Neil Olson - The Icon

“Interrogating this son of a whore,” Fotis answered him.

Mavroudas had used Elias’ entry to shuffle across the small storeroom-now empty of the barrels of olives, figs, and cheese that used to crowd it-toward the front of the shop. Fotis covered the distance in two strides and flung the cowering merchant back into the old chair, which groaned beneath his sudden weight. Coiled rope and a six-inch blade sat on the table, on either side of the fat candle. Fotis had placed them carefully, to give Stamatis something to think about.

“Why aren’t you with the men I sent?”

“They are safe,” the Snake answered casually.

“What happened up there?”

Dragoumis looked at him hard.

“What do you think happened? The Prince didn’t get his gift, so he didn’t call off the men guarding the house.”

“You couldn’t overrun them?”

“We could have. There were only a few, but they had a machine gun, and it would have cost many men. God knows they were eager, but they were not my men to spend that way.”

We’re all your men, thought Elias, and you spend us in whatever manner suits you.

“So why are you here?” he pressed.

“The same reason as you. To find out what the hell happened.”

“You seem to know already.”

“I could say the same.” Fotis circled the table like a shark.

“Here we both are.”

“Kosta went into the church during the shooting. I don’t know why he went in or if he got out.” Elias could not mention Mikalis. It was too new, too raw.

“The son, yes, he is part of it.”

“And this one?” Elias kicked the chair leg and Stamatis flinched.

“This one,” Fotis answered evenly, a hand upon the merchant’s shoulder, “was seen leaving the church, with another man. And something wrapped in a bundle.”

“Before the fire?”

“During the fire.”

“Seen by whom?”

“It’s a lie,” hissed the old thief. “It’s a lie. They all hate me. Peasants. They would lie for a crust of bread. Captain Elias-”

“Enough of that.”

Dragoumis slapped the merchant’s face to quiet him, and Elias became aware that the old man’s desperate words were directed at him alone. Some tacit, if hostile, understanding already existed between the other two men. They were beyond petty issues like guilt or innocence, and bargained now for other lives, and the style of necessary deaths. Elias stepped closer to the table. Sweat glistened on Stamatis’ forehead. His clothes were clean, probably freshly put on before Fotis’ arrival, yet the bottom of his large beard was distinctly singed, and his matted gray hair smelled of smoke. The captain leaned over the shaking man.

“Where is Kosta?” he asked.

“Yes, where?” Fotis seconded. “You’ve sent him away with your prize, haven’t you? Where do you think he can go? You know we control all the countryside around here. Where will he go that I can’t find him?”

Stamatis shook his head vigorously, though what it was he denied was unclear. The whole pathetic situation, perhaps. A schemer snared in his own scheme. Intolerable. What the hell had he intended? Elias wondered. Not to get caught, first of all, but he must have known he would be suspected. To leave the village quickly? To sell the icon? To whom? To keep it until after the war? How to get answers from him? They could pretend to negotiate, but he would never believe them. Not now, not with the knife on the table. Besides, there was no time.

“I want to write a confession,” the merchant announced.

Fotis drew a deep, explosive breath, then let it out. His voice stayed calm.

“Listen to me. I am going to take your fingers off one by one until you tell me where your bastard boy is, and what you have done with the icon.”

“I want to write a confession,” Stamatis insisted, voice quavering. “I’ll tell you everything, but I want it on paper. And the captain must keep it, so one honest man will know the truth.”

“I can know it just as easily if you speak,” Elias answered, catching a withering look from the Snake for engaging in this dialogue at all.

“No, no, it must be on paper. So that you may prove I said these things. Men trust nothing spoken these days.”

It was some game the old thief was playing. Simply buying time, perhaps, but Elias decided to call his bluff.

“So, write.”

Fotis snorted in disgust but did not contradict his subordinate. Maybe he felt that the captain knew the merchant’s ways better than himself. Perhaps he feared the things Mavroudas might say in Elias’ presence, if pressed too hard. Elias knew that if he had not entered when he did, the interrogation would have reached the ugly stage by now, as it was still likely to do. And maybe that was the better course. Stamatis was stalling; Kosta-if Fotis was right about that-could not yet be far away.

The merchant snatched a stubby pencil from a cup, and a soiled sheet of brown paper from beneath the table, and began writing. Fotis risked a peek out the small window, and Elias slid over next to him.

“You got here quickly.”

“Yes.” Nothing more, of course. It was one of the Snake’s rules never to explain, never to be placed on the defensive. It meant nothing either way. Yet it seemed only natural that fellow officers should discuss such a disastrous dissolution of their plans, not to mention forge a new strategy, and Elias could not help finding his chief’s reticence disturbing.

“Where are my men now?” he asked.

“The little hill above the north road.”

“So close? Müller has fifty soldiers.”

“The church is south. For all he knows you’re still there. He won’t split up and strike north, not in the dark.”

“He could call for reinforcements.”

“He is not even supposed to be here,” Fotis snapped. “Those troops are borrowed. He came for a trade, not a fight. Anyway, your men will know to scatter if there is trouble.”

“Who did you leave in charge?”

“The one you picked, Giorgios. What happened at the church?” Fotis finally asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Elias answered. Two could play the game. Besides, it would not do to say he wasn’t precisely certain what had happened. “Are you sure this one has the icon?”

“You have another idea?”

“I only wonder how a man could escape that inferno. Or a painting. It may have simply burned.”

“I don’t think so. I think this bastard lit the fire behind him to cover his tracks.”

“You said he came out during the fire.”

“He lit it in front to keep Müller out. Then he escaped another way.”

“How did he know Müller was coming?”

Fotis fixed him with a rare expression: incredulity bordering on disgust.

“How else? His son. Your trained dog, Kosta.”

Of course. This conspiracy was not newly hatched; father and son had been in communication all along. Kosta had been with Elias when he told Müller the plan, and again when Elias gave Stefano the message that would flush Mikalis from the church and keep him from harm while Müller took the icon. Kosta, his most trusted man. The Snake saw understanding transform the captain’s face.

“You were deceived, my friend. The boy was the old man’s spy in your camp.”

“You knew?”

“I just realized it tonight. And so have you, don’t deny it.”

A shout from the table startled them both.

“Damn it all to hell,” Stamatis cried, tearing the page lengthwise. “Damn you both, I won’t do it. I won’t confess to what I haven’t done.” He tore the page to pieces.

Fotis moved quickly to the table, and the merchant threw the paper in his face, then sprang for the knife on the table. Dragoumis grabbed wildly and nearly caught the blade with his hand, then managed to snag the older man’s wrist before the knife could find his throat. The table leaned and the guttering flame threw wild shadows about the room as the men struggled.