The Icon

by Neil Olson

  Damn it all, he should have seen it before; there must be cameras everywhere. On instinct, he put the car in gear again and pulled into the long gravel driveway. Why give Dragoumis any more time to think? With luck, only the old Greek would oppose them. The cell phone on the seat released a burst of static, indicating that Jan was inside but could not speak. Müller felt his heart beating dangerously and sucked hard at the stale air in the car. He parked at the most oblique angle possible from the windows of the house, then got out and rushed to the front door.

  There was no one in Spear’s car, so both he and the priest must be inside. Müller ignored the inevitable camera by the door and tested the large brass knob. It was unlocked. Either Jan had worked swiftly or it was a much too obvious trap. He slipped the pistol from inside his coat and pushed the door open with his free hand. Nothing happened immediately. He could see a handsome blue-and-red oriental carpet at the base of a staircase, and wide arches opening to sunlit rooms on either side of a hall. Müller stepped in quickly and made for the stairs. The first bang startled him, but by the second he was on the ground, rolling to his right, instinct overcoming age. There was at least one distinctive thump of a round striking wood. He bumped into the heavy leg of something and pulled himself to his knees, knocking his head against the bottom of a large dinner table. Through blurred vision he could see that he was in the dining room—out of the line of fire, he guessed.

  He checked himself for damage but did not seem to be hit. The shots had come from the top of the stairs. Dragoumis—if that’s who it was—had waited for him to get well inside before firing, but his aim was off badly. The German shook his head as his vision cleared. He had been lucky. Now he was on sore knees with a bruised skull and no way to get up those stairs. Never mind; at least he was inside the house. He glanced across the hall. There was a large, plush living room with light pouring in through French doors over a white sofa, glass table, and thick flokati rug. It reminded him of a room in a house he had once owned, a place where he had been almost content. Don’t think of that now. There was a door at the back of the dining room, next to a tall, glass-fronted hutch. There must be a back stairway in a house like this. He had to find it, and find Jan. Müller stood slowly, painfully, and moved toward the narrow door.

  The kitchen was large and gloomy, despite the white walls and blue curtains, and there was a faint smell of gas in the air. A bowl and a mug sat in the sink. There were two doors, in addition to the one from which he had entered. The one on the left appeared more promising, but no sooner had he thought that than a loud boom came from that direction. A larger-caliber gun than the one in front, so there were two holding the upper floor. Where was Jan? If the Dutchman was down, then this business was finished, and he would be lucky to get out with his life. Lucky. Hardly the correct word. There was no escape but one for a man his age. He was not leaving without the icon, whatever the consequences. He willed himself to move toward the sound of the shot.

  A short corridor led into a small room full of filing cabinets and black-and-white monitors. He saw the cars parked in front, several empty views of the grounds, the front steps, the priest wandering aimlessly around the side of the house. There were no interior views. A moment later he glanced up to see Van Meer standing beside him. Jan smiled.

  “You’ve lost your hat.”

  “Yes,” whispered Müller, repressing his shock at being so easily surprised. “I guess I have. What about that shot?”

  “A poor one. Missed me by half a meter, but someone is up there.”

  “In front also.”

  Jan nodded. “This is an unfavorable position. Two on two and they have the high ground. Wisdom says we should withdraw.”

  “Impossible. We’ll never have this opportunity again.”

  Jan nodded once more, having expected this response. His eyes were directed over the German’s shoulder at the kitchen door, and as they spoke his head made small adjustments to catch any stray sound. There were moments when Van Meer seemed pure mechanics, pure calculation, but Müller could tell that the gamesman in him had been aroused. He would not leave now.

  “I expect a large bonus,” Jan said.

  “Done. The front stairs are long and straight. It’s no good.”

  “There’s an angle in back. Maybe four meters from the landing to the shooter.”

  “That’s the way, then.”

  “Wait here.”

  Müller despised the tone of command from inferiors, but he was getting used to it with this one, and he watched the entry to the stairwell as Jan ducked into the kitchen. The younger man returned a minute later with a bundle of dishcloths tied together, stinking of something. Cleaning fluid, perhaps. In his other hand he held a wet towel.

  They moved carefully into the stairwell, then up the narrow steps together. Jan pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and sparked the bundle, nodding to Müller. The old man slid along the outer wall, aware of the fist-sized crater in the plaster an arm’s length away. Before he quite cleared the angle, he stuck out his shaking left hand and fired three quick bursts, the noise tremendous in that tight space, then withdrew. Jan stepped into the open spot and tossed his flaming bundle up the stairs.

  The air smelled of acrid burning. Would they light up the whole house, Müller wondered, still shaking? Was it fear or anticipation? When had he become so nervous, so feeble? Jan stared at him with that damned serene expression. A scuffing noise came from above, a foot stomping the fiery bundle. Crouching, Jan slipped halfway around the angle, fired twice, and ducked back. There was a dull metal thud on the stairs above. The Dutchman leaned out once more, then darted up out of sight. Müller took a deep breath and followed, picking up the wet towel on his way.

  Two steps from the top a black nine-millimeter lay on the stair, and there was a smudge of blood on the corner of the wall. Jan stood in the smoky corridor, looking left and right. Müller tossed the wet towel over the burning pile of rags, stamped on it several times. The floor was scorched, but nothing seemed to have caught. Bullet holes were everywhere.

  “You hit him,” Müller whispered.

  “In the hand,” Jan said. “Spear. He’s nearby.”

  “But disarmed.”

  Disarmed, wounded, surely terrified. The German mentally crossed the boy off. Now it was down to Dragoumis, and the odds were back in their favor. The icon was here, somewhere on the second floor, or the Greek would not have abandoned the first without a fight. The corridor they were in connected with another about four meters ahead, where a right turn would take them to the front of the house. Van Meer took a glance around the corner.

  “Yes?” Müller prompted.

  “Nothing. Lots of doors.”

  “Can you see the top of the front stairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then the Greek can’t block them without getting hit from here. Circle back around and come up the front, and we’ll move in from both sides.”

  “Spear is here somewhere.”

  “Never mind him. Dragoumis is the main thing.”

  The Dutchman looked dubious, but he nodded, slipped down the short corridor, and vanished noiselessly down the back stairs. Müller edged to the corner and glanced around, seeing only what Jan had described. This was it. They were closing in by the moment. The surrounding houses were probably too far away to hear the shots, and Dragoumis would never call the police. They had him, unless they committed some blunder. Like losing track of rounds. How many had he fired? Only three, he was fairly certain. He searched his coat for his spare clip and came up instead with a small leather case. The syringe and narcotic. He had neglected to give Spyridis another shot before leaving the car. It hardly mattered; the man was out cold and bound besides. Yet such errors reflected a state of mind. He must focus. He must do better if he was to survive this day. No more mistakes. Be like Jan, he told his shaking hands, a machine, until the business was finished.

  Benny’s silver Nissan came up the off-ramp at terrific speed, bare
ly stopping for Ana to get in, and they were back on the curving parkway in under a minute. The first thing she’d done was call Benny. Matthew’s message had given her very little to go on; he’d only wanted her to know what he was up to in case something happened. However, he’d already told her the story about searching for his godfather’s house with the old girlfriend, who had grown up in that part of the world. Robin was the key. Benny went straight to Matthew’s apartment and ransacked it for an address book, which he quickly located. Men were notoriously bad about actually recording anything in such books, but Benny had found a Robin Sprague with a phone number, and Ana had convinced him that the call was better off coming from her.

  It was early, and she had caught the woman preparing for work. There was the expected resistance and annoyance, and Ana had to toss out a lot of personal information about Matthew in order to prove the close connection. Then she told Robin that he was in danger—something involving his godfather. Robin knew Fotis, and clearly did not find this too hard to believe. The details had gotten fuzzy in the intervening month or two, but as best she could, she reconstructed the route to the house. Ana would not tell Benny what she had learned, but insisted that he pick her up on the way. He was already driving north at that point, and her ploy infuriated him. You’re putting Matthew at risk, he raged, but the delay would only be a few minutes, and the matter was too important for her to concede. She calmed Matthew’s parents by telling them she was going to see him, which was true, she prayed. Then she hurried down the hill on foot to Fennimore Road, and west a few hundred yards to the Bronx River Parkway exit.

  “You see, no trouble at all,” Ana said as Benny accelerated.

  “The trouble is in front of us. Put on your seat belt, I’m not slowing down.”

  “You really think they followed him?”

  “It’s what I would do. Now tell me where we’re going.”

  They passed the Kensico reservoir and turned off onto more winding secondary roads. It would have been a drive to enjoy on another day, lakes and forest and gorgeous vistas, but Ana was tight with tension, checking every landmark against Robin’s vague instructions, trying to forget how much might depend upon her making the right choices. Before long they passed through a wooded dell, then came up a rise to the brick wall and pillared entry. Ana could just make out the slate roof beyond a screen of trees.

  “This is it, this is the house.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “As certain as I can be, Benny. We’re not going on much here.”

  Benny turned around out of sight of the house and returned to the wooded hollow, parking where the weeds had been crushed by the recent presence of another vehicle.

  “Stay here,” he commanded Ana, putting her behind the wheel and making her slide down in the seat. “Keep your eyes on the road and the woods, and if anyone looks curious, drive the hell out of here. Don’t stop to talk. Don’t get out of the car for any reason.” He patted her shoulder. “You did right to call me.” Then he vanished among the trees.

  She waited five minutes, then followed. She was frightened, but more frightened at the idea of sitting in that car and wondering what was happening up in the house. And she was angry; a slow, smoldering rage had been growing for days. The image of del Carros’ smirking face hung in her mind, taunting her. The trees had not yet acquired their full complement of leaves, but there was a distinct haze of green, and the small trunks were clustered closely enough that she could not see very far ahead. About thirty yards in she passed carefully through a great rip in an old chain-link fence. A little gully rose swiftly to level out behind a small stand of pine, beyond which she could make out the house, about a hundred feet away. She flinched violently when several sharp bangs issued from somewhere within the walls. So much for everybody talking this through, but who was shooting at whom?

  Ana made her way behind the pines to the front of the house. Two cars sat in the long drive, and the front door stood half open. She moved quickly, in a long curve that would let her use the vehicles as cover. As she went from one to the next, her eye caught a figure slumped in the backseat of the black Marquis. An old man in a raincoat, with a blanket across his lap and a fedora pulled down over his eyes. His head lay still against the seat. Was he dead? She lifted the silver handle and the door popped open. Then she crawled over the seat to him. Ana had met Andreas only once, but she recognized him easily as she slipped back the fedora. Straight-nosed and sunken-eyed. Two days before he had seemed too young to be Matthew’s grandfather, but now he looked very old indeed. His dark eyes opened slowly and tried to take her in, but then closed again. He was ill, wounded, or drugged. She pulled the blanket aside and saw that his hands were bound, the fingers white from the loss of circulation. There was no obvious sign of harm.

  She needed to get inside and find Matthew but didn’t feel she could leave Andreas alone. On the car floor was a bottle of spring water, and Ana snatched it up and wrenched off the white cap, putting a few drops on Andreas’ dry lips. His licked at them and coughed.

  “Mr. Spyridis, try to wake up.”

  She applied cool handfuls to both sides of his face, and he murmured some complaint. She shook him gently, then more vigorously. When she slapped his cheeks with more cool water, his hands sprang up out of his lap, fingers laced together in one strong fist, and just missed striking her under the chin. She slid back several feet.

  “Mr. Spyridis, listen to me. It’s Ana, Matthew’s Ana. Matthew is in the house. Do you understand?”

  He was looking at her now, confused and suspicious, but nearly awake.

  “Matthew’s in the house,” she continued. “And Benny. There’s been shooting. What? What did you say?”

  “Where is Müller?” he rasped.

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Del Carros.”

  “I’m not sure. Did he bring you here? Is Jan with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you stand?”

  Andreas shrugged. She moved swiftly around the car and dragged him out by the door facing the house. He could not keep his feet without assistance, and slumped against the vehicle. What the hell good was he in this condition? She grew impatient trying to understand him.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Weapons,” he snapped.

  “I don’t have any.”

  The old man sighed, taking great mouthfuls of cool spring air, blinking.

  “Search the car,” he commanded.

  But there was nothing to find, no gun under the seat or in the glove compartment, no keys to open the trunk. Ana worked for several minutes to free the cord from the old man’s wrists, feeling fear claw its way back to the top of her emotional free-for-all.

  Andreas massaged his liberated hands and looked to the open front door.

  “Wait here,” he whispered, then moved toward the steps, stumbling, ridiculous. She nearly let him go, then ran after him, sliding her shoulder under his left arm for support, and they went purposely toward the door, until their progress was abruptly halted.

  Ioannes stood against a bank of budding mountain laurel at the rear of the house and watched the burly, surefooted man slip in the back door. He had seen the man come out of the tree line and move swiftly and silently across the lawn, looking in all directions and yet never seeing the priest. More men had pulled up in front of the house some minutes before, just as Ioannes had gotten out of the car to stretch, and he had thought it wise to get out of sight. How many were in the house now, or who they all were, he could not guess, though there were at least two factions, since they were shooting at each other. Either no one had seen him yet, or nobody cared that he was there. Just a priest, after all.

  The boy had probably been killed, Ioannes considered, sadly. These were dangerous men, and young Matthew was an innocent. His chances in the midst of this deadly cross fire did not seem good. It was all happening again, yet again. Ioannes would have to pursue his own solution. As quietly as he was able, h
e followed the big man into the house.

  Instantly, before he even passed through the kitchen door, he heard two more loud shots, close together, to his right. The big, bearded man backed into the room from that direction, looking before and behind in quick succession, a large pistol in his hand. His gaze fixed Ioannes for a moment, but then slid past. He turned quickly and moved across the large kitchen, slipping through another door and into the dining room beyond.

  Ioannes considered whether he might have become invisible to his enemies. This had happened before, during times of great need, and it would seem to reaffirm the necessity of his mission. Such power was not granted for no reason, certainly not to preserve the life of a weak, sinning priest. No, he had been delivered to this place, quite unexpectedly, for some purpose. He was an instrument. They were all of them instruments, poor blind fools.

  His mind and spirit began to hum in a sweet unison. His feet moved him across the kitchen, stopping before the huge gas range. There was a smell of gas in the air, and he noticed that one of the dials was not in the off position. This kind of carelessness offended his sense of order. The voice in his head spoke just as his hand reached the dial, and he paused a moment to absorb the message. Yet only a moment; thought was the destroyer of action. He turned the dial to the high setting, without igniting the gas. Then he turned the other three dials as well, all four silver burners throwing invisible fumes. He waited a minute or so until the odor was strong, then stepped back. Was it enough? He went around and squeezed his arm into the space behind the stove, pulling hard on the narrow tube he guessed was the gas line, loosening it—did it hiss?—but not breaking it clean. He removed his arm. By the sink was a large bottle of industrial cleaner, which Ioannes emptied over the counters and floor. The noxious smell was now making him quite dizzy. What next? On impulse he followed the bearded fellow into the dining room.