Neil Olson - The Icon

“I tell you it’s not enough.”

“More than enough,” Van Meer prodded. “Too much.”

“Listen to me,” del Carros said, in a soft voice that quieted the room. “You need to understand, Mr. Karov, that market value is not driving this sale. Personal reasons, which are not transferable, support my interest. If I fail to purchase this work, you will have to sell it at a fraction of the price we are discussing. Given your means of acquiring it, you may not be able to sell it at all.”

“My means of acquiring it! Listen to you. You are the cause of my acquiring it. I stole it for you; you cannot back out of this arrangement.”

“You stole it at Dragoumis’ instruction.”

“And crossed him to sell it to you. We have a deal.”

“Which you are attempting to breach by raising the price. I understand, you are a businessman. Very well. In this briefcase there is exactly six hundred thousand dollars. One hundred thousand more than the agreed price. Jan will object, but I am willing to go this far to meet your concerns. This far and no further. If I leave this room without the icon you will not see me again. My final word, Mr. Karov.”

The Russian looked as if he would speak several times, but quieted himself, his black leather coat creaking about him as he shifted restlessly in his chair. Calculating. No doubt he felt he could simply take the case and keep the icon. Two bodies to dispose of, no big deal. Del Carros knew well that if he tried it there would be three bodies, and they would be the Russians, but Karov did not comprehend how dangerous Van Meer was. However, del Carros had previously hinted at future transactions, a new market in South America, drugs, emeralds, Incan artifacts. All smoke, but that was another thing Karov didn’t know, and he clearly preferred the role of businessman to that of thug. At last his big, watery eyes focused on the briefcase and a thin smile returned.

“Who will say that Vasili Karov is not a reasonable man? I accept your offer. You,” he snapped at Van Meer, “take a lesson from your employer. This is how reasonable men do business. Compromise. Anton, get the brandy.”

“The icon,” Jan interrupted, enjoying his role as spoiler. Was he disappointed that the deal was working itself out, that he would not be allowed to use his special talents? Surely he was too smart for that. “We have not seen the icon.”

“Anton.” Karov waved his arm and the blackbeard changed direction midway to the liquor cabinet, went to the easel, and unceremoniously dragged off the drop cloth.

Gold leaf, faded yet still brilliant. The graceful, oval curve of the Virgin’s half-turned head. Large, expressive eyes, underlined with dark patches, a downturned mouth. A sad Mary. The deep blue of her robes was almost black, tinged green here and there by age or damage. The fingers were unnaturally long, pressed together in prayer, yet also pointing outside the frame to where the inevitable accompanying Christ would have hung. The traditional Hagiasoritissa. Skilled work, not masterful perhaps, but painted with feeling. And in remarkably good condition. The room was silent for many moments.

“Beautiful,” breathed Karov.

“Yes,” del Carros agreed, disappointment crushing the anger out of his voice. “It’s the wrong work.”

The Russian did not appear to understand him at first.

“What are you talking about?”

“You must call off the action on Dragoumis.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look at it,” del Carros insisted, but that was pointless, like asking a dog to look at it. An icon was an icon to this fool. The Greek had chosen his mark well. “It’s all wrong. The style is wrong. It’s late work, fifteenth or sixteenth century, probably Russian. The icon we’re seeking is eighth century or older, and damaged. I specified that it was damaged.”

“You prefer it to be damaged?”

It was intolerable. He would kill the idiot, he would strangle the life out of that fat, baffled face.

“I prefer it to be the right one, the only one I am looking for. This is not it.”

“This was the one on his easel,” Anton now spoke. “He was showing it to his godson the day before. It was right where he told me to find it.”

“Then he switched it for another. Did you ever actually see it before you took it?”

“No. It stayed locked in his study.”

“Why would he switch it?” Karov demanded.

“Because he knew you would betray him,” del Carros replied, the matter becoming clear. Dragoumis knew that stealing the icon from himself would not be sufficient. The Russians would know he had it, and others would guess, so he needed a second feint. Give the Russians the wrong painting to steal. If Karov keeps the replacement, he has no idea what he possesses. If he sells it, the buyer will probably not have seen the original, and del Carros knew that most people-even collectors-could not easily place the age and origin of Orthodox icons. Either way, the replacement vanishes, and who can say that it was not the original? It was a clever plan, if flawed, one flaw being that the Greek had not anticipated a buyer who knew the real work very well. Still, he had bought himself time, and who knew where the icon was now? “You must call off the action.”

“Why? Goddamn that Greek to hell, I’ll hang him by his balls.”

“If you kill him before we determine the location of the real icon, we may never find it.”

“What do I care about that? Shit on your icon. If you are telling the truth, I want the bastard dead. Besides, it’s too late.”

The old man felt his eighty-six years like a weight on his shoulders, pressing down upon him. He had been young and strong when this chase began, but it had dragged on far too long, and he was tired. With all his other successes, why did he continue with this losing struggle? Because his spirit knew nothing else at this point. Once possessed, the icon lived within him, and he felt as though a part of his body were missing. More than fifty years now. There was really no choice. The tiredness was good, he decided. It hid his desperation.

“What must I do to convince you?”

Karov gazed at him carefully, trying to determine if this was a threat or opportunity. Van Meer was paying close attention also. They were beyond the possibilities they had mapped before the meeting, into tangled, dangerous territory. The Dutchman was freshly energized.

“You could give me that briefcase,” the Russian answered after a long pause. Jan had a good laugh at that.

“I think not,” del Carros responded.

“You owe me something for my trouble, damn it.”

“I owe you nothing. Dragoumis was toying with you. You were never in a position to deliver what I wanted, but I am willing to make some effort to maintain our cooperation.”

“What do you suggest?”

The Russian was an ass, but he would have to be given something or this would end badly. And he must be persuaded to call off the action.

“This isn’t the icon I wanted,” the old man mused, “but it is good work, and I am feeling generous. I’ll give you a hundred thousand for it.”

“That doesn’t even cover my expenses.”

“And fifty more when I know that Dragoumis is safe. A hundred more if you can deliver him to me, alive.”

Karov’s agitation had settled somewhat. He kept eye contact with del Carros as he slipped a bulky international cell phone from his jacket.

“If I can take him alive, we’ll talk then about what he’s worth. Let’s see your money.”

“Make the call. Time is precious.”

Matthew had been awake most of the night, and the few hours of sleep he’d stolen before dawn were troubled.

Shreds of dreams still floated past his mind’s eye: a darkened city, that other New York of his sleep, full of narrow, poorly lit streets, twisting unexpectedly, a dangerous encounter around every corner. He knew the place, had visited its docks, parks, and alleys across a hundred nights, always pursued, always seeking the safe corridor, the straight way home. This night he had been the pursuer, chasing the Holy Mother down dark passages, around treacherous corners, without hesitation or fear, fearing only the loss of it. Logic dictated that someone carried the icon, but he saw just the image itself, a face more like the Mona Lisa than a Greek saint, smiling at his desperation as it vanished through doorways, up staircases, into shadow. In the end, the black eyes alone bore through the total darkness around him, close enough to touch, but he could not grasp her, never would.