Neil Olson - The Icon

“That’s why you hunted Müller all those years. It had nothing to do with the icon.”

“It had everything to do with it, but I was not looking for it, if that’s what you mean. The painting is bad luck. When I heard the shots fired that morning, I would have destroyed the thing if it had been in front of me. I wish it had burned in the fire.”

Matthew took a deep drink of his beer and imagined the icon, the chipped paint, the haunting eyes, enshrouded in flame. Blackening and peeling away to ash. If it had burned fifty years ago there would be no cause for this present strife. His godfather and grandfather might not be at odds. He himself would have been saved this troubling obsession. And yet who could say how many lives it had touched for the good? Between Andreas’ contempt-a kind of reverse superstition-and Fotis’ perverted reverence, Matthew had come to see only the negative effects, which had more to do with the men involved than the work. Was his own desire so impure? He wanted it, yes, but only to study, to sit in contemplation within its calming radius. Others must feel the same. The church had used the icon as a force of good for centuries without any legend of death or discord growing up around it. It was a matter of putting it back in the right hands.

“That’s a terrible story. I’m sorry.”

“Just one of many from those times.”

“There were lots of executions, weren’t there? They made the people pay every time you resisted them.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t stop fighting because of that. The icon was incidental.” Matthew hated the tone of his own voice. “Anyway, you needed the guns, right?”

“Oh, yes, the guns proved very useful later, for killing our countrymen.”

“Müller would have killed more people if you hadn’t bargained.”

“All my life,” Andreas said quietly, “I have been able to see through men. Not all the time, but often enough that I have come to depend upon it. Some fool will be telling me a lie and the truth will appear before me clearly, as if I am watching it. Like a film. I uncovered many secrets this way, saved myself from bad mistakes. Yet in every piece of business involving this icon I have behaved like a blind man. I see only part of the truth, and my decisions are always bad ones. Every step of the way I have made the wrong move.”

“Papou, you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“Not too hard, I think. The signs were there, a wiser man would have read them properly. I knew enough to keep Fotis out of the exchange, but I made a terrible mistake trusting Kosta. And it cost my brother his life. I made a bargain with Müller that anyone should have seen he could not keep. Twenty more died.”

“You couldn’t have saved them.”

“I chased a phantom all over New York while Fotis was making mischief right under my nose, using you.”

“You could not have known any of those things. And you’re not responsible for me. I’ve been a bigger idiot than anyone.”

“You were lacking information. And you have a weakness for this thing. There, again, he saw what I did not. He has been one step ahead of me all along. He still is.”

“If he’s not dead.”

“I would not wager on it.”

“You don’t think that was him in the car with Taki?”

“I have only secondhand reports, but the description, presumed age, everything I’ve been told sounds wrong.”

“I should have gone out there to identify him. Sotir hustled me onto the plane, didn’t want me mixed up with any investigation.”

“He was right. They might have held you for days, weeks.”

“At least we’d know.”

“Perhaps not, the body was badly damaged. I am glad you were spared viewing it. They will know for certain in a day or so-teeth, fingerprints. But it is not him.”

Andreas closed his eyes, pursuing his own thoughts. Matthew took another long swallow. He saw what I did not. What did Fotis see? What did Andreas imagine he saw? That Matthew could be coerced, or inspired, by faith? Was it true? Could one call these half-formed gropings, these awkward manifestations of awe, faith? Should he be ashamed of that? He was embarrassed now to think of his father before the icon. What had he expected, that the Holy Mother would reach out of the wood and smite him on the forehead, You are healed! Maybe only that the man would feel some of the mystery and joy that his son felt before the image. That the two would join in some silent communion there on the spot. Ridiculous.

“I wish I knew what the hell to do next,” Matthew said.

The old man looked him in the eye for the first time in many minutes.

“I have not dissuaded you from this hunt at any point. I have assisted you to the degree that I was able. True?”

“Sure. I was a little upset about Sotir, but he saved my ass, so I’m grateful.”

“Then what I must tell you now is to let this go. Two men are dead. Another in the hospital, another missing. This has become far too dangerous a pursuit, with far too small a reward. What would you do with the icon anyway?”

“Give it to the Greek church, as Ana Kessler intended.”

“Not good enough. Not a reason to die, or to put others at risk. She received money, and she is safer without the work. If she does not reverse herself, her story should protect you from prosecution. There is no reason to continue. Not to mention that the trail is cold.”

“What about the Russians?”

Andreas sighed.

“They are dangerous people. Information would not come easily. Chances are, they disposed of the icon days ago, if they ever had it.”

“What do you mean? Where did it go if they didn’t take it?”

“All I mean is that we have been underestimating Fotis.” Andreas looked hard at him. “I see I have made no impression on you. Does this mean you do not intend to give up the search?”

Matthew felt trapped, then suddenly angry, even furious, absurdly so. He wanted nothing more than to let this all go. It had frightened and sickened him. Why did it provoke him so to be asked to say it? I will let it go. Just say it.

“So the risk was worthwhile when you thought you might find your Nazi,” he said instead. “But now that there is no Müller, it isn’t. Is that about the shape of things?”

“The risk was never worthwhile, especially for you.”

“You’re asking me what I’m going to do. What about you? Are you going to let it go?”

“I want to know what happened to Fotis. If I can find him, I must persuade him to talk to me about old matters. I see now that this should have been my priority all along.” Andreas cleared his throat. “When I ask you to let this matter go, I do not speak merely of the physical search. I would like you to let it go in your mind, in your heart.”

A flight attendant marched past them to the bar, tall, blond, her professional smile replaced by an acute weariness about the mouth and eyes. She reminded Matthew of Ana.

“The police will be ahead of us with the Russians,” Andreas pressed. “That is where they have focused their efforts. I will make inquiries, and let you know what I learn. Would that help? Or would it help you more if I let everything go? There is your father to think of. The woman. These are more worthy objects of your attention.”

A hint of desperation had crawled into the old man’s speech. Matthew made fists with his hands, aware of his grandfather watching him. Why not just say it?

“The icon is poison,” Andreas whispered, hoarse with emotion, a tone so unlike him that it paralyzed Matthew’s anger. “It’s poison in your blood. Over and over this has happened; you’re not the first. You must cure yourself of it.”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

Matthew stood quickly and left the table. Instinctively, he headed toward the rear of the bar, having no idea where the bathrooms were. He might well be going in the wrong direction. Let it go, give it up. Magic words. Why could he not bring himself to say them?