Neil Olson - The Icon

At length, he slumped against whoever held him, spitting phlegmy gobs into a handkerchief held below his face. Disgusted with himself, with life. Pulling free, he swayed uncertainly as pillows were stacked behind him, then allowed himself to be pressed back, three-quarters propped up. Exhausted. Ready for sleep once more, but terrified by the prospect. At least he could breathe.

“Can I bring you anything?”

Fotis looked at the man. Not Nicholas. Nicholas was fighting for his life in a hospital in New York. This man was Taki, Fotis’ nephew, who would do anything for him. Fotis was in Greece, at the big house he had built outside of Salonika. New York was 5,000 miles away, the theft had gone wrong, and he had no reliable source of information. A desperate plan. A mad chance he was taking, but all his reasons came back to him with that dream. God had a purpose for everything.

“A glass of water.”

He sipped slowly. The water went down like mercury at first, heavy and unquenching, but eventually his throat felt somewhat soothed. His nephew stood attentively by his side. There was no love in the face of the ex-soldier and failed house-alarm salesman, but Taki was loyal, and eager for employment. And his black market connections were useful.

“Will you eat some breakfast?”

The idea sickened him, but some attempt was necessary.

“Coffee, and some bread.”

“Your godson is downstairs.”

“Matthew?” The old man was momentarily at a loss.

“Matthew is here?” And yet, why was he surprised? It was only the timing that had caught him out. He had known there was a fair chance that the boy would come. “How long has he been here?”

“An hour. I tried to send him away, but he won’t go. I didn’t want to throw him out.”

Of course you did, thought Fotis. Taki was Matthew’s mother’s first cousin, but the two men hardly knew each other. Taki had nothing against Matthew, but he would not like the boy claiming special status. He had been fending people off all week-friends, business associates, insurance investigators-and was clearly enjoying the role of gatekeeper.

“No, you did right. I will see him.”

“After you eat.”

“No,” said Fotis, thoughts shaping themselves instantly.

“Send him up with the food.”

Taki seemed shocked. Fotis never met the world without being washed, dressed, and fed, but Matthew was a special case. His anger would need subduing, and the proper presentation was required. These considerations came to the old man unbidden, the product of sixty years of deception. The quick shift from the mortal terror of minutes before to these familiar tricks provided a superficial balm for his mind; and yet, deeper down, it oppressed him. He no longer knew what it was like not to plan every encounter in advance. He no longer had an honest relationship with any man. His instinct had become a thing apart from him, a trained animal, sometimes deadly, and only barely under his control. That the intrigues he engineered this time were at the service of his soul brought him some measure of peace. If the Holy Mother could heal him, all must be forgiven.

What would the boy know? The New York police were focused on Anton and his Russian connections, but they would be expanding their investigation. Fotis had worked hard on Father Tomas’ credibility, having him secure the actual endorsement of the Greek church, paying him in small installments for his collaboration. And now the fool had vanished with half a million dollars of church funds, rendering all his recent actions suspicious. Of course, Fotis had known Tomas was a thief, but not that he was under investigation by his superiors and would choose this moment to go underground. Maybe it was best; maybe questioning would have broken him.

The out-of-work actor who had been checking in around Manhattan as Peter Miller knew nothing, not even the name of the man who had hired him. Fotis’ file on Müller was thin. The man had ceased to be of interest as soon as it became clear that he’d sold the icon to Kessler. When Fotis had learned Andreas was coming to New York, however, he’d needed a ploy to distract him from the gambit being played with Matthew and the church. Something strong enough to skew the thinking of his keen-minded protégé. Only Müller would do, but the clues must be subtle, hard to find, or he would sense the ruse. By now Andreas had surely figured out the charade, but would he have shared it with his grandson?

“Kalimera,” Matthew said without warmth, looking for a place to put the breakfast tray. Fotis nodded at the large footrest before him. Taki had wrapped him in his old blue robe and helped him to the chair by the bed before disappearing downstairs again.

“Bless you, my boy,” he responded in English. “I don’t know if I can eat, but Taki will have me try.” Fotis took a drink of the bitter coffee before speaking again. “You’ve come a long way just to see me. Did you think I would die without consulting you?”

“I’m sorry to find you so unwell.”

Surprised was more like it. No one was more surprised than Fotis himself when a feigned illness became a real one, but that was God again, still teaching him lessons after eighty-nine years. The pain in the bones he’d come to expect, but this fatigue and congestion were something new. He’d started to feel it right after Matthew and Alex left that day-a week ago, less? He had not expected Alex to know the icon; that had been the first shock. Perhaps Andreas had broken the pledge and said something, even years before. Who could say how much Alex knew or what he might say to Matthew? The fear of that, plus the news that this del Carros was speaking to the Russians, had been sufficient for Fotis to move up his plans a few days. And then, the figure. Even now he could not think of it without terror, like something from his dream, a strange, ghostly presence there in the doorway just as Alekos’ hand touched the icon. For a moment he had thought it was that boy, Kosta. Then nothing, no one. The first signs of a fever, clearly, this present sickness, which would carry him off if he was not careful, or strong. At his age, life or death could be simple choices. Give in to the darkness, or fight it.

“Not so unwell. A slight cold, I think.” The boy should have expected to find him ill, yet had not, which meant that he had worked things out. “Maybe something I picked up on the flight. Maybe just the emotions from this peculiar Holy Week.”

“You look terrible; you shouldn’t be up.”

“I was told my godson must see me instantly.” He smiled, but edged the words.

“I could have sat by the bed.”

“That is not how I meet guests, or family. Anyway, you are here, and you are troubled.”

“The icon is gone. Nicholas is in the hospital with a bullet in his back. The police think I’m keeping things from them. Nobody has been able to speak to you. It’s a troubling situation, don’t you think?”

“Indeed. How is your girl?”

“She’s not my girl.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Theio, I want to know what the hell is going on.”

“We would all like to know that. You think I have some special information?”

“You don’t seem very upset about any of this.”

“That is the sickness. I have only strength for the tasks I must perform, an old man’s wisdom. I grieve for the icon’s loss, and I have prayed every morning and evening for Nikos. There is nothing else I can do until I am well enough to return.”

“Anton has vanished.”

“The police told me.”

“You’ve spoken to them.”

“I accepted a telephone call. You see, I am trying to help.”

“It doesn’t look good, his disappearing like that.”

“I agree.”