The Icon

by Neil Olson

A roar filled the station now, the uptown local hurtling out of the tunnel. There was no getting past the homeless evangelist in any conventional way, so Matthew swung his feet over the low bench back, and staggered across the gum-sticky platform to the yellow line. Reflected light climbed the broken white wall tiles, then the square front of the train rushed by him. The preacher’s voice bellowed from behind.

  “He has spoken to me of you. You are one of the lost ones. Your sins are deep, but in Jesus all things are possible. Repent, and be one with the Lord.”

  Several silver cars swept by, scratched windows, fluorescent light, very few people in the orange seats. The train slowed and Matthew’s eyes locked with those of a figure, or maybe a face only in a door window, quickly gone. Wide eyes of the deepest brown, alarmed or saddened, half the face discolored. There and gone in a moment, but Matthew’s body was electrified to his fingertips. He had seen that face before, those eyes. In a dream, perhaps.

  The train stopped and a door opened before him. He stepped through but did not sit, looking back at the platform. The homeless giant was still by the bench, no longer looking at Matthew, muttering once more. Somehow his familiar insanity seemed less threatening than the face in the window, and Matthew had nearly decided to step off again when the doors closed and the train lurched forward. He grabbed a pole to avoid falling.

  There was nobody in the car, and there were only two old women in the one ahead. Matthew held the steel pole fiercely, gazing down a vanishing series of windows in the doors connecting the cars, waiting for the specter to reappear. Or some new threat. He regretted all of it now—every incident and decision that had drawn him deeper into this bloodstained chase and further from his dull, comfortable life. Let him go back to worrying about staff politics, or some troubled girlfriend. He could not take this enervating obsession, this fear, this miserable paranoia. Nothing had happened. He had, perhaps, seen a face. He had been harassed by a homeless man. So what? Every encounter had become heavy with hidden meaning.

  A few others got off with him at Seventy-seventh Street. Matthew rushed up the stairs and into the streetlit night as if pursued by demons. Lexington Avenue, lined with florists, coffee shops, and copiers, was dead at one o’clock in the morning. A banging grate beneath his feet startled him; a cab turning onto Eightieth Street nearly ran him down. The empty side streets were worse. It had been a warm day, but he felt chilled. Perhaps he was sick. Restaurants and twenty-four-hour delis created more human traffic on Second Avenue, and he relaxed somewhat. Entering his building, he dropped his keys on the black-and-white tiles, picked them up quickly and dropped them again, cursing loudly in the echoing stairwell. Waking the neighbors, if any of them were home. He barely knew the other people in the building. There was no one here he would go to for help.

  Two flights up, he turned both locks and stepped into his cramped kitchen. It took him several seconds to realize that something was wrong. There were lights on. Then he heard movement somewhere, the quietest shuffle of feet, a creaking floorboard. He was looking about for something to use as a weapon when she called to him.

  “Matthew.”

  Ana appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking the way he felt. Her hair was wild, dark shadows hung under her eyes, her clothes appeared slept in. He thought she looked beautiful.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Benny let me in.”

  “Benny.”

  “Ezraki. Don’t tell me that you don’t know Benny.”

  The name came back to him. An Israeli friend of his grandfather, did marketing research or something. Ex-Mossad, as if any of them were really ex-anything.

  “Yeah, I know him. But I never gave him my keys.”

  “He’s got this big set of skeleton keys, says he can open eighty percent of the ordinary locks in the city.”

  “That’s comforting. Why did he bring you here?”

  “I got myself into some trouble.” She tried to sound flip, but her voice broke. “He didn’t think I should go back to my place right away.”

  Matthew turned swiftly to bolt the useless locks, and turned back just as she rushed into him, knocking her forehead against his chin.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s OK.”

  He held her for several minutes, arms wrapped tightly, fingers digging into her ribs. Strange to feel such comfort, to be able to give such comfort in the midst of such distress. He had not expected to hold her again. His mind had been packed with all the explanations, justifications, pleas with which he might win back her trust, all of them insufficient and unconvincing even to his own ears. Yet here she was. No explanations, no excuses. Warm breath on his neck, the aloe scent of her shampoo.

  “I feel so stupid,” she said into his collar. “And frightened.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She released him slowly, sat down at the little kitchen table. He boiled water for tea they would not drink while she told him of Rosenthal, del Carros, and the encounter at the cathedral. By the time he told her of his misadventures in Greece it was three o’clock in the morning. He held her hands across the table, shaking from fatigue.

  “I can’t believe you went hunting for that guy after the speech you gave me last week.”

  “I assumed he was just some old collector,” she answered. “It didn’t seem dangerous. I thought I might learn a few things.”

  “You did that, all right,” he laughed.

  “Well, I was told some things, anyway. You have to consider the source. Then I had to open my big mouth, pretend to know secrets. I wonder if they’ll come looking for me.”

  “I doubt it. Now that they know people are protecting you.”

  “Maybe they believe I know where the icon is.”

  “What does Benny think?”

  “What you said. They were willing to grab me while they had the chance, but they won’t try again. They just want the icon. I can’t get that fucking thing out of my life even when I give it away.”

  That’s because you let me into your life, he almost answered, but thought better of it. They were silent for some moments.

  “So they’re gone, right?” Ana spoke again. “The icon, and your godfather.”

  “It looks that way. Actually, I have a wild guess where he is.”

  “Really, where? No, don’t tell me.”

  “I have no intention of telling you. In fact, I’m trying hard to let all this go.”

  She squeezed his hands firmly.

  “That’s exactly what we need to do.”

  “I’m so tired.”

  “You should sleep. I can go now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sure it’s safe. You need time to get your head together.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. You are not leaving my sight.”

  “OK.” She smiled at him. “But I’m not sure I can sleep. I’m afraid I’ll have nightmares of people chasing me.”

  “I felt like someone was chasing me tonight.”

  “When?”

  “Earlier. In the subway, all the way home. Don’t worry, it wasn’t anyone. Just paranoia, but it really felt like someone, or something, was after me.”

  “This thing is eating you alive. Please tell me you’ll let it go.”

  “I will,” he said, in a tone that sounded convincing even to himself. “I have to, I’m not cut out for this.”

  She came around the table and held him again. “Promise me.”

  “I promise myself. I want out.” He closed his eyes. “I just pray that they leave us alone.”

  “It could have been him. It could very well have been him.”

  They had retreated from the coffee shop to the car so that Benny could smoke. In any case, it afforded a better view of Matthew’s street. Neither the boy nor Ana had emerged yet, which Andreas took as a likely sign of reconciliation.

  “But you can’t be sure,” said Andreas.

  “How can I be sure?” Benny slammed his door and lit up
immediately. A heavy white bandage covered his left forearm and made some actions clumsy. “I’ve never seen him, just photographs. All old men look alike.”

  “So what makes you think it might be him?”

  “The face was close enough. And he would have someone like that Dutchman around him. Why does a simple collector need someone like that?”

  “He is no simple collector. A dangerous man, certainly. That doesn’t mean he’s Müller.”

  “The Kessler woman thinks he is.”

  “What are her reasons?”

  “Female intuition? I don’t know; she was too shaken for me to debrief her properly. But apparently he admitted seeing the icon years before. More than seeing it. She had the impression that he had spent time with it, maybe owned it. Then, when he was about to get rid of her, she accused him of stealing it. Just to get a reaction.”

  “Which she did, it would seem.”

  “Oh, yes. His interest in continuing the conversation grew immeasurably after that. He managed to frighten her out of her wits. I can only assume that she had done the same to him, somehow.”

  “I didn’t realize she even knew Müller existed.”

  “She may not, by name, anyway. But she isn’t stupid, she’s heard rumors. Her grandfather got the icon as loot from a Nazi officer. She doesn’t have to know his name to guess that this might be the guy.”

  “Of course. Damned foolish of her to taunt him with that.”

  “She didn’t know what she was dealing with.”

  “It’s good you were there.”

  “It’s good that you put me on to watching her. Now we may have Müller in our sights again. Then all of us doubters will owe you an apology.” Benny shook his head in a bemused fashion, sucking on his cigarette. There was a look in the big man’s dark eyes that made Andreas uncomfortable.

  “You would have executed him,” Andreas stated, more than asked. “Right there in the church. If you could have been sure it was Müller.”

  “What should I care for churches? That place is more like a museum, anyway.”

  “So the answer is yes.”

  “If I could have been certain, why not? It would have been risky. I would have had to take out the Dutchman as well, and there were a lot of people around. Then again, how many opportunities can one expect?”

  “This recklessness of yours is disturbing. You make me question involving you.”

  “What recklessness?” Benny barked smoke into the old man’s face. “It’s all been talk so far. Raiding empty rooms. Bad information. The only reckless thing I’ve done is get that girl out of danger.”

  “Forgive me, you did well there. It is only that I take you at your word, and your words have been disturbing.”

  “I don’t know why. We both know the man needs to die. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I lost him and who the hell knows if we’ll ever find him again.”

  “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 ol
d 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.”

  21

  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?”