Neil Olson - The Icon

“But you never found out who the donor was.”

“He didn’t tell us.”

“He could have invented the donor.”

“Yes, he could have.”

“So who is this man you’re going to visit? Andreas Spyridis?”

Ioannes sighed. There were clearly no secrets within these walls.

“Someone who came here from Greece around the same time all this business started. Who has a history with the icon.”

“Not from the church?”

“No, a government man. Retired, but he still checks in, or they check on him, or maybe the Americans do. Anyway, we were able to locate him. I don’t know that he’s involved, but it’s a fair guess. I wish you would put that gun away.”

“You say government. You mean intelligence, state security, something like that?”

“Yes, but he’s old. Even older than me.”

“Old or not, we may need this,” Jimmy said, brandishing the pistol. “I’m not going unarmed.”

“I’m not asking you to go at all.”

“I think you will find that Father Makarios insists upon my involvement.”

“Yes.” Ioannes looked more closely at the younger man’s eyes and nose, the shape of his head. “You know, you look like him. The bishop. Don’t tell me you’re related.”

The little man did not like being identified.

“I’m his nephew. That’s not important.”

“And you are some sort of civilian detective?”

“Private investigator, we call it. But I work mostly for the church.”

“Ah, a knight of Christ. How unfortunate that they have enough work to keep you busy.”

“Why don’t we go see this man right now?”

“Because he’s not there. He left the city for a few days.”

“So we sit?”

“I’m sure there are other things you could be investigating. Do not let me hold you.”

“You know more than you’re telling. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“I need to emphasize that if you are going to follow me, you must do exactly as I instruct. I will not tolerate interference, whatever Makarios says.”

“All of you are the same,” the little man whined. “Think you know another man’s business better than he does. Why? Because a divine light leads you? Priests should not lead investigations.”

“Tell it to God, brother.”

The Connecticut coast sped by outside the scratched, dirty train window. Deep coves and marsh grass, still going from dead beige to pale green. White egrets wading about or lifting slowly into flight. Marinas, empty beaches, the bare gray outline of islands. Then dense stretches of wood, trees mostly bare but acquiring bright green or red halos of tiny leaves about them. The world returning to life. Andreas looked away from the window.

The trip to Boston had been a waste of time. He had seen the widow of one of his operatives. The man had done good and unrewarding intelligence work for twenty years and lost his pension when he came to live in America, rather than return to a Greece run by the colonels, a place he no longer recognized. Andreas had been unable to help him then, and could do very little now but pay respects. He had made dozens of such visits in recent years. They did not get easier. The American contact he’d met in Cambridge was an old friend, but he was at a lower level than Morrison, semiretired and teaching college, and could be of no help. It had sickened Andreas to sit there, trying to remember what a good man this was, how important human contact was for any soul, yet only be able to think in terms of the utility of the meeting. Information gained versus time lost. Had the ability to think in any other manner slipped away from him forever? He had even resented the widow, a woman of great kindness and courage, whom he would never see again. Disgraceful.

He was eager to get back to Alekos. That was certainly part of it, but his son was probably grateful for the break. The two could not spend much time in each other’s presence, whatever degree of underlying love there might be. Andreas would have to return to Athens soon, unless Alex took a turn for the worse. The hotel bill grew unwieldy, and there was a claustrophobia about New York he could not tolerate. The main thing was to make sure that Matthew had not gotten himself involved in any serious way with Fotis’ scheming. That was where his primary energy should have been focused all along, but he had gotten Müller’s scent in his nose again. Best to let that go. In any case, Benny had found nothing so far.

He had resisted acquiring one of those portable telephones that everyone carried, and he deeply resented the seven meaningless phone conversations that went on simultaneously in the seats around him. Yet he could see how they were useful; they might have been indispensable to his kind of work, in fact, if they had existed twenty years before. Being without one, however, he waited for the ten-minute break in New Haven to go down into the dank, silent tunnels beneath the tracks and place a call by public telephone. He began dialing Matthew’s number, almost by instinct, but hung up and then dialed Benny’s instead.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m on the train. What is it?”

“I’ve found him.”

Andreas exhaled and closed his eyes.

“Are you certain?”

“Ninety-five percent. You’ll have to fill in the rest. When are you back?”

“Two hours.”

“Tonight isn’t good. Too much activity. Tomorrow, first thing, we’ll pay him a visit.”

It had been his intention to go back into Manhattan that same evening, but his mother had convinced Matthew to stay the night. Early Sunday morning he called his grandfather’s hotel but could get no answer in the room. Then he visited briefly with his father. Alex was too tired to rise, and Matthew settled for squeezing his hand, hoping that his expression would make the apology which his lips could not seem to issue. He took the train into Grand Central and walked to the hotel. It was Easter Sunday for the Western church, Palm Sunday for the Orthodox. Matthew had thought of going to services, but his mind would not be at ease while matters remained so confused, and he was certain that his grandfather would not be at church.

In the cramped lobby, the concierge took his name and telephoned the room.

“You can go ahead up.”

“He’s back?”

“He returned with another gentleman twenty minutes ago. Room 511. The elevators are to your right.”

Matthew had been ready to wait a good deal longer, and now he felt unprepared. It was difficult to maintain his anger, and his grandfather could use many means to deflect him. He must be firm, speak all that he knew, and demand answers.

A hard rap on the door brought footsteps and a muffled greeting.

“It’s Matthew.”

The door swung open, and a man stood there, tall, gray, and smiling.

“You are Andreas’ grandson?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes, yes, come in.”

The older man stepped aside, and Matthew entered. The room was not large. A double bed, television, desk, and two chairs, with a muted floral theme on the walls, cushions, and bedspread. Andreas was not to be seen, but there was someone clattering around in the bathroom.

“Sit,” said the man, placing himself in the chair closest to the door. Matthew remained standing, but wandered over to look down at the concrete courtyard below. He had learned not to ask questions of his grandfather’s business associates. The man’s presence was frustrating, as Matthew intended to press Andreas hard, but he was determined not to be run off. He would wait it out. The click of the bathroom light switch made him turn.

A short, thick, nearly bald man with deep-set eyes stood there, draped in a leather jacket two sizes too big for him. The light was off in the bathroom, and there was really nowhere else that Andreas might be. He was not here, and the two men were between Matthew and the door. Panic took the form of a blurry numbness, and he did not trust his voice to speak.