The Icon

by Neil Olson

  A youngish, blond man wearing a leather jacket and tinted spectacles entered the apartment, smiling. The same man who had seemed to be following him earlier. And quite likely, Andreas intuited with resigned dread, the Dutchman who had slashed Benny. There was no way out of the place but through him, and the man would be quick.

  “Mr. Spyridis, sorry we are late. You have probably examined the place already, but I need to beg your indulgence while we do so again. Turn around, please.”

  Andreas easily batted away the hand that reached for his shoulder, but he was too slow to stop the fist that struck his stomach. Not a hard punch, or he would have ended up on the floor, gaping like a caught fish. In fact, the gentleness of the blow was almost an insult, customized as it was for an old man, yet sufficient to send Andreas to his knees, gasping softly. Black patches danced before his eyes while the other man’s expert hands searched him for weapons, finding none.

  “We are very confident, I see,” the blond assailant murmured, standing up straight. He pulled Andreas gently to his feet. “Listen, please. It will take nothing for me to harm you. And I know your qualities, so I will be prepared for whatever you do. Sit here and catch your breath.”

  It took several moments after he sat down for Andreas to notice that someone else had entered the apartment. A man older than himself, in a heavy coat like his own. Thin lips and protruding blue eyes. It was at moments like this that time became compressed, years fell away like dead skin, age was no more than the wrinkled casings that covered the young men they had been, and in some ways still were. It didn’t matter that he had seen this man only three or four times up close, fifty-six years before. Andreas recognized Müller instantly. The old German stared back at him, expressionless.

  “Del Carros,” Andreas said for no reason.

  “If you prefer,” the other man responded, in a voice different from the one remembered, in an accent warped by time and travel. “I hope Jan was not too rough with you.”

  Andreas thought of saying something snide, but shortness of breath prevented him. He knew that fear would come next, once he got over the shock, but hoped to maintain a clear head and an attitude of calm. He understood that the Dutchman could hurt him easily, and would probably do so eventually. Andreas was afraid, not of the pain, but of shaming himself. Silence was his friend now. He must neither provoke nor cajole, but bide his time and hope for an opportunity.

  Jan conducted his search swiftly, hitting all the same spots Andreas already had checked, begging his pardon as he stepped next to him to remove the landscape from the wall. He and Müller then examined the interior frame for a minute or two.

  “It was here,” the German said, looking up at Andreas. “I wonder where it is now.”

  Their two expectant faces irritated him unreasonably.

  “What the hell would I be doing here if I knew that?”

  The German nodded agreeably.

  “I thought you might be in it together, you and Dragoumis, but now I see differently. He has betrayed you again, yes?”

  The fool saw nothing, Andreas realized, but good, let him pursue that line of thinking.

  “Still,” Müller continued, “you must know him better than anyone. You can probably guess what his next step will be, where he is now.”

  Andreas shook his head noncommittally. Müller would think whatever he wanted, and whatever he thought might be put to use. Müller. Incredible that he now stood before him. Unreal somehow.

  “And if not you,” the German went on, “then perhaps your grandson. Maybe he is the one who knows. Maybe he and the girlfriend have kept some secrets from you. What do you think? Still nothing to say? Why do I believe that the three of you together could connect all the pieces?”

  Careful now, thought Andreas. This was just the terrain he feared treading on. Show nothing. Jan whispered some words.

  “Yes,” Müller agreed. “Time to go. Nothing more we can accomplish here. You will come with us, Captain. We’ll give you a little time to decide how you can best assist us.”

  There was nothing to do but go. At least he would have the advantage of knowing where they were. The Dutchman helped him to his feet once more, then took up position behind him. Müller started out the door first.

  “Look out for that superintendent,” said Andreas. “He’s a thief.”

  Jan laughed.

  23

  W e need to talk, Mr. Spear. Matthew. There can be no further delay.”

  Ana had argued strenuously against his going into the city. Even his parents, who were mostly ignorant of what was happening, tried to forbid him. Yet his work wouldn’t wait forever. His department chief, Nevins, had shown enormous patience with Matthew’s continual absences, but the senior legal counsel wanted a meeting about the icon business, from which a probation or suspension could easily follow. He promised Ana that he would go straight from the train to the museum, stay out of sight, and return as soon as possible. After he read the pages that Carol had left in an envelope on his desk, however, his mind could not focus on his work, and the odd looks and probing questions of colleagues finally drove him out of his office and into the relative quiet of the Islamic wing. There, before the blue brilliance of the wall-sized mihrab from Iran, the priest found him.

  “Father John.”

  “Ioannes, please. You told me you were Greek.”

  The light reflected off a thousand turquoise tiles gave the man a sickly pallor. There was no smile this time, only intense concern, and a brave attempt to restrain it.

  “That’s right, I did,” Matthew confessed. “I wonder why. I’m American, of course. Someone told you to find me here?”

  “One of your associates. Don’t be upset, people will tell a priest anything. Apparently you come to this room often. I can see why; it’s quite beautiful.”

  “And quiet. I’m sorry the Byzantine rooms aren’t finished yet. Meantime, I slip over borders and religions.”

  “The Orthodox and Muslims have much in common. Only a fool would deny it. Did you read the material I left you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve removed myself from the situation. It’s too dangerous for amateurs. People have been hurt.”

  “People have been killed. More will be.”

  “Perhaps, but I can’t do anything about that. I only risk becoming one of them. You too, Father. These guys don’t care who they hurt. Priests have died before.”

  “I’m not concerned with that. And I do not ask you to put yourself in danger, only talk to me. Do you know where your godfather is now?”

  “No.”

  Ioannes regarded him for several long seconds. Despite the literal truth of his reply, Matthew felt uneasy in the priest’s gaze.

  “You have no idea?”

  “Look. What is it that you think you can do? Do you think you can keep it safe? Do you think you can get it back to Greece without being intercepted? Do you think your corrupt church can really protect it?”

  The calm face registered no offense at the hard words.

  “I am uncertain about the answers to those questions, but my fears are similar to your own. That is why I feel a more permanent solution is necessary. Shall we go on discussing this here, or find a more private place?”

  Matthew looked around, seeing nothing. Something in the priest’s words had gotten to him, and he knew that they must go on with this. Where? What coffee shop would be quiet enough and private enough? What place was safe any longer?

  “I need to do a few things. Then we’ll go talk.”

  Matthew spent another half hour finishing an acquisitions memo and reviewing the growing mountain of reports and phone calls he would have to return to another day. The cardboard model of the new Byzantine rooms sat on a table just outside the door of his cramped, airless office, and he stared at it a moment as he passed. The proudest achievement of his time here; work was already proceeding in the chambers beside and directly below the great staircase. He could not
bring himself to care about any of it. He could not even fake it anymore. Nevins gave him a sour look as he left. Surely they would fire him.

  Father John wandered the great expanse of the Medieval Hall until Matthew came to collect him. The priest asked no questions as Matthew led him through the busy streets of Yorkville to his apartment. No better location had occurred to the younger man, and he could at least lock himself in and keep the telephone ready at hand. He had memorized Andreas’ and Benny’s numbers.

  Surprisingly, the priest accepted a beer, which he sipped slowly from a water glass. Matthew left the shades down and lit a short, fat emergency candle to minimize the light any window-watcher might spy. The effect was more gloomily atmospheric than he would have liked.

  “You are convinced, then?” Father Ioannes nodded at the pages spread across the wooden kitchen table. “That it is the same icon.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m convinced. It’s quite possible.”

  “And this means nothing to you?”

  “It doesn’t change the nature of the work, or what it was intended to do. Heal. Engender faith. I suppose what it does is explain why people who know of its genesis would be willing to kill for it. It’s exceptionally old, and built around an artifact even older and more precious.”

  “The swatch of robe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Soaked in the blood of Christ.”

  The quiet awe in the words, spoken by the old priest across a flickering candle, first chilled, then annoyed Matthew.

  “If you choose to believe that.”

  “Why not believe it?”

  “Because there are countless claims of such things, pieces of the true cross, finger bones of saints, the crown of thorns, the spear of Longinus.”

  “Undoubtedly many are false. And very likely some are true. The icon has power; you have felt that yourself. The power comes from somewhere.”

  “Faith,” Matthew insisted, “does it not? The image inspires faith, and the power is granted by God. The image holds no power by itself. Any more than Peter’s skull or Paul’s thumb knuckle. It seems to me you people had a big fight about this a thousand-odd years ago. Iconoclasm. The destruction of images. I’m no supporter, but they had a point, and they forced a distinction. Proskynesis, the kind of veneration you could show an image, versus latreía, the true worship due to God alone. Yes?”

  Ioannes put down the beer glass.

  “The lesson was not necessary. Your point is understood, but your reasoning is false. Of course an icon is only wood and paint, worthless by itself. You cannot compare that to the blood of the Savior. Not even the bones of a holy man compare. A line is crossed when dealing with the very substance of the Christ himself. There is nothing more precious, nothing more terrible.”

  “My mistake. But why believe it’s genuine? There are at least two famous icons associated with the clothing Mary wore, both lost. This one doesn’t seem to match what I’ve read about either, so now we have a third one that nobody knows of?”

  “It was known. The fragment of Theodoros I left you. The knowledge was lost.”

  “Why does Theodoros the Blind know this story that nobody else does? Why does it not appear in other histories?”

  “There are few histories for those times. Very often we must trust a single source.”

  “And for that matter, why have I never read that passage before, when I’ve read Theodoros inside out?”

  “It does not appear in the standard translations. It was found eighty years ago in a very old manuscript copy, somewhere in central Europe. Vienna, I think. By a man named Müller. He went to Greece a few years later to take the icon, but was unsuccessful. The priest with whom he tried to negotiate became suspicious of his motives and shared his concern with others in the village, including a curious, and larcenous, altar boy. The boy stole the papers from Müller and gave them to the priest, who delivered them to a nearby monastery for safekeeping. Müller’s son, who became a Nazi officer, also had a copy of the pages, or knew their content. Later, he too came to Greece. I think you know that story.”

  Matthew nodded. The priest knew everything he did and a good deal more.

  “And you read the pages at the monastery.”

  “Yes.”

  “OK. Let’s assume Theodoros was writing the truth as far as he knew it. This found piece of robe really is in the icon. We still have to trust that what Helena brought back from Jerusalem was the robe of Mary. There’s more than a three-hundred-year lapse. Who has been holding the robe all that time? Who can authenticate it? Who, having held it so long, is willing to surrender it to the mother of a pagan emperor?”

  “The Arabs. What do they care for it?”

  “Why would they have it?”

  “They had the cross, which they did give to her.”

  “If you choose to believe that story.”

  The candle flickered wildly, and Matthew realized that it was his breathing causing it to do so. Ioannes stared into the darting flame and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “We go in circles. This argument begins to resemble a more basic one. The man of reason demands proof in exchange for his faith. The man of God may believe in reason also, but knows that it will only take him so far, that there will come a stepping-off point into the unknown. He thinks with his mind until he reaches that ineffable place of mystery. Then he thinks with his heart, pushing forward or retreating. You are a man of reason. Good. But tell me, when you stood before that image, when you touched that wood, did you not feel a special power? Speak the truth.”

  Matthew had nearly suppressed the mesmerizing experience of being before the panel. There was art to it—the sad eyes, the dusky shadows—but with the image as damaged as it was, artistry alone could not explain his response. And he had known nothing of the robe or the history when he first encountered the work.

  “I felt something. It’s difficult to describe, or to say what it means.”

  “You need not try. I have felt it also.”

  “You’ve seen the icon.”

  “Yes, I know it very well.”

  “How?”

  “I grew up in the village where it lived. Just like your Papou, though I was much younger.”

  “Then you knew him.”

  “I thought I had said as much. Not well, he went to Athens when I was still a boy, and only returned to join the guerrillas after the Germans came. In fact, I don’t ever remember meeting him until the morning he caught my brother and me in the abandoned chapel.”

  “Christ,” whispered Matthew, understanding coming at once,

  “you’re Kosta’s brother.”

  “So you know about that.”

  “I know what my grandfather told me.”

  “I would like to hear what he said. Please.”

  “Your father burned the church and took the icon. Kosta killed Mikalis, the priest, when he tried to intervene. Then your father sent you and your brother to hide in the chapel while he…I don’t know what he intended to do. Make a deal for it, or sell it later when things died down. He told my grandfather where to find you once he realized that my godfather was going to get the truth out of him sooner or later. Assuming Andreas would spare you. Fotis killed your dad. My grandfather tracked you to the chapel, shot your brother, and retrieved the icon.”

  The priest was silent as Matthew spoke, his large hands gripping the table edge. It occurred to Matthew that the older man might be hearing some of these things for the first time.

  “I don’t know,” Ioannes began slowly, “about everything you say. It was years before I heard the whole story, and then just little pieces from different people. The fire in the church was a mystery. No one knew for certain who started it. Many said the Germans did. Some accused the andartes instead. Your grandfather’s was the name on many people’s lips.”

  “The atheist. Of course they would blame him.”

  “Yes. I cannot rule out that Andreas speaks true, that my father did do it. I
was too young to understand what was happening. I remember firing that big pistol at your grandfather, half praying to kill him and half praying to miss. Kosta told me to stop, but I was only following my father’s instructions. Protect my brother. Ten years old, I could barely hold the gun. Your grandfather was like a ghost. It was said he could vanish at will, and I believe he does have that power. He vanished from that rocky hillside, then suddenly he was coming through the door, bigger than life, an avenging angel. He must have struck me. I don’t remember. I do remember waking up. They were arguing, cursing each other, and Andreas stepped over and shot Kosta in the head. Just shot him.”

  “That must have been terrible to see.”

  The priest nodded vigorously.

  “I had seen the Germans shoot people, people I knew. And I was aware of the communists, the black marketeers, like my father, the collaborators, so I knew that our own people killed one another, but I had never seen that. Watching my brother die was, yes, it was terrible, but strange too. I had been hit on the head and felt sick and dizzy, so I wasn’t sure it was real at first. And then Kosta had been so badly burned, so badly, in the fire. He was in great pain. I don’t know if he would have wanted to live like that. What your grandfather did was merciful, I believe. Maybe even intentionally so. Which did not keep me from hating him for years.”

  “It’s amazing that your brother made it to the chapel at all in his condition. You must have half carried him there.” “No, I could not touch him because of the burns. But he leaned upon me with one hand, and carried a long stick, like a staff, in the other. Moaning with every step. What a sight we must have been. Some mad prophet and his disciple, though I don’t believe anyone saw us. And I had the icon tucked under my arm, wrapped carefully. It was a clumsy bundle, and I carried it for hours, but it seemed to possess no weight. It was the lightest burden imaginable. I remember unwrapping it on the little altar table in the chapel, just after I lit the candle, and seeing those eyes, and falling into that space. I felt the strength in it then. Bigger than me by far, almost too great for man to experience. I was awed, frightened even. It was good preparation for what happened next.”