Neil Olson - The Icon

“We’re not discussing politicians, Benny.” Andreas sensed a brush-off in the other man’s tone. “This is unofficial business. A favor. I’m reduced to asking favors these days. You can refuse after you hear what it is, but please let us not talk politics. That’s for old men in cafés.”

“Why would I refuse you?”

“Because there is nothing in it for you. Except my gratitude.”

“And gratitude is such a small thing these days? I think I can judge best what is in my own interests.”

Andreas pursed his lips and nodded. He’d hit the correct spot, but he must not push it.

“Years ago you helped me with something.”

“God defend us, are you chasing Nazis again?”

“The same one.”

“He’s dead.”

“No, he’s here.”

Benny looked at him hard. “You are certain?”

“Yes.”

This was risky. He had only Fotis’ word about Müller, which he would never normally trust uncorroborated. Yet his instinct told him it must be so, had been telling him since before he left Greece. If he was wrong, it was a cruel trick. Benny’s parents had been taken in the Salonika deportation in 1943 and died at Auschwitz. Müller may or may not have been involved, but he was a German officer in Salonika at the time, and that had been good enough for Benny thirty years before. He had been the one Mossad analyst to throw Andreas some leads, and the two had played straight with each other since then. They were both, by nature, careful about facts, and Andreas did not say he was certain of a thing unless he was.

“But you don’t know exactly where he is.”

“That’s what I need you to tell me.”

“Then how do you know he’s here?”

“I have been informed.”

“A dependable source, I hope.”

“I’ll pay you. So you’re not wasting your time.”

“Been hoarding your drachmas? Well, when a Greek agrees to pay, he must be pretty certain. But then it’s not a favor.”

“We can dispense with favors. Or you can refuse me, but don’t toy with an old man.”

Benny put up his hands in surrender, leaned over to get another cigarette, then realized he hadn’t finished the one in the ashtray. He was more agitated than he would let on.

“Müller. You know how much trouble you got me into over that business?”

“How could I not, after all the times you told me? But you work for yourself now.”

“Which means I have fewer resources than I used to.”

“But better technology.”

“This,” Benny waved at the monitor, “this won’t help us with Müller. I don’t see him making it easy on us, staying at a big hotel.”

“Why not? No one has looked for him in years. A private citizen, traveling under an alias, where better to hide but in a crowded hotel?”

The other man considered this. “You may be right. In my experience, however, people’s behavior doesn’t change. They may vary a pattern, but the pattern is discernible. Those old Nazis don’t stay at hotels.”

“Where do they stay?”

“Private homes, if they have those connections. In which case we’ll never find him. I haven’t looked for one of these guys for a while, and never in this country, but there used to be two small inns, run by elderly German ladies, very discreet. One in Brooklyn, which may be gone now; and one in the Village. That’s where I would start.”

“And will you?”

“I have some conditions.”

Andreas sighed. He would rather have paid a king’s ransom than have someone else set conditions, but Benny was a peer and couldn’t be treated like some low-clearance freelancer.

“Yes?”

“What are your intentions when you find him?”

“That is a question, not a condition.”

“One flows from the other. I need to know.” Benny sized him up unblinkingly, while Andreas took longer to form a response than was wise. “My friend,” the younger man pressed, leaning forward in his chair, “do you even know what your intentions are?”

“I have questions for him, if he can be made to answer them. It is also important that I monitor his actions.”

“You once had bolder plans than that.”

“I was younger. He is not responsible for your parents, Benny, he was only there to steal. That is all he has ever been about.”

“That may be true, but it doesn’t forgive his actions. I’ve seen his signature on arrest orders. He participated. Then there’s your story, that would be reason enough.”

“Reason for what? Tell me your damn conditions.”

From the window came the faraway wail of sirens. In a room close by a woman laughed. Andreas felt pinned to his chair by age and fatigue.

“I don’t want your money, first off. We do this together, or I don’t involve myself. I find him, we pay him a visit. He’s bound to be more responsive to your questions with me there.”

“And then?”

Benny shrugged.

“Assuming the circumstances allow it, we get rid if him.”

I made fresh coffee this time.”

She was used to conveying calm self-assurance, Matthew could tell, but her fidgeting about the counters bespoke nervousness. Was he the cause? Why should he be? More likely the messy details of her grandfather’s estate, which he had taken another afternoon away from his busy office to help her confront. He’d walked along the reservoir, barely aware of the brisk wind, the waning gold light on the water, the joggers’ dirty looks as they darted around him on the narrow path. His senses blunted by images in his mind: a blind shepherd suddenly beholding a candle’s flame; black-shrouded widows on callused, broken knees, baring their grief to the Mother, walking away cleansed; a dark chamber full of weary, resigned supplicants made one, made whole, if only for a little while, by a touch, a glance. Faces like his grandfather’s, his aunts’ and cousins’, faces like his own. Mayer-Goff’s words echoed in his skull: I saw this with my own eyes. He barely remembered to leave the park at Ninetieth Street, good shoes muddied by the horse trail, his pace and heartbeat quickening in a disquieting fashion the moment the Kessler brownstone came into view.

“Thanks,” he said, “that wasn’t necessary.”

“It’s not Greek coffee, of course. I’m not sure how to make that.”

“You need the right grounds, like espresso. Better just to go someplace where they make it well.”

“And do you know the right place?”

Ana carried two mugs to the table and sat across from him. Her face still appeared drawn, yet there was something strong in her, beneath the weariness. She wore it well.

“I know a few.”

He was so certain that she would ask where those places were, ask him if he would take her to them sometime, that he was faintly embarrassed when she did not.

“Thanks for coming by,” she said, staring into her coffee, her tone businesslike. “I know I only lured you with the chance to see the icon again, but the price you have to pay is talking some things through with me. Informally. I understand your allegiance is to the Met.”

“I’d be happy to be of use.”

“Can you tell me how serious the museum is?”

“We’re interested, no question. I’m not sure yet how deep the interest goes.”

“You mean it depends on the price.”

“That’s a factor, of course. The chief curator of my department needs to see the work. The director as well.”

“Then I won’t be negotiating with you?”

“I’ll be involved, but this will get done above my head.”

“What a shame,” she said flatly. “We get along so well.”

He laughed nervously. She was so direct in her approach, yet so quicksilver in her moods, that he had no idea what to make of her.