The Icon

by Neil Olson

  Fotis peered out the kitchen window at the narrow wooded dell to the east. He had determined weeks before that it provided the best covert approach to the house and had intended to place motion sensors there, but had not seen to it. There was as yet insufficient foliage to provide real cover, but his eyes were not good any longer, and he could certainly miss a man at this distance. A careful soul could reach the house unseen, but could not enter it unheard.

  Between the kitchen and rear stairs was the converted pantry, which served as a security room. The house alarm was controlled from here, and it could be set to produce the terrible clamor typical of such devices, or only a low pinging coupled with a flashing light specifying the location of the break, on a panel in this room and another in the master bedroom. It was the second setting Fotis used while in the house. Why disturb the neighbors? Better to surprise uninvited guests. There were also eight video monitors for cameras placed on the house and about the grounds. Too few, but without someone to constantly monitor them, the whole array was useless anyway. He simply had not counted on losing everyone. The pilot, Captain Herakles, could not be bought for such menial work. The young Peugeot driver might have served but could never be trusted, and now rested beneath the Adriatic. That had cost him triple with Herakles. So many complications.

  Just before leaving the room, he saw a movement on the monitor covering the gate. A dark sedan rolled between the big stone pillars and proceeded slowly up the drive. Fotis watched unblinking as the car slipped from the first screen to reappear moments later on the monitor near the front door. It looked to be the same car he’d seen Matthew driving twice before. Who else among those who sought him would be trusting enough to come straight up the driveway? Unless it was a diversion. Scanning all the monitors now, mind utterly clear, Fotis crouched to unlock a short gray filing cabinet and took a pouch from the bottom. Inside was a small black pistol, an old Walther from a friend in MI6. Still operational as of a few months ago, and the right size and weight for his shaky hand. He snapped in a loaded clip and put a second in his cardigan pocket. For the moment, he did not brood over the pointlessness of a fight. He was unlikely to win, and even if he did, he would have to face the authorities. Still, he was a lucky man, and with survival came possibilities. He would fight for his prize.

  The screens revealed no other activity. Nothing in the woods. No one on the little hillock behind the house. The car sat silently for a full minute before the driver’s door opened and Matthew stepped out. Damn him, why had he come? Who was in the car with him? Surely not Andreas, who would never allow such a foolish approach. His godson headed for the front door, and Fotis forced down a rising panic. Why Matthew? And then again, who more likely? He desperately did not want to hurt the boy, but who knew what larger game was playing out here? He could simply refuse to answer the door. Would the young man try to force it? Could Fotis let Matthew walk away, having found the place? He fingered the smooth jade beads in his pocket. Instinct spoke. He deactivated the front door alarm. Then, without a plan, he went to face his godson.

  The smile on his godfather’s face was a surprise, but Matthew realized that it should not have been. Any reaction contrary to expectation was precisely what should be expected of the Snake. The smile did not disguise the fatigue and worry around the mouth and eyes, the enervating agitation that seemed to bend his whole form. Illness, or the demands of this lousy business, was clearly killing Fotis.

  “Excellent, my boy. You must tell me how you found me, but come in, come in.”

  What else to do? The priest offered no actual protection, only the illusion of it, and that was better maintained by putting space between them. Matthew knew that Ioannes had no intention of driving away or phoning anyone if things went badly, but Fotis did not. Only after stepping inside did he see the pistol in his godfather’s hand, but there was nothing odd in that. He was a hunted creature, and Matthew had seen too many guns in the past week to be startled.

  “Who is in the car?”

  “A friend. A priest, actually.”

  “He knows what is happening?”

  “He knows some of it.”

  “He will not come inside?”

  “No.”

  The old man seemed satisfied with this answer. He shut and locked the door, shuffled toward the staircase, paused, and then started up. The indecision and absence of courtesy were sufficiently out of character to disturb Matthew, but at the same time there was a satisfying sense of seeing behind the mask. He could do nothing but follow, first quietly unlocking the door again. The house resembled many he had seen in the area, a combination of stone and half-timber, slate-roofed and larger than it appeared to be. The interior walls were cream, scattered with bookcases and any number of impressionistic landscapes and religious works that had previously been in Fotis’ storage. The heat was ridiculously high, and Matthew shed his jacket as he climbed.

  “I must have been more specific about the location than I remember,” Fotis posited.

  “I would think you would be more interested in why I’m here.”

  Fotis whirled about at the top of the stairs, his wide-eyed amusement verging on madness. The light from a high window caught an ugly yellow bruise on his left temple.

  “Why? Why else? There are no secrets with us. We share the same hunger, only I hope you will see that my need is greater.”

  The old man rushed off down the corridor, and Matthew could only yell at his back.

  “You’ve got it wrong, Theio. It’s not about that. Listen to me.”

  Following, Matthew entered a large bedroom near the back of the house. The blankets were still rumpled on the king-sized bed. Light poured in through three windows. A telephone and an odd console dominated the big oak desk, and his godfather sat in a leather chair in the corner, staring at the mantel. Leaning there, above an unused fireplace, was the icon. It was smaller than Matthew remembered. In fact, it seemed diminished in every way, unworthy of the blood and anguish spent on it. The eyes appeared to recognize this. They had lost their magnetic hold, their promise of mysteries to be revealed in time, and now looked only forlorn. Perversely, Matthew felt this new vision of the work begin to breed in him a feeling of protectiveness nearly as strong as the passion for revelation it had replaced. He became cognizant of the profound effect that the circumstances of his viewings were having upon his reaction. Ana’s presence had provoked a sort of holy lust, his father’s a deep fear and a need for healing. And now this appropriate sadness. Was it for Fotis? Was the painting no more than a conduit?

  “She holds you still,” Fotis whispered.

  “No,” Matthew answered, but it was not completely true. She held him differently now.

  “Understand me, my child. I cannot live much longer. When I am gone she will be yours, but I need her with me if I am to die well. I have no other hope. If you had seen the things I have seen, you would not try to deny me.”

  “The things you’ve seen? Or the things you’ve done?”

  “Who else knows you’ve come here?”

  He would not follow the old man’s lead. That was a tired routine.

  “They have Andreas.”

  “Who has him?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s this del Carros. He tried to grab Ana Kessler a few days ago. I’m pretty certain he had a deal with your Russians to get the icon.”

  Fotis nodded. “You are sure they have him?”

  “I spoke to him.”

  “What did he say? Precisely.”

  “Not much. I think he was drugged. He told me to do nothing, and he referred to ‘both’ of them, so I assume it’s only two men who have him.”

  “Good. That’s all?”

  “He called them ‘princes.’ I figured he was being sarcastic.” Fotis’ stare bored into the younger man for many long moments. Matthew knew he was being read, but he remained calm, in the knowledge that he was not hiding anything. “They’re going to call me soon,” he pressed. “They expect information on the ico
n’s location.”

  “Did it not occur to you this could be a trick by your grandfather?”

  “What, you think he’s faking being held?”

  Fotis nodded, still looking him hard in the face. It was a sure sign of how deeply the paranoia of the last few weeks had penetrated that Matthew seriously weighed the idea in his mind.

  “No. You have no idea how badly he wants me out of all this. He would not invent some scheme that sent me after you alone. You must know that.”

  “Maybe you’re in it together.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, for the same reason. You’re thinking out loud, you don’t even believe what you’re saying.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “We have to help him.”

  “Of course we do.” But there was no heart behind the words. Fotis stared, unblinking, no longer seeing Matthew, but scheming again, stalling for time.

  “So what does ‘princes’ mean?”

  “The Prince,” Fotis began slowly, “was what your grandfather and I called the German officer I told you about. Or sometimes the Pasha, because he liked to live well, and surround himself with stolen treasures. He is the man Andreas made the deal with, sending the Holy Mother into exile.”

  “Müller. The Nazi he was hunting all those years.”

  “The same.”

  “Del Carros is Müller.”

  “It may be so.”

  “What did he intend by telling me that?”

  “Only that we should know. Or as a warning, perhaps, that we are dealing with someone far more dangerous than I had guessed. He is still a loyal fellow, your grandfather.”

  “Yeah, and how will you repay that loyalty?”

  “I have not the means to help him. I can barely protect myself.”

  “You have the icon. It’s not worth Andreas’ life.”

  “His life is forfeit already. You did not tell him, or them, of this place?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then there is nothing they can get from him. Do you see? He has used his last opportunity to warn us. If you give them the information now, he still dies, and very likely you and I also. And they take our Lady. He would become the instrument of our deaths. Do you think he wants that? Do you think he wants Müller to have the chance to betray him again? For shame. They only win if they get the icon. We can prevent that. You must assist me.”

  “I know someone who can help us. He’s ex-Mossad, a friend of Andreas. We can’t give up on him, we have to try something.”

  “You understand nothing.”

  Fury shook his godfather’s ill frame, and the hand gripping the pistol bounced on his leg. A dull trilling drew both sets of eyes to the desk, where a red light flashed on the console. Fotis jumped up and shuffled over to it.

  “The priest has gotten curious, perhaps? No. Not the front door, the back, the back…”

  He wheeled about and pointed the gun at Matthew’s head. The body language was so threatening that Matthew found himself throwing his hands up and recoiling two steps.

  “Theio!”

  “Who have you led here? Speak the truth.”

  “No one. Just the priest.”

  Fotis dropped the gun to his side again, speaking more quietly as he marched past Matthew.

  “No, you have brought them. Maybe unawares, but they followed you.”

  Recovering himself somewhat, Matthew followed the old man out of the room on shaky legs. Fotis turned once to put a finger to his lips, then started along the corridor, not the way they had come but in the opposite direction, turning once onto a shorter corridor. At the top of a steep, narrow staircase he gestured for Matthew to stay put, then started down. In moments, he had vanished around a turn and Matthew stood there, mute and helpless, staring at the place where he had gone. What should he do now? Who was down there? Should he go check on Ioannes? Indecision held him to the spot, and perhaps a minute later he heard a faint noise below. Then Fotis reappeared. The Snake struggled a bit on the ascent, but he gripped Matthew’s shoulder with a strong hand and placed his lips right at the younger man’s ear.

  “I hear him but don’t see him. There’s another at the front door now. We’ll hold the second floor against them. Can you use this?”

  Fotis held out a large pistol, grip-first. Matthew nodded hesitantly. His godfather slid the carriage back and forth as quietly as possible, chambering the first round, then placed the gun in Matthew’s hand.

  “Squeeze the trigger hard. Stay right here and shoot anyone who comes up those stairs.”

  He pressed Matthew against the wall, then slipped the Walther from his sweater and headed toward the front of the house. Fear of whatever was about to happen battled with the anger that events had overrun his intentions, but Matthew did not take his eyes from the stairs. He did not wish to distract himself with thinking, but thoughts came unbidden. If it was del Carros or his companion down there, he would need to act without hesitation, as Fotis had instructed. But what if it was someone else? The FBI, or Benny, or even Ioannes? If he waited to identify the person, would he get the chance to react? Could he look some stranger in the eye and pull the trigger?

  Or was it all some game that Fotis was playing with him, yet again? He backed up ten feet to the turn in the corridor to make sure the old bastard wasn’t going down the front stairs with the icon. A faint noise from below made him quickly retrace his steps. Then all thought vanished as gunfire erupted from the front of the house.

  25

  J an had not liked the plan one bit, but their options were few. They had drugged Spyridis, but he said little and clearly didn’t know where to find Dragoumis. The boy was their best chance. Seizing him would have been the surest course, but Müller gauged the young man’s tone and guessed that he did not precisely know his godfather’s whereabouts. Yet he might find him if given free rein. Jan’s trying to grab the boy and priest together could go terribly wrong, even leave Spear dead, and in any case three hostages would be a very clumsy business for two men. One was bad enough. The best plan was for Van Meer to trail the boy.

  The Dutchman was annoyed, the closest he got to being angry. He’d been watching Spear’s apartment on and off for days, and was amazed the boy had been stupid enough to return. Let me take him, he urged Müller, he’s right here. Yet he had gone along in the end, and the trail had proved every bit as challenging as predicted. Müller drove the rental car while Jan followed on foot, and they had to scramble when they realized Spear was borrowing a friend’s car and about to disappear. Jan took the wheel and managed to maintain the tail all the way out of the city, up the Bronx River Parkway, and along the winding back roads of northern Westchester. Jan was good, and the boy was not experienced, but over so great a distance there was a chance he had noticed the pursuit. This meant they might be walking into an ambush.

  Müller looked at Spyridis in the backseat, still unconscious from his last injection. He would get another one when the car stopped, and in all probability would not wake up again in this world. The Greek’s wrists were bound with a cord Jan carried for the purpose, and a blanket was thrown over his lap to hide them. Müller returned his eyes to the road, and realized he’d lost sight of Spear’s vehicle.

  “Where is he?”

  “He just pulled in there, the gate in the brick wall.”

  “Then why are we driving past?”

  Jan glanced over at him in mild disgust.

  “We should go in behind him, you think? Invite ourselves in for drinks?”

  They continued past the gate for a hundred yards but saw only trees and wall, then lost sight of the property. Jan turned around and doubled back, passing the gate again until he reached a wooded dell a few hundred yards on the far side, and parked among the weeds. He waved his cell phone, switched to walkie-talkie function, at Müller, then opened his door.

  “Give me time to get in. Then you come in the front, as we planned.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “About ten minutes shoul
d be sufficient. Remember that I may not be able to speak once I’m inside.”

  “We’ve been over everything. Just go.”

  “Don’t be impatient. We’re too close now.”

  No answer was required, and then Jan was gone, melting into the thicket of young oak and maple like a ghost. Müller took a deep breath and slid over to the driver’s seat. He let five minutes elapse on his watch before he put the car in drive, looked for traffic on the empty road, pulled out slowly. Jan was correct—damn him, anyway—there was no need for haste, no need to panic. They were closing the noose. Now was not the time for stupid mistakes.

  As he shaped the turn and started up the incline, the brick wall came into view once more, old and moss-covered, and within a hundred feet the stone pillars appeared, bracketing the drive. He pulled over onto the grassy shoulder of the road, slipped out his cell phone, and settled in to wait for Jan’s call, glancing once more at Spyridis. Had he moved, or was it simply the motion of the car? He checked the road, the trees, the wall itself. Then he noticed the tiny camera on the west pillar, pointing straight at him.