Neil Olson - The Icon

“Please sit,” said the older man again. “We should know each other.”

Matthew sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. The bald one remained standing, patting his pockets distractedly, an annoyed expression on his face.

“You came looking for your Papou,” said the gray-haired man.

“So did we. As you can see, he is not here.”

The man was about Andreas’ height and weight, and the face had the same rectangular shape. Even similar features. Add the dark suit and shirt buttoned to the collar, and Matthew could see how the concierge might be fooled at a glance. Yet the man was a good ten years younger than Andreas, and far more kindly in his expression.

“What are you doing in his room?”

“Waiting. We are waiting, like you.”

“I think you were doing more than waiting before I came in.”

“Yes, well, we did avail ourselves of his absence to look around. I assure you that we have taken nothing.”

“You shouldn’t be in here at all.”

“By law, you are correct. But extralegal imperatives are sometimes stronger. In any case, we did not break down the door. We were given the key.”

“Is there any point in asking what you were looking for?”

“We’re not precisely certain. Maybe something that would give us a clue to where the icon is now. Yes, the icon, paidemou, don’t look surprised. What did you think this was about?”

“He knows,” said the bald one, in an irritated voice. “He knows where it is. Don’t you?”

Matthew processed answers, true, false, and in between. Which would protect him? Which would endanger someone else? Fear paralyzed his thinking. Could he simply get up and leave?

“You are in no danger,” the older man said gently. “But we must learn where the icon is. It is terribly important.”

“Why?”

“A fair question, and the answer is complicated. I believe that several people involved with the icon’s sale, including perhaps yourself, are operating under a misunderstanding. Truly, a deliberate deception. Tell me, have you met a priest named Tomas?”

After pausing too long to deny it, Matthew nodded his head.

“And he put himself forward as a representative of the Greek church?”

“Yes,” Matthew said, concern for his safety giving way to a deeper fear. “He’s not?”

“He is, or was. He is a priest of the church in America, but Tomas has occasionally done business on our behalf. He was pursuing an opportunity to acquire the icon for us. In the last week or so, however, he allowed his own interests to overcome his spiritual obligation. I believe. Truly, we do not know where Tomas is right now, so we cannot say exactly what has happened. I am being very honest with you, more than I should be, perhaps. In any case, we do not believe he is in possession of the icon.”

Which question to ask first?

“I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“The apology should be mine. Ioannes is my name. Father John, if you prefer. Many of my American friends call me that.”

“I’m Greek.”

“Of course you are.”

“So you’re from the church in Greece?”

“Yes.”

“And you came here to check up on the deal?”

“Tomas’ actions bred suspicion. Unfortunately, his superiors did not oversee him carefully, and we did not follow up with them until it was too late. I am here to see what can be rescued. The icon is of enormous importance to us. The joy at its discovery when Tomas contacted us was great, I assure you.”

“Wait. You didn’t know about Kessler having the icon already?”

“There were rumors, Kessler’s ownership among them. Most people thought it was in a vault in Switzerland. I had assumed it was destroyed.”

“So Tomas came to you.”

“That’s right.”

“You never contacted anyone here to act on your behalf? Someone outside the church, I mean.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

Matthew’s thoughts lost their grounding. The entire business was beyond his grasp, and a sickening realization loomed. And yet, having been fooled so easily up to now, how could he simply accept what he was hearing? Should he abandon his faith in Fotis so quickly?

“You know, I have to say, Tomas was at least as credible as you guys. He went through all the proper motions. He put down a lot of money. Where did that come from?”

Baldy spoke sharply in Greek, something to the effect that they were wasting time. Father John answered him quietly: where were they going in such a hurry? Then the older man leaned forward and stared earnestly at Matthew.

“Obviously, Tomas had a backer. The person who was really after the work all along. Perhaps you know who that person is.”

Matthew shook his head, in resistance rather than denial.

“You have no reason to trust me,” the priest continued, “but I am asking you to do so. For the good of the church, for the good of others who have been deceived, and in memory of those who have died for the work, I ask your assistance. Please, tell me where the icon is.”

Matthew’s inclination to trust was enormous, but he was coming to see it as a character flaw.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

The bald one cursed, and Matthew stepped into the relative safety of the blue-tiled fluorescent chamber. Cold water on his face felt good but did not clear his mind. This priest was convincing. He exuded compassion and honesty to a degree that was nearly hypnotic. Could he be believed? Was it more complicated? A church faction fight, perhaps? The conclusion he kept returning to was the same one that had made him hold his tongue before: he could not turn his godfather over on such a slender thread of trust. He would have to investigate the matter himself, quickly, as he had been intending to do by coming here. That meant losing these two. Would they let him walk out? Did they have the means of following him without his realizing? There wasn’t time to lie low for a day or two, every hour might count.

Through the door he could hear a cell phone ringing. When he composed himself and stepped out, Matthew saw the bald one just putting his phone away as he jabbered excitedly to Father John. The swift, heavily accented Greek mostly eluded him, but through the buzz of words he clearly heard a familiar name. The priest looked up.

“Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine. I have to leave.”

“An associate of my friend here has made a discovery among Father Tomas’ abandoned possessions. A name, known to us. Fotis Dragoumis. I think he is related to you?”

Matthew nodded.

“You are close to him?”

“Yes, I am.”

“He is, perhaps, a dangerous man to deal with?”

“I don’t think of him that way. It might be dangerous for you.”

“Nevertheless, we must see him. I think you should come with us. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“We will not force you. It is completely your decision. Somehow I feel your presence will make things less hazardous for both sides.”

Matthew absorbed the import of those words. The urge to be included in whatever fell out was overwhelming other considerations.

“I need to call him.”

“I cannot stop you. But if you do, he will be gone when we arrive, and neither you nor I will see that icon again. I think you know this.”

Still he hesitated. The priest was guessing; he couldn’t know for sure that Fotis had the icon.

“Scatá,” spat Baldy, bolting forward. Instinctively, Matthew’s arms shot out, the heels of his hands catching the other man hard in the chest, staggering him so that he grabbed at the mattress to keep from falling. Meaning to rush for the door, Matthew instead found himself advancing, a sudden unexpected rage replacing his fear in an instant, filling him. He hadn’t thrown a fist since adolescence, but he wanted to beat the stocky little man senseless. Baldy recovered swiftly and sprang at him, his heavy fist catching Matthew in the stomach, awkwardly, but hard enough to bend him double with a deep, nauseating pain. He braced for another blow, but then the priest was between them.