Neil Olson - The Icon

Andreas decided that he liked this older, crankier version of Morrison better than the insolently confident fellow he’d known before. A weary, bleached-blond waitress took silent but visible offense at their order of coffee, and the agency man felt compelled to add eggs and toast.

“Haven’t had breakfast.”

“You should always eat breakfast, Robert.”

“I know, my wife tells me every day.”

“Personally, I would not eat breakfast here, but I am very careful about food.”

“I wasn’t actually planning on it.”

“She intimidated you. She is Peloponnesian, that one, fierce. The cook also, not a very clean-looking fellow. And the Mexican dishwasher has a cold. No, I would not eat here.”

“I’ll have an orange juice to kill the germs.”

“Orange juice. Have garlic.”

“In my eggs?”

“Better than in your coffee. I’m looking for a man.”

“Official business?”

“I have no official business any longer. This is, as you say, a favor. I want to know if this man entered the country in the last two weeks. Probably somewhere in the New York region, though possibly farther away. I can give you all of his known aliases.”

“That’s too wide a net. Point of origin?”

“ South America. Argentina, but it’s likely he would pass through another country first.”

“So he knows what he’s doing.”

“Yes, but I believe he may have lowered his guard in this instance. He will not expect to be tracked, and he will be in a hurry.”

“Physical description?”

“Medium height, blue eyes. Older, in his eighties.”

“This guy wouldn’t be German by any chance? Dead for about thirty years?”

Andreas leaned back against the creaking imitation leather, disappointed by this development. He had counted on Morrison’s relative youth to keep him in the dark.

“We never spoke of this before.”

“Come on, Andy,” laughed the government man, “it was your obsession. It’s all in your file. But the guy is supposed to be dead.”

“They showed me a grave. A wooden cross and some turned earth behind the last house he owned. I never saw a body.”

“This was Argentinean intelligence?”

“The grave was fresh. No more than a day or two old. They could have dug it an hour before I came up the hill.”

“People do just die, my friend. A lot of those old Nazis managed to die a natural death.”

“It was too convenient. They were protecting him. They still are, I’m sure. Maybe you are, too.”

“Me?” Morrison smiled innocently.

“The fine organization you work for. It’s interesting that my hunt for Müller is so detailed in my file, when I could get no help from you people at the time.”

“Resources were thin. He was small-time, a major or a colonel, I think. Not even a general, let alone some architect of the Reich. You needed the Israelis.”

“He was small-time for them, also. They did give me a few leads in the end. That was how I found the house.”

“But the Argentineans intercepted you.”

“As soon as I stepped off the bus in a nearby village. They knew exactly who I was. They were polite, said that there had been a development which would please me. Took me up the hill to the house. Showed me the grave.”

“It does sound awfully tidy.”

“Will you help me, Robert?”

Morrison stuck a fork into the hefty pile of eggs just placed before him. Then paused, looking perplexed, or perhaps nauseated.

“It’s sticky.”

“Send it back.”

“The situation is sticky. If there was some reason we didn’t help you back then, I don’t know what it was, and I don’t feel like blundering into it now.”

“All these years later, what can it matter? Indulge an old man.”

“There’s no upside to this. If he’s dead, I’ve wasted my time. If he’s alive, and I put you on to him, things could get ugly. I can’t have you terminating this guy on American soil.”

“Who said anything about that?”

“Isn’t that what you were aiming for back then? Why else do you want to find him?”

“I have questions. More important, I must keep an eye on him to protect others.”

“You think he means to try something? I’ve got to know about that if you do.”

“I have no idea what he intends. Understand, Robert,” and Andreas leaned across the chipped Formica, fixing the other man in his unblinking gaze, “all you can tell me is that he entered the country. I will still have to find him, which will likely prove impossible, but at least I will be on my guard. You will be protecting me with this information. Do you see?”

“I see that you’re a smooth-talking old bastard.”

“Have me watched.”

“Can’t afford that.”

Andreas reached into his coat and removed a slip of paper, which he placed on the table. Morrison studied it a moment, chewing his toast.

“The aliases?”

“As many as I know of.”

“He could have come up with twenty more in the last thirty years.”

“True. But without someone hunting him, I doubt he would bother. It’s troublesome work, creating identities. Anyway, at least one of these was used within the last ten years, in eastern Europe. I’ve marked it. Of course, it may not have been him.”

This was becoming too much information for the agency man, who had come to the great metropolis with other priorities and now shifted restlessly in his seat. Andreas was content. It was best that the tired bureaucrat remember as little of this conversation as possible.

“If I pick this up,” said Morrison, nodding at the paper, “it doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything. I may do the search and still decide to do nothing. You might not hear from me.”

“I understand.”

The younger man sighed and slipped his wallet from his suit jacket, sliding out a twenty as he slid the white scrap of paper in.

“Unless this guy is on a watch list, it’s very unlikely I’ll find him. Don’t call me about this. I’ll call your hotel if I have anything to report.”

“You never let me pay.”

“It’s my country. You can buy me dinner in Athens.”

“You always say that, but you never come.”

“One of these days.”

Fotis was on his usual bench, turned three-quarters from the sun, gray overcoat and fedora, white mustache like a beacon. Bright pink patches stood out on his prominent cheekbones, and he stared distractedly into space while feeding bits of soft pretzel to a flock of pigeons at his feet. Fotis occupied such a powerful place in his imagination that Matthew was constantly surprised to see what an old and delicate-looking man his godfather had become. And why not? He was pushing ninety. Yet there was more than age at work, some deeper change was under way that came clear only from weekly contact. Fotis was ill. The old charmer-or schemer, as Alekos always called him-would never let on, but he was not well, and his illness was bound to add a sense of urgency to all his latest efforts. Matthew sat.

“Kaliméra, Theio.”

Fotis turned slowly and smiled at him.

“It is a good morning. I can feel the sun. I think we have survived another winter.”

“Winter was over weeks ago.”

“You can never be certain. March is the worst month. It tempts you with warmth and flowers, then buries you in snow. April is better; I think we are safe now. How is your father?”

“Improved. They may send him home.”

“Excellent. And how was it between him and your grandfather?”

“Not bad. A little tense. They sent me out of the room at one point, so I don’t know everything that happened, but they seemed to be communicating when I got back.”