long time, and he was surprised at how the predawn chill penetrated him. He walked swiftly to get the blood flowing in his stiff limbs, knowing that he could not afford to be slow in the minutes or hours to come. Vigorous action might be required. He felt a tremor of unease rise up. He had poked and poked, expecting nothing, and suddenly he had stirred up the hornets’ nest. Things could easily get out of hand now, and he would have no one to blame but himself
. Yet he couldn’t wish it were not happening. If it was Müller, well, a reckoning was required. Time did not wash away crimes, and instinct continued to tell him that the threat to anyone involved with the icon was real. He only hoped that Benny would be punctual, because it was very cold.
Shadows hung thickly in the narrow canyons of side streets, but the sky was slowly brightening over Queens. Some people were out already, solitary specters appearing not quite aware or awake. Taxis rocketed up Third Avenue. A silver-gray sedan sat before a brick bank on the northeast corner of an intersection. A small Japanese car, good for parking. The passenger door was unlocked, and Andreas slipped gratefully into the warm compartment. Benny was already smoking, and two cups of deli coffee were jammed into a plastic holder between them. The man’s demeanor was relaxed this morning, and he allowed the thin stream of traffic to pass completely before pulling onto the avenue.
“Where are we going,” Andreas asked.
“Not far. Yorkville. Germantown, they call it, but it’s really more Hungarian. Hungarian churches, restaurants, clubs.”
“I know the neighborhood.”
“There’s a kind of boardinghouse, run by a Hungarian woman. I didn’t know about it before, but someone put me on to it a few days ago.”
“And you sent one of the girls over with brochures?”
“Got in through the cleaning service, not that it’s any of your business. Anyway, he’s not staying in the boardinghouse proper, but in an apartment this woman owns, a few blocks away. Under the name Peter Miller.”
“Miller,” Andreas mused, skeptically. “That’s an old one. He hasn’t used that in years.”
“Maybe that’s why he chose it.”
“Benny, are you sure of this? Peter Miller is a very common name.”
“I saw him go in last night. Quite old, short legs, long torso, a slight limp.”
It sounded right, but it could be coincidence.
“How many apartments in the building?”
“You really have no faith in me, do you, my friend?”
“I am asking a few questions.”
“You are asking,” the younger man said sharply, “how I know the man was even this Miller, let alone Müller, and not one of ten thousand old men who live on the upper East Side. It’s a small building, eight apartments, two unoccupied. Four people went in who look like residents, younger people, briefcases, dry cleaning. That doesn’t cover the whole building, but it narrows it considerably.”
