by Neil Olson
“Yes. It sounds promising.”
“I think we have your man. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“What is the plan?”
“He went in late last night. I don’t think he will have left again. We park and wait. It’s a quiet street, we could pick him up, take him to a secure location. I have two in mind. Or we could do the business right there, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Then why mention it?”
“In case it would be easier for you.”
In other words, thought Andreas, in case sitting in a car for an hour with a terrified old bastard who knows we’re going to kill him makes me lose my nerve. He had never actually agreed to Benny’s condition, but his failure to object had made the plan concrete. The moral issues did not trouble him; they simply weren’t set up for an operation like this. It was just the two of them, no other support was possible. No matter how well Benny thought it out, it was bound to be messy, with the risk of failure or discovery very high.
“I’m prepared to do it quietly,” Benny continued. “Sit him down on a stoop or against a car. It would take a few minutes, at least, for anyone to notice. It’s far from ideal.”
“It’s impossible,” Andreas snapped. “We haven’t even identified him yet.”
“You won’t know him on sight?”
“I think I will, but I will need to be very close.”
“So we pick him up.”
“What if there are too many people on the street?”
“Then we follow him. See what he’s up to. Wait for the next opportunity.”
They turned east on Eighty-fourth Street and headed toward the brightening sky. Andreas hated being so close to the target with only the vaguest sketch of a plan. In truth, he had participated in numerous ill-advised operations for the Greek security forces, but they went against his nature, and his fears were usually proved correct by some blunder. He liked to run a tighter ship. The English, and later the Americans, had been his models. Mostly he envied their resources: secure apartments, high-powered surveillance, teams of trackers. His own former agency now employed all these methods, but it no longer employed him. He was on his own, at the mercy of this skilled but lunatic Jew. Andreas reminded himself that the consequences did not greatly matter. Sloppiness insulted his professionalism, but it was the result that counted. He was no longer responsible for anyone but himself. To get Müller, after all these years, would be worth something. A service rendered, and a debt paid. Let them do to him what they wanted after that. He began to feel calmer, surveying each tree-lined block, checking the pedestrian traffic at each intersection. Things would go as they went, and he was prepared for whatever happened.
Benny pointed out the building, an old brownstone with a tall, worn set of stairs. Second floor, front right, was where he had seen a light go on a minute after Miller entered. There was no place to park, so they circled the block until a space opened up near the avenue, beneath a leaning plane tree, still mostly bare. In summer the street would be shrouded in leafy shadow, but at the moment Andreas felt completely exposed.
“Relax,” said Benny.
“We drove by the damn place three times.”
“Looking for parking. Everyone does it. Remember that he’s avoided detection for fifty years. Not everyone is like you, examining the stall for microphones before he shits.”
“There.”
A man came out the heavy wooden door of the brownstone and trudged wearily down the steps. In his sixties, dressed casually but carrying a briefcase.
“He doesn’t want to go to work,” Benny said, sipping coffee.
Andreas studied the man as he passed. Lanky, carrying a little extra weight. Exactly the right build for Müller, but too young, and the pink, freshly scrubbed face was not familiar. No one else emerged from the building for the next hour, while the sky grew brighter, and Andreas could feel Benny shifting restlessly in his seat.
“For all you know,” the older man said, “he may have left an hour after he entered.”
“I realize that.”
“To do this properly you must be prepared to wait hours. All day.”
“I’m aware of the procedure. I simply don’t like it.”
“That’s because you’re an analyst at heart.”
“I’ve done my share of fieldwork.”
And got expelled for overaggressiveness, thought Andreas, but it would not be the thing to say. A lot of good operatives got labeled overzealous by their uncreative handlers. It was the switch from analyst to operative that troubled Andreas. The skills were totally separate. For all their sharing of information, the two had never conducted an operation together. Yet Benny had been quite successful since going freelance, and had never steered the older man wrong.
Another forty minutes passed. Andreas nearly nodded off twice, and his legs were going to sleep. Benny continued to fidget and check his watch, finally popping his door open.
“Follow me in a few minutes,” he said, then was out and walking briskly before Andreas had time to object. An unpleasant surge of adrenaline coursed through him as he watched Benny move down the street, pass the target house on the opposite side, cross over at the far intersection, and turn back. Without deliberation, Benny bounded up the stairs of the brownstone and disappeared into the vestibule. Andreas swung his door open and got out.
Cool air struck him at once, and he felt his stiff legs shake as he maneuvered his way across the broken sidewalk to the steps. Benny’s large frame crowded the vestibule, but Andreas could see that the big man had already opened the inner door. They slid into the stairwell. Steam heat clanged in the pipes and fluorescent light flickered. The floor was black-and-white tile; battered mailboxes lined one wall and a steep flight of steps went up the other. Andreas left about ten feet between them as they ascended, and was surprised by the other man’s speed. Neither of them made a noise.
The apartment door was steel-encased and painted brown. Benny ignored the mirrored peephole and put his ear to the door. The pipes continued to clank and bang, but Andreas heard nothing else in the building, no stirring of the occupants. After a minute, Benny took a razor-thin, flexible plastic card and wedged it into the seam between door and frame, taking a full minute to explore from top to bottom. Searching for a deadbolt, Andreas understood, but what would he do if he found one? Was there a hacksaw or drill in that capacious jacket as well?
Benny stood, holding up one finger: only the single, visible lock. Next he drew out a set of master keys and began trying one after another, making unavoidable noise now. Either he’s not in there, thought Andreas, or he’ll be waiting to blow our brains out. Then another thought struck him. No anti-crowbar flange, one lock. Would Müller stay in a place like this? Trapped in an apartment was trapped, of course, whether there was one lock on the door or ten. The trick was avoiding discovery at all. Still, it was troubling.
The moment the lock clicked, Benny pushed the door open and slid in, free hand stuffed inside his jacket. Andreas waited two or three seconds, then followed. It was a typical railroad flat—a long, narrow strip of rooms—and the men had entered at the kitchen. The place was dark and they heard nothing. Benny went right, toward the muted light from the street windows; Andreas, left, into the empty bedroom. There were gray curtains blocking the dim light from the alley, a small bed near the window, and a single scarred bureau. A lonely landscape print hung on one wall, but the others were bare, the green carpet was thin and stained, and the whole room gave off an air of barrenness and transience. No one lived here; no one stayed here long. No one seemed to be staying here at all, though the bed looked slept in, then badly made up.
A closed door faced him. Andreas considered whether anyone would be stupid enough to trap himself in the bathroom like that, then remembered that he was not carrying a weapon and Benny was three rooms away. He sighed at the idiocy of the whole undertaking, then yanked the stiff door open. The place was tiny, large enough to shit, shave, and shower, an
d not a spare inch more. No old Nazi cowering behind the shower curtain. Andreas caught sight of himself in the mirror, his ridiculous old man’s face, pinched and lined and soured by decades of suspicion. He was a pragmatic man, an attentive man, and not particularly vain, and yet he often forgot that he was old. Mirrors always took him up short.
He looked away from the unpleasant visage, and his gaze fell to the sink. The porcelain was damp, and a thin film hung around the drain. He rubbed at it a bit, rolled the pasty matter between thumb and finger. It was the sort of residue one found often when there was a woman in the house. Foundation, makeup, exfoliate, any of the dozens of powders necessary to the maintenance of the public face. Of course, men used these things also. Possibly hair dye was included in the mix. Andreas closed his eyes, pictured the man with the briefcase who had left the building earlier. Add a few lines to the face, white hair, glasses. The limp would be easy enough to fake. And voilà, the ghost of Müller. The weight of it made him grip the low sink with both hands, nearly ill. Fool, he cursed himself silently.
Benny could be heard wandering back through the apartment, no longer trying to move quietly. Andreas went over and sat on the bed as the big man filled the door frame.
“No one.”
“So it would appear.”
“You were right,” Benny said in disgust, “he must have gone out again last night.”
“I think not. I believe that we actually saw him leave.”
Benny ignored the comment, went to the bureau, and began pulling drawers open.
“Have you checked this?”
“You will find nothing there. No coats in the closet. No toothbrush in the bathroom.”
His companion slammed closed the empty drawers, then wheeled on him.
“He’s gone, then?”
The older man’s mind had already begun to drift out over the city, across the East River into Queens. He’d had only Fotis’ word to go by on Müller. That, and his own desperation for it to be true, a desperation the schemer could smell on him all these years later. It was the most obvious ploy imaginable. What were you distracting me from, he wondered. Why am I always so many steps behind you? Nearly sixty years and still the student. Poor Andreou, indeed.
“No, Benny. He was never here.”
12
N o activity was visible around his godfather’s house, and
Matthew climbed the steps with an awful sense of foreboding. Father Ioannes followed a step behind, glancing at the flower beds, while bald Jimmy waited in the car, an arrangement of which he had strongly disapproved. Matthew rapped hard on the door, reminding himself that he had the right of anger here. He had been deceived, or so it now appeared. There was no movement within. He knocked again, harder.
“Try the door,” the priest suggested.
It seemed to surprise neither man when it opened, but Matthew’s sense of dread became a black hole, swallowing all constructive thought. He stepped into the house. The parlor was empty but caught the day’s weak light through its windows. A recent history of the Byzantine Empire lay on a chair by the door, a bookmark at page ninety-one. A half-filled water glass was on the table. Through the gauzy curtains Matthew watched Jimmy quickstepping down the sidewalk, disappearing into the alley between house and warehouse. The situation was getting away from him. Where were Nicholas and Anton? Where was Fotis?
Back in the corridor, Father John stood by the stairs, and Matthew was tempted to try that way, but the study beckoned more insistently. He turned the knob and the heavy door opened. It was too dark to see much. Unsure where a light switch might be, Matthew shuffled toward the lamp on the big desk. His foot struck something soft and giving at the same moment a voice spoke, an old man’s voice, but not the one he was expecting.
“Stand still, my boy,” his grandfather said. Light instantly filled the room from a lamp near the far door, and there Andreas stood, raincoat, gloves, hat, piercing stare. Tall and still. “Watch your feet.”
Matthew looked down. The object he had kicked was a man. Nicholas, one of Fotis’ Russians, lay pale and seemingly lifeless at his feet. The eyes were closed, the mouth grimaced, and as Matthew’s vision continued to adjust, he could see that the oriental carpet was stained in a great, dark patch. A tangy, almost sweet odor hit his nose, and he stepped back instinctively, colliding with Father John.
“Merciful God,” the priest whispered, then began a scattered prayer in Greek.
“Do not touch anything,” Andreas instructed. Matthew ignored him and crouched down over Nicholas, steeling himself, feeling the cool neck, the lips. Was that breath he felt?
“I think he’s alive.”
The Russian’s right hand was clutched upon the side of his stomach, completely encased in blood, and holding a soaked-through handkerchief against where his wound must be. Andreas was suddenly standing over Matthew, pulling a fresh handkerchief from his own coat and beginning to wrap it about his hand.
“Give it to me,” said Matthew, possessive of the wounded man, determined to do one useful thing this day. Andreas handed him the handkerchief without debate.
“Yes, like that. You must hold it hard against the wound. I will try to find you a towel. Is it just the two of you?”
Matthew waited a fruitless moment for Ioannes to speak, then did so himself.
“There’s a guy in the warehouse. Jimmy, I think his name is. He has a gun.”
“I will call for an ambulance. Both of you stay here.”
The old man vanished so swiftly and silently that it was as if he had never been there.
“I hope they will not harm each other,” said the priest, kneeling now.
“Is your man dangerous?” Matthew tried not to look at his hand, to ignore the warm wetness beginning to cover it. The smell of blood was making him dizzy.
“He would like you to think so, but it is your Papou who is the dangerous one.”
“You know him?”
“Only a little, a long time ago. He will not remember me.”
Matthew looked around. The easel where the icon had sat twenty hours before was gone; the painting was nowhere to be seen. Some works had vanished from the walls as well. Which ones? Who else might have been hurt, killed? He should check the house, but he could not abandon his present task. Anyway, his grandfather would have done that already, unless he had just arrived. Or unless—
There was a noise in the kitchen and Jimmy appeared through the rear door, hands free of any weapon, Andreas a few steps behind. Both men seemed calm, if a bit flushed.
“Do we have everyone now?” Andreas asked.
“Where is Fotis?” Matthew shot back.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“We will discuss it. Who are these men?”
“They’re from the church, in Greece. They say.”
“Mr. Spyridis,” said Ioannes evenly, “we must talk.”
“Yes?” Andreas eyed the priest keenly. “Perhaps, but this is not the time.”
“If not now, when?”
The wail of sirens filled the brief silence that followed. Far off, but getting closer.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“You do not think the police will have need of you tomorrow?” The priest stood to face him. “I should think they would find your being here, alone, suspicious.”
Matthew awaited some convincing denial from his grandfather, but Andreas only stared.
“We shall see, Father. Perhaps they will look at the matter differently.”
Andreas placed a hand on Matthew’s shoulder and all of them became quiet as the sirens grew louder. Then Jimmy sidled up to the old man, desperation trumping embarrassment.
“Can I have my gun back?”
They were alone on the sidewalk. The ambulance had already pulled away, and police officers were going into and out of the house. Matthew did not know where the priest and Jimmy had gone, did not know what to say or not to say to the police when they questioned him. His grandfather stood
beside him, staring down the empty avenue, deep in thought.
“I am sorry you had to see this,” the old man spoke quietly.
“You have never seen a wounded man, I think.”
“Papou, do you know what’s going on?”
“You ask me that? I had hoped that you might tell me.”
“The only thing I know is that nobody has been telling me the truth.”
“That is all?” Andreas gave him a hard look. “So you played no part in helping Fotis get the icon?”
“I’m not sure what part I played anymore. Fotis was supposed to be the middleman. He was assisting some people from the Greek church.”
“These men?”
“No, another priest, who represented the synod in Athens. Except now it seems he didn’t.”
“Who was the other priest?”
“This Father Tomas Zacharios.”
Andreas nodded. “I see.”
“You know who he is, don’t you?” Matthew struggled to keep a handle on his emotions, failed. “All of you know each other somehow, and I don’t know a goddamn thing. You’re messing with me the way you messed with my father.”
“Do not speak nonsense, and do not blame others for your own foolishness.”
The truth stung. He had been a complete ass, and it was time to face up to it.
“I have kept things from you,” Andreas continued. “I was trying to protect you, not hurt you. I would never try to hurt you. I do not know this Father Tomas, but I have heard of him. He is well educated and well liked, and has been a liaison between the Greek and American churches. He is also thought to be a swindler, blackmailer, and thief. Not to mention a friend of your godfather. He disappeared with a large amount of church funds within the last few days.”
