Neil Olson - The Icon

“You don’t believe that.”

“Why would Dragoumis go to the trouble of setting this up just to leave the wrong painting? And why does Karov care, when the painting isn’t his in the deal? He’s making an excuse for double-crossing your pal.”

“What was the name of the new buyer?”

“Del Rios? Something like that. Probably a false name. Cops are looking for him now.”

“Did Karov say how much he paid?”

“A hundred and fifty, I think.”

Not enough. The Russian might be bending the truth, but there was truth there. Del Carros-surely the name Morrison was fumbling for-had been willing to pay Ana Kessler a million and a half. Unless he was a complete fool, Karov would not settle for so little.

“When did this exchange take place?”

“Four days ago.”

Before del Carros cornered Ana. Yet it was obvious from that meeting that he was still hunting for the icon. He had purchased the fake knowing it was fake. Why? To put Fotis off his guard? So Fotis still had the icon, had never parted with it. Andreas felt certain.

They crossed Second Avenue and walked a little way without speaking. The old man understood that now was the time to pass on what he knew about del Carros, and what he guessed about Dragoumis. To let go of these last bits of secret information and be truly done with it. Still, he hesitated. Morrison touched him on the shoulder.

“One more thing. A Felix Martín flew into Newark from Mexico City five days ago. Argentine citizen. Probably means nothing. There must be a hundred guys in Buenos Aires alone with that name, but it is one of the aliases your German used to use. Just thought I’d mention it.”

Andreas said nothing. He had resisted Benny’s words the day before, and even now he wished that he was a man who believed in coincidence. Morrison began walking again, and Andreas fell into step behind him. They emerged onto First Avenue with a brilliant afternoon light striking the white-and-black tower of the UN, and a huge gray freighter moving down the East River.

“There’s a great Greek restaurant just one block up. We’ll go there sometime. So, Andy, you got anything else to tell me? You sure do seem to be thinking hard about something.”

“Trying to put some things together.”

“You let me know if you do. I have to run.”

“Thank you, Robert. I will keep you informed.”

“That would be a first.”

…brought back from the Holy Land by Helena, the mother of Constantine. Upon the robe were stains of sacred blood from the wounds of our Savior as he lay in his mother’s arms, fallen but soon to rise. From the robe, a section was cut bearing these stains, and sealed between two panels of cypress. Upon these Matthias, a monk of the Studium, created the image of the Holy Mother as she appeared to him in a vision, so that all who looked upon it knew this to be her true face. The image was then placed in the church of the Blachernae, above the silver casket which held the robe itself, and there it performed many miracles, especially curing the ill among the family and followers of the Emperor. From that church, the image would be brought forth in time of need and carried in procession around the walls to instill courage in the hearts of the city’s defenders…

When, on that evil day in the year of our Lord 1453, the infidel Turks, by benefit of the weariness of the defenders and the faithlessness of their allies, laid low the great city of Constantinople, the church of the Blachernae was defiled, and the holy objects within it were destroyed. Then it was that a monk named Lazarus risked death to enter the church and take the Holy Mother created by Matthias from its golden frame upon the wall. Protected by the Virgin’s power, Lazarus walked through fire and devastation to leave the fallen city of Constantine and carry the holy image west. Thereafter he was seen throughout the lands of the vanished Empire for many years beyond the normal life of men, preserved by the Virgin above for the protection of the Living Presence below, and wherever he passed, the sick were healed, and the troubled in spirit were made calm. Some say he went to Thessalonica, and some say to Ioannina in Epiros, but to this day no one knows for sure what was the fate of Holy Mother.

Ioannes folded the pages carefully and placed them in the envelope. They would open the way for him, he had to believe. In the beginning was the word. In what direction these words of Theodoros would push the boy, he could not guess, but something must be attempted. One voice had now separated itself from the rest, and it had become more and more adamant about the need for decisive action. He had decided to surrender to that voice.

After studying the map, he took the PATH train in from New Jersey, became lost in the bright tunnels and plazas beneath Penn Station, but finally found the platform for the number one train, which carried him to Columbus Circle. From there, he walked diagonally through Central Park toward his destination. He got lost here too, on the twisting paths and roadways, but he did not mind so much. The park was alive with growth this early May, faded yellow daffodils, just-blooming red tulips, sweet white and pink apple blossoms, cherry trees, lilac. He had not known the place could be so beautiful. And he understood that he was meant to appreciate it, even now, especially now, in this time of turmoil. It was always this way, moments of great beauty accompanying darkness of the soul. It was a gift not to be despised or ignored, and Ioannes drew breath deeply and smiled at everything around him.

He had dismissed the useless investigator Jimmy, had stopped taking calls from Bishop Makarios. He had even left a call from the secretary of the Holy Synod in Greece unreturned. They had all made a mess of things. All those involved in the matter had been thinking only about themselves-small, mean plans. A bolder vision was required, and Ioannes had some sense of what he must do, though very little sense at all of how to accomplish it. He only knew that the boy was the key.

The broad stairs of the museum were thronged with the usual students, tourists, homeless people, smoking and drinking soda and enjoying the day. Ioannes weaved through them and passed in the central door, through the grand hall of a foyer and over to a little alcove he had spied out on his last visit. The elevator was at the end. A key or card would be required to operate it, and so the priest merely waited by the doors, as if he were precisely where he ought to be. Within ten minutes a woman appeared beside him, trim, middle-aged, with glasses and a name tag hanging about her neck: Carol Voss. She smiled at Ioannes.

“You realize that this is a staff elevator?”

“Yes.” A whole world of corridors and rooms existed behind, beneath, between what the common visitor saw, he knew. As in a cathedral or monastery. The inner sanctum. “I am meeting one of the curators.”

“They’re supposed to come down here and escort you in. Who are you meeting?”

“Matthew Spear.”

“Oh, Matthew’s a friend of mine. We’re in the same department. But I’m sorry to say that he isn’t here today. In fact, I’m not sure exactly when he returns.”

“Really. How unfortunate. You say you are a friend of his?”

“That’s right.”

He had cut himself off from all investigative assistance. He could not hope to find the boy on his own, and must depend now on the greater design. There would be a purpose to whatever happened. The voice spoke quietly but firmly: trust her. Ioannes reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew the envelope, held it out to her.

“You will give this to him when you see him, please?”

“Um, sure, I don’t see why not.” She took the envelope.

“It is extremely important that he receive it. As soon as possible. And also very important that no one but Matthew should see it. I pray that you understand me.”