Neil Olson - The Icon

This was a bad idea, Ana thought. She had thought it from the moment the man on the telephone suggested the place, but it was only now, standing in the dim, cavernous nave of the cathedral, that it struck her just how foolish she was being. These underworld dealers were an eccentric lot, always concerned about safe locations. Her grandfather had dealt with a number of them, perhaps with this very one she awaited. That was the reason she was here. But they were not making an exchange; there was no reason for secrecy, for this Gothic, out-of-the-way location. Wouldn’t a coffee shop have done just as well?

The Cathedral of St. John the Divine was a lovely mess. No one would expect to find the world’s largest Christian church-short of St. Peter’s at the Vatican-on Morningside Heights between Harlem and the Hudson River. In true medieval fashion, work had been proceeding on it for a hundred years, was still not complete, and probably never would be. Ana couldn’t imagine the square towers ever outreaching Notre Dame, yet what had been achieved so far was remarkable. She always went the long way around in order to approach from the west. As she climbed the hill from Riverside Park on 112th Street, the massive, looming facade filled up the view, sunlight catching the fifty-foot rose window and every curve and adornment, the rows of larger-than-life saints made miniature by the whole. It might, as many right-minded people claimed, be a waste of money, but Ana understood the impulse to create on such a scale, to overwhelm the eye, to touch the soul with grandeur. It was a substitute for the pure spirituality that few could muster on a regular basis. It was made for people like her.

The broad, empty nave was large enough to seat an army. The aisles were lit by hundreds of yards of stained glass and lined with displays. As directed, Ana stood before the Holocaust Memorial, a fallen, skeletal figure stretched taut upon the ground. It was powerful but ghoulish, and after some minutes she felt a growing embarrassment at being made to stand there so long, as if del Carros were stirring up the darker rumors of her grandfather’s past by suggesting it. Simple paranoia on her part, no doubt. It was cold in the place, and Ana felt alone, more alone than she ever had before, and that was saying something. The emptiness of the church served to echo and enhance a hollowness inside herself. There were, in fact, a number of other people in the place, but the cathedral’s vastness swallowed them. She saw only tiny figures at a distance.

One of those figures was making his way toward her from the direction of the altar. Tall, or his leanness made him appear so, with short blond hair and spectacles over transparent blue eyes. Bland features, but a winning smile, which did not leave his face from the time he spotted Ana until the moment he stood before her.

“Ms. Kessler.”

“That’s right.”

“Jan Klee.” He put out his hand, which she took. A soft, European handshake. “I work with Mr. del Carros. Who is awaiting you, this way, if you would come along please?”

She followed him, trying to identify the accent. Must be Dutch, with that name. He walked with a casual stroll, yet covered ground with deceptive speed. Ana strode quickly to keep pace.

“I hope I haven’t kept him waiting long. I believe I was on time.”

“You are perfectly punctual, not to worry. Mr. del Carros is always early. And very patient.”

“How good of him. I’m always late, and impatient.”

Jan chuckled agreeably.

“I am also that way. Patience comes with age, I am told. Though you might expect the reverse to be true.”

“What do you do for Mr. del Carros?”

“Many things. Mostly I help him get around. He’s quite old, you know.”

“Right, of course.”

They passed through the broad crossing. Far above was the immense inverted bowl of the dome. Rust-colored and unornamented. Both of them stopped and stared a moment.

“One hundred and sixty-two feet,” Jan pronounced, “from floor to dome.”

“Wow,” Ana said, stupidly. “I couldn’t have told you that. You must know a lot about this place.”

“No. I just read it in that brochure.” He started off again. She was starting to like this guy. Anyway, she was pleased that del Carros had a studious assistant; it made all this feel more normal.

The name had troubled her from the moment it left Emil Rosenthal’s mouth, and she had racked her brain to think why. Her grandfather did not keep a diary, as far as she knew, but his calendars were large, leather-cased volumes in which he recorded a good deal of information. She had found the long line of black books a few days after his death, on a shelf in his study, fifty of them, numbered and dated. She’d meant to look through them then, but there had not been time, until yesterday. On impulse, she had turned to 1984, and found what she was looking for instantly. June 16 was circled, with departure and arrival times for a Pan Am flight to Caracas, a flight her grandfather never took, because of illness. Her father went instead, in his own jet, and presumably met with the man whose name was written below: Roberto del Karos. Two days later her father’s jet crashed in the mountains. The names were close, but close enough? And how common a name was either?

They went up a few steps into the south ambulatory, part of the semicircular corridor surrounding the choir and altar, and opening onto seven chapels. Jan stopped before an entry in the stone wall to their right. Unlike those further on, fronted by decorative iron gates that made them fully visible to the passage, St. James’ chapel was hidden away. Ana glanced at Jan and thought she found something challenging in his smile, saw an unnerving flatness in his eyes that was visible only close up, and he stood very close to her now. She was breathing too quickly; her pulse throbbed in her neck. This was ridiculous, the collector was only being careful.

“Just inside here,” Jan instructed, pleasantly.

Ana stepped through the archway. The chapel was deceptively large, big enough to be a small church, spare in its adornments, except for the highly detailed windows and a carved stone altar, four saints flanking a cross. A shrunken old man sat several chairs into one aisle, draped in a black raincoat with a gray hat in his lap. He was round-faced with a head of pure white hair and watery blue eyes, and his gaze never shifted from the altar, even as Ana slid into the aisle beside him. She left one chair between them. Jan had vanished.

“Thank you for coming, my dear.”

He looked at her now, one shy glance before shifting his eyes downward.

“Thank you. This was my idea.”

“But I’ve taken you out of your way.”

“It’s fine. I love this place.”

“Do you? It’s rather freakish, but I like it too. And it has these discreet corners.”

“Are you hiding from someone?”

“Oh, yes.” He grinned mischievously. “Many people. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all. I know a bit about the complications that afflict collectors’ lives.”

“Of course, you are one yourself. And a dealer too, yes?”

Had she told him that? Anyway, Rosenthal could have; it wasn’t a secret.

“Strictly an amateur, on both counts.”

“But your grandfather was a great collector.”

“You knew my grandfather.”

“Not well. We did some business a long time ago.”

“Would it be too rude to ask what that business was?”

“Not too rude.” He was looking down again, shifting the hat about in his lap with his long, withered hands. “It’s simply that business is so boring. Especially old business, and I’ve forgotten the details. If I’m not mistaken, we are here to speak of more recent business. True?”