Neil Olson - The Icon

“So you’ll do nothing.”

“I did not say that.”

Alex rocked on his heels impatiently, looking back toward the house.

“What then?”

“Matthew needs to stay clear of anyone who might believe he knows the icon’s location. He may be safer in Greece than he would be here. In any case, I have asked someone to look after him over there.”

“One of these friends you don’t have.”

“This is a retired fellow, like myself, and Matthew may make it hard on him. But it’s something.”

Alex turned back to the woods again, squeezing the worn fencepost with one hand while he clenched and unclenched the other. “Thank you. Thank you for doing that.”

“He’s my grandchild. When he returns here, I will try to take him in hand, but it won’t be easy. He is mistrustful and stubborn.”

“Like his mother,” Alex concurred.

“And his blood is up now. Hopefully, the matter will sort itself out swiftly.”

“You don’t care which way it goes? Whether Fotis is tied up in it, whether the icon ever appears again?”

“Stolen art is seldom recovered. I only want Matthew safe, and released from blame. I have business with Fotis, but I don’t know that we shall ever resolve it.”

“I’ll kill that old bastard if I ever see him again.”

“Yes, well, many have tried.”

“He’s like a disease. I’m surprised you didn’t kill him years ago.”

Andreas looked over at his son in some dismay, then nodded slowly.

“I was his creature. He looked after me long past the time he needed to. He was supposed to arrest me, you know, when the colonels were in power. Papadopoulis ordered it. Instead, he sent me out of the country.”

“Very loyal of him.”

“It was. And dangerous. There was no gain in it for him.”

“He was banking your goodwill against the day that he was out and you were in.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps that’s what he told himself.”

“You think he cares about you at all?”

“It’s possible. Against his own will and understanding. Anyway, he’s not a simple man, he keeps us all guessing.”

“That’s how he keeps control.” Alex cleared his throat, working up his courage, Andreas could tell. “Why did you tell me those things just now? All those terrible things. It wasn’t about the icon.”

“I don’t know. Maybe just to say them, to someone.”

“Have you never spoken about them?”

“To your mother, a little. Only a little. Why should I burden someone else?”

“To ease your own burden.”

“There is no ease in telling.”

“How would you know?”

“These things have no meaning outside of the times and places where they happen, whatever the judges and moralists say. Much of the work, even the bad work, was necessary. No one can understand but the others who went through it, and we are too troubled to help one another. And now, too few.”

“It’s not my fault if I don’t understand. You sent me here.”

“I did not expect you to stay, to marry Irini-I thought you would come back to Greece. But it is much better that you did not. Much better.”

“I probably would have become a communist, just to spite you. What are you smiling about, old man?”

“The idea of you taking any interest in politics at all.”

“You don’t make it sound like I’ve missed much.”

“No, you were wise. It’s a fool’s game.”

“It’s good that you came here,” the younger man said softly.

“It’s good that we’ve spoken.”

Andreas breathed in the damp air, exhaled slowly. Such declarations from his son were the best he could hope for, and he tried to be grateful for them, grateful for this moment. Glancing over, he noticed that Alex no longer leaned upon the fence but merely touched it with one hand, swaying slightly, but standing on his own feet.

“You look good, Aleko,” he said, against the dictates of ancient superstition. “You look strong.”

Alex stared hard into the woods, searching, perplexed.

“Yes. I feel strong.”

Sotir Plastiris lived in one of the many concrete apartment buildings that had come to deface the city of Salonika. Like most residents, he had filled his terrace with plants and bright flowers, and the collective effect of all that living color somewhat ameliorated the gray, slapdash look of the buildings themselves. The interior was furnished in the traditional bourgeois fashion: white walls, dark wood, a hammered copperplate with Alexander’s profile hanging in the living room, a figurine in gaudy peasant dress in a glass cabinet. To the man’s credit, there was no cheap icon in the corner with a votive candle before it; this meant only that Sotir had no wife to attend to such matters. Matthew might have looked down upon the whole arrangement, but in truth the apartment wasn’t so different from his grandfather’s in Athens, and he felt comfortable in it.

“Yiasou,” said Sotir, handing Matthew a small glass of cognac, then raising his own as he sat down in an easy chair opposite. He turned his round face to the window, his expression slack, his mind seemingly at rest, but his companion suspected otherwise.

“By plane, it would be difficult,” Sotir said after a time, his English precise, but heavily accented. All his grandfather’s cronies insisted on speaking English to him, Matthew mused. Some matter of professional pride, no doubt. “They are careful at the airports now. A ship would be easier. More private owners, more space. You could hide a small piece within a large container. Customs at the ports are overmatched by the volume, and also corrupt. Mostly, they are afraid of what is being taken out, not what is coming in.”

“ Piraeus, or here?”

“ Piraeus would make more sense. More activity.”

“It wouldn’t have arrived yet.”

“In a few days. It’s more than a week from New York, depending on the stops.”

Matthew nodded, sipped the cognac.

“Of course, it could be a plane. An isolated airstrip.”

“Yes, and it may be coming by train from Paris.” Plastiris smiled with gray teeth. “It may not be coming at all. We are speaking only about what is probable. It would be unwise to tire yourself with every possibility.”

Instead of trying to duck his grandfather’s watchdog, which would likely have been impossible in any case, Matthew decided to make use of him, and had to confess that he liked Plastiris’ easy, Old World style. He also had to keep reminding himself that the man was one of the gang, an ex-freedom fighter, spy, assassin-who knew what?

“The main thing,” Sotir continued, “is to keep your eye on Dragoumis, see what he does, who comes and goes. Which is difficult, since the house is on a hill and surrounded by trees.”

“How was he able to buy that property? He was supposed to be in exile.”

“Your grandfather opened the way. It was intended as a small favor. Visits, for Holy Week each year. He surely did not expect that Fotis would be allowed to build a fortress, or engage in his old activities.”

“Why was he?”

“It’s the way things are done. He was distrusted until the moment Andreas persuaded them to make a concession. Once they did, his file was downgraded, and they forgot all about him. Things must be black and white for bureaucrats. If he’s allowed back in, well then, he must not be a real threat. Besides, he’s old. It’s all young men in there now. They don’t remember the colonels. They don’t remember anything.”

“Do you have the means to watch the house? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

“Dragoumis is not my concern.”

“No, apparently I am.” He waited, but Plastiris gave nothing away. “And Fotis is my concern, so it all goes together.”