Neil Olson - The Icon

What was real to him now was his son’s illness-ravaged body, his grandson’s dangerous predicament. The young, ruthless Fotis was a shadow; the old, scheming Fotis-kind, cantankerous, desperate for life-was the man he contended with now. It was hard to keep the desire for revenge hot for decades. Who knew when a word, a scent, would transport him back to those bad days? It still happened, but less frequently, and more of his time and energy went to the living, as was only right. He wanted to protect each of these people from harm, from the past, and from each other, and it seemed an impossible but worthy task, sufficient in itself.

“I do not want to see the boy hurt, Benny. And I don’t want you hurt any further.”

“You are not considering that the other side will not let this go, whatever we do. They are still searching. Meeting with the girl shows how reckless they’ve become. She doesn’t know anything, but they were willing to seize her on an innuendo. Who will they try next?”

“They know we are on to them now. They will be more careful.”

“Don’t depend on it. These old men do not behave logically about this painting.”

It was true, of course. With death so near, they felt they had nothing to lose, and immortality, real or spiritual, to gain. They were capable of anything.

“Then we must be on guard. And seek further protection from the police.”

“Our best defense is to hunt down the threat ourselves.”

“My friend,” Andreas spoke gently, unsure for a moment what he wanted to say. “Do you have anyone you are close to now? A wife, a lover?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Where is your son?”

“In Israel. With his mother. Like good Jews should be.”

“Why aren’t you with them?”

“We’re divorced, years ago. You knew that. Anyway, I can’t live in that country anymore. It’s all factions and I’m still considered an unstable fellow. I can’t even bear to visit.”

“Does the boy come here?”

“Yes. Sometimes he sees me and sometimes he doesn’t. What are you getting at, Spyridis? That I need love?”

“A man’s family steadies him. Risks are considered in proportion to what might be lost. A man who feels he has nothing to lose is a strong weapon, but a dangerous one. I was feeling that way when I came to you two weeks ago. I no longer do.”

They were quiet for a time while Benny smoked a third Gauloise. Andreas regretted the personal questions, the lecturing tone. Benny was too old to be treated that way. The mood had come upon the old man without warning.

“What do we do with these two?” the big man asked, pointing his chin down the street toward Matthew’s apartment. “I can’t keep playing bodyguard, I’ve got better things to do.”

“Ms. Kessler should report yesterday’s incident. It might gain her some protection. The police might even be able to find del Carros.”

“Why? He didn’t actually do anything. His man cut me when I stuck a gun in his ribs.”

“We can ask her to leave your name out of the report, if that is what bothers you.”

“It’s nothing to me. I’m a licensed investigator, the gun is registered. But it may look bad for all of you. Why is the girl talking to buyers after she has sold the piece? Why is a suspect’s grandfather putting an investigator on his girlfriend? Anyway, I wouldn’t count on police protection. They’re very stingy about handing that out.”

“Matthew can go to my son’s house for a while. The woman can go with him, if she likes. They should be safer out there.”

“Will you call your man back? Morrison.”

“Yes. It was too late last night when I got the message. I will call him this morning.”

“And you will tell me if he has discovered anything of interest?”

“Perhaps.”

Benny exhaled furiously.

“Don’t play with me, Spyridis, or I’ll wash my hands of you.”

“That would be tragic.”

This time it was Morrison who wanted to meet. Andreas joined him at the corner of Fiftieth Street and Fifth Avenue, beneath the looming facade of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and they walked east toward Morrison’s next appointment.

“How’s your son?”

“I think he has improved,” Andreas replied. “I cannot explain it.”

“Don’t try. That’s good news.”

“We shall see.”

“And how was your grandson’s trip to Salonika?”

“Robert, please, we have only a few blocks.”

“You think this is chitchat? He’s in deep, my friend. There are two people dead in Greece, and your buddy Dragoumis is AWOL.”

“Are you part of the investigation now?”

“No. Just curious.”

“You are, as they say, covering your ass.”

“You bet I am. I’m the one who gave clearance for your grandson to leave the country. Now it appears that the matter has escalated. You don’t think you owe me some answers?”

“So you have no information for me?”

“I have information. I believe in sharing. I’m a sharing kind of guy. Share with me, Andy.”

Very well, then. Andreas considered what to say.

“Matthew was nowhere near where the incident took place. Someone tried to assassinate Dragoumis in the mountains. At least two were killed, one of them his nephew. The authorities there suspect November 17, which means that no one will be caught. Myself, I am skeptical.”

“Why?”

They stopped at a streetlight on Park Avenue. A tattooed bike messenger zipped down Fiftieth Street, crossed himself, then pedaled furiously into traffic, just ahead of a roaring Brinks truck. Andreas found Morrison’s questions tiresome.

“The nephew was shot by a forty-five, and there was a motorcycle, which all sounds correct for 17. But Dragoumis is too old and obscure a target for them, and it happened too far from Athens.”

“Who do you suspect?”

“Everyone. Fotis has many enemies. Anyway, you are bound to know more than I do, so why not simply tell me?”

“I don’t know that much,” Morrison claimed as they crossed the avenue. “They identified the second man. Serious prison time for everything from extortion to weapons sales. He was so mangled they thought he might be your friend at first. Now they think the hat and cigarettes were a kind of calling card from Dragoumis, letting whoever ordered the hit know that he had gotten the better of them.”

“How did Fotis escape the scene?”

“Not sure. They did find an abandoned car near a small airport in Kozani.”

“He’s back here,” Andreas said with certainty.

“Could be. I assumed he’d go into hiding.”

“He will, but he came back here first. I tell you, Robert, I do not believe that icon ever left New York.”

“You’re right about that.”

“Ah, now we come to your information.”

“The NYPD has been looking into Dragoumis’ employees, especially the one who disappeared after the theft. Anton Marcus, aka, Marchevsky. They picked him up at Kennedy the night before last. False passport, ten thousand in cash on his person. He’s actually a tough cookie, wouldn’t tell them anything. But there’s a guy he used to work for, Vasili Karov, liquor wholesaler, Russian mob. Apparently Dragoumis gets a lot of his boys from Karov, and there is some question whether they ever really leave Karov’s orbit. You following me?”

“I am not yet senile.”

“So anyway, they figure Karov may be mixed up in this. They shook him down once before but got nothing. This time, they tell him that Anton squealed, which is bullshit, but they must have made some good guesses. Two lawyers and eight hours later he cuts a deal, tells them everything. It’s pretty much what you guessed. Dragoumis and Karov cooked it up between them. The other Russian wasn’t supposed to get shot, but no one told him the plan and he put up too much of a fight. The icon gets put aside for Dragoumis. The Russians get three other paintings which they take at the same time. Except that Karov says Dragoumis tricked him, left the wrong painting for him to steal. Anyway, Karov figures that was his excuse to shaft the Greek and sell the switched painting to a new buyer.”