Neil Olson - The Icon

“OK.”

“There are things you should know.”

“I’m listening.” But he couldn’t seem to shape his thoughts, at least not swiftly enough to suit Ana, and like an idiot she had blundered on in a clipped, angry burst. “I didn’t say anything that should implicate you, if that’s what you came to find out. I told them that I knew your godfather was the buyer, that you had told me. I don’t know why I did that. I don’t even know if it will help you.”

He shook his head, face twisted in frustration or disgust, and she thought she read him in that instant, thought that maybe he was not so far from being the man she felt she knew, despite the things he had kept from her.

“I didn’t want you to do that,” he had finally said. “I don’t care what you tell the police. I came to tell you what I know.”

It had all poured out of him then, his godfather’s subtle guidance, Matthew’s fixation on the work, his willful ignorance of the plot taking shape around him; and the more he spoke the more depressed and disengaged she had become. Questions banged at the door of her mind but could gain no entry. She was stuck on the one fact: he had come into her life to manipulate her. How then could she ever trust him? How could she know if anything that had passed between them was real? She could not, though she might yet try if he would even address the issue. But he would not, and she understood, with a keen sense of self-loathing, that without that question answered, the others-involving the full extent to which she had been played for a fool-were meaningless to her. She would not show it. Let her self-disgust seem like anger. He deserved her anger.

She had made him sit in one of the old, uncomfortable wing chairs, and eventually she began to analyze what he said, letting her thinking turn cold and clinical. Matthew had no doubt that the icon had been the reason for the theft, despite the other paintings taken. She decided to play along, to assume his innocence in anything beyond the initial manipulation.

“Has your godfather been questioned?”

“No. He’s in Greece. He became suddenly ill right after he got there.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“He has been ill with something, but he’s a trickster, that guy.”

“You think he’s behind the theft?”

“I don’t want to, but it’s a possibility.”

“He put down almost a million dollars to steal it from himself?”

“From the church, to which he owed it by the conditions of the sale. You had a blind offer for almost twice that. He used the church to get his price, and to block other bidders. Theoretically, I mean; I hope I’m wrong. There may have been other reasons as well.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him from the start?”

“He wasn’t involved from the start,” Matthew insisted. “Or he was, but I didn’t…When the museum sent me over, I didn’t know of any connection, except that he knew Wallace. Which you also knew,” he reminded her, pointedly. “Later, he told me the church approached him, made it sound very casual. I should have spoken to you then. He asked me not to. He convinced me that it didn’t change anything whether you knew or not, and knowing would only make you suspicious.”

“And that didn’t make you suspicious?”

“There was other stuff, too. I’m not going to lay it on you. I was stupid about the whole thing. I’m sorry, Ana. I truly felt the icon should go back to Greece.”

“What if I had decided to go with a private buyer?”

“Then that would have been that.”

“You wouldn’t have tried to talk me out of it?”

“Not if your mind was made up.”

“Bullshit.”

“What could I have done? I couldn’t make you choose against your will.”

You could have made me do anything you wanted, Ana thought bitterly, but again the anger was directed mostly at herself.

“How can I believe anything you’re telling me now?”

“That’s a fair question. I can’t answer it. You have every right to doubt me.”

So calm and reasonable, even in his guilt.

“Fuck you, Matthew.”

He had stood quite suddenly, as if she had thrown cold water in his lap. She struggled not to stand also, to keep her expression closed and ungiving. He could not stay, not now, yet she desperately did not want him to leave.

“Have you told the police all this?”

“They know the facts; the rest is hypothesis. I held back some of the history.”

“What history?”

He’d hesitated, clearly not wanting to tell this part. “The icon comes from my grandfather’s village. It turns out he and my godfather were involved in some scheme to trade it to the Germans, during the war.”

More secrets. There was no bottom to them, apparently. The grandfather clock’s metronomic click assaulted her thinking. Her great-great-uncle had built it; her grandfather had shipped it here with his other possessions fifty years before. Ana had loved the clock as a child, but at that moment she found herself wanting to toss it onto the street for the junk collectors.

“That would seem to be worth reporting,” she had said coolly.

“The details aren’t very clear.”

“You came here to tell me everything, remember?”

“This isn’t the sort of story you tell without knowing the truth behind it. It’s pretty damning stuff, and everyone involved has a different version.”

“How did my grandfather get the icon?”

“That I really don’t know. But I’m going to try to get some answers, for both of us.”

“How?”

Swaying where he stood, wanting to be gone, he had looked right at her for the first time.

“I’m going to see my godfather.”

“They’re going to let you leave the country while they’re still investigating?”

“I don’t plan on asking permission.”

“Matthew,” she began, rising to her feet, approaching him before she knew it. “You could get into serious trouble. It might look as though you’re running.” Was he? Were her instincts wrong? They had not been very dependable so far, but then why had he come at all?

“He’s more likely to speak to me than to anyone else.”

“He won’t tell you the truth.”

“He might. Or he might give something away.”

“Look, if you’re right, then he had his own man shot. He’s dangerous.”

“I don’t think he planned that.”

“Then he’s not in control of the situation,” she had insisted. Why was he not getting it? “Someone out there is willing to kill for this thing.”

He’d opened his mouth to speak, but there was no easy answer to that ugly fact, and the truth of it settled around them quietly.

“Fotis is family,” he finally mumbled. “Besides, I helped create this mess.”

“Which is a stupid reason to make it worse now. Don’t go.”

She had tried awhile longer to dissuade him, knowing it was useless. For all his seeming rationality, he was actually incredibly stubborn. He left without touching her-sure he had forfeited that right, no doubt. She had given him no encouragement, had maintained her toughness to the end, but she fixed his dark head of hair and slouched, retreating back in her mind. Then she wandered into the dining room and sank into her hard chair, hollowed out. It was more than likely that she had seen him for the last time.

That had been two days earlier, and Ana sat now in the same empty dining room, shadows banished by the strong light through the windows, the warm sun of spring. Matthew would be in Greece. She expected no word, only hoped that he was safe, that he was not playing at some game that would prove too much for him. She had tried to put the matter of the icon out of her mind. After all, she had gotten money, gotten the thing out of her life, which was most of what she wanted. The police would take it from here. It was the Greek church’s business to cry foul, not hers. She had fulfilled her side of the bargain. That oily Father Tomas had stood right there in the hall, watching his men carry the package out to the van. Let him explain what happened next, if they could find him.