Neil Olson - The Icon

“Leaving us sufficient latitude, I trust. I am already agreeing to more conditions than most buyers would permit.”

“That’s part of the compromise,” the lawyer said evenly.

“These are the conditions we’re demanding in return for giving you a bargain price.”

“A bargain,” the priest scoffed. “Mr. Wallace, you could sell rugs in a Turkish bazaar.”

“You flatter me.”

“Not a bit. Do I take it we have an agreement?”

“There is no agreement until you see the terms, and your superiors approve the money. But I’d say we have an understanding. Ana?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

The priest checked his watch. “I do not know if I can reach my people this evening.”

“See what you can do,” the lawyer said. “I’ll draft the paperwork, and we’ll wrap this up in the next few days.”

“Very good. I am most pleased by this. Most pleased.”

The priest smiled at all of them. If he was stunned by the speed of the negotiation, or his supposed good fortune, he was doing a good job of concealing it. Everyone stood to shake hands, and Matthew relaxed somewhat. It was happening. Now he had to keep his eye on the old men until the icon hung in the Athens cathedral. Then he could truly let it all go.

“I’m sorry,” Ana said.

The lawyer looked up from packing his briefcase, then gave her his most paternal smile.

“Nothing to be sorry for. I wish that we had been a little clearer on strategy beforehand, but no matter. As long as you’re happy with the result.”

“I’m happy to have it over with. I couldn’t stand squeezing him, he’s a priest.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Matthew said, gently placing a drop cloth over the icon. There was an immediate sense of relief as the image vanished. “The Greek church is rich. Maybe not cash-rich, but certainly rich in holdings. They can afford it.”

“He just seemed so vulnerable, all by himself.”

“Vulnerable,” laughed Wallace. “Vulnerable as an iron safe.”

“Yeah, I agree,” said Matthew. “Vulnerable is not the word I would use, but I was surprised by the lack of advisers. I thought there would be a whole entourage.”

“Didn’t need them.” Wallace snapped his case shut. “He’ll have their lawyers vet the agreement before he signs, you can be sure. Meantime, he’s trusting his own judgment. I think they wanted to get this done quickly, and involve as few people as possible.” He wrestled himself into a tired green overcoat, coughing furiously. Then he patted Ana on the shoulder. “I’ll have a draft of the paperwork for you to look over soon. Take care, dear.”

She saw him to the door. Matthew wanted to walk out with the lawyer and ask a few more questions, but a look from Ana made him remain where he was.

“Thanks for being here,” she said when they were alone.

“Those were good questions.”

“Wallace had them covered.”

“I just needed you around.” She reached for his hand and he stepped closer to her. “Are you going to be in trouble with the museum?”

“Don’t worry about that.” In fact, if his role in this became public he could be in trouble with all sorts of people, but Matthew had put that thought aside whenever it came up. His work had suffered terribly in the last ten days, and he’d come to believe that he would never be able to focus on it again until this matter with the icon was settled, in a way which left his mind at peace.

“Stay awhile,” she said.

He’d had no intention of doing so. This business was eating up his life; he’d stolen time to be here, was behind on everything. The pressure of her hand held him. He could not leave her alone now, and he knew that in a few moments he would no longer wish to.

The connecting flight in Frankfurt had been delayed, and Father Ioannes arrived at JFK hours later than expected. Makarios was supposed to send a driver to get him, but Ioannes did not know where they were to meet and had not been able to find a working telephone. His baggage was lost briefly, then found on the wrong carousel. Leaving the men’s room, he became disoriented and could not find the Arrivals area. This is what hell must be like, he mused. This is when he needed the patience they had taught him on the mountain, but it came less and less easily as time passed. He would pray for peace of mind as soon as he was done silently cursing.

On the mountain they had taught him of a God very different from the one the village priests knew. The old priest’s God had been sad and angry in turn, like the man himself. The young priest also had preached a God of his own fiber, a passionate spirit who spoke to the needs of the moment, the need to resist, to survive. These deities fulfilled a purpose generated by man; they did what was required of them. On the mountain, they were not above invoking the angry God, to frighten the novices. Fear was known to sharpen the senses, and fear kept a boy in line until the mind, fed on incense and sacred visions, had grown sufficiently to accept the full depth and breadth of the true God, in all his glory. Ioannes had needed more time than most to achieve this readiness but had absorbed the lessons deeply. The terrors which defined his youth, which had initially held him back, became his sustenance once the path was discovered, became the fuel for the fire lit in his mind. Darkness was banished, and a door opened in his soul directly into the world of spirit. He would have been more than content to spend his life in isolation and explore the way.

The squat, balding young man in the leather jacket did not inspire confidence, but he knew the priest on sight, took his luggage, and guided him out to the parking garage.

“I’m Demetrios, by the way,” he said.

“I bet they all call you Jimmy here.”

“Yes. I know why you’ve come, I know what’s going on.”

“Indeed?”

“I work very closely with Bishop Makarios. I’m not just a driver.”

“I see.”

It was somehow appropriate that his masters would wrench him from his solace at the moment he had fully embraced it, and reintroduce him to the world. Ioannes hated them for it at first, yet came to know after many years that it was consistent with their message, consistent with the way. The world of spirit must reside within him; he must take it with him into the world of flesh and allow it to inform his decisions. Anyone could maintain faith within the quiet of sanctuary walls. The flock lived outside the walls, and the Word must go to them.

“You’re here to check up on Tomas,” Jimmy persisted as the luggage went in the trunk and they settled into the needlessly large black vehicle; the American bishops always had cars like this. “Forgive me for saying that you’re a little late.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one has been able to reach him for a few days. It could mean nothing, of course,” the burly driver added, unconvincingly.

The difficulty arose when the old masters died, and instruction now came from men younger than himself, men who did not have the inner fire in their eyes. What was required of a man when the inner voices no longer matched the commands of the outer voices? Ioannes had been feeling his way along for years now, but he sensed that this latest assignment would challenge his entire way of being. Maybe it was time.

“I have an appointment with Tomas tomorrow,” the old priest said.

Jimmy shrugged as the car made its way down the dim, winding ramp of the concrete garage.

“I hope he shows.”

Ioannes fought down a rising unease. Everything happened for a reason, and in any case he should not be trusting the word of this twitchy little fellow.

“Father Makarios and I will sort the matter out, I trust.”