Neil Olson - The Icon

In frustration, del Carros had done the same thing then that he had done all these years later with the daughter. Taunt the banker, insult his father, drop hints about the work, failing to either anger him or draw him out; giving him, instead, the knowledge to piece together things that he should never know. After the meeting, del Carros panicked and called in a large favor. At the time it had felt necessary-the banker knew too much-but del Carros could not lie to himself now as he did then. He had, at that moment, temporarily lost hope of getting the icon, and the action was intended solely to punish the elder Kessler. An act of pure cruelty. Bad enough to have wasted life and energy that way. To repeat the same mistakes with the girl two decades later was unforgivable.

“We’ve discussed it twice,” he said again. “She requested the meeting. I could not rule out her knowing something useful.”

“Spear is the key,” Jan insisted. “He is the one who is close to Dragoumis.”

“So where is he?”

“Did you expect me to get on the train and follow them? The woman knows my face, and there is no escape off a train. That’s why I followed this one instead.” He nodded his head at the hotel down the block.

“And you are certain he did not spot you? He is good, you know.”

“If he’s that good, then I can’t be certain. But I do not think he did.”

“And he went out this morning?”

“Yes, for a few hours.”

“Why didn’t you follow him?”

“I was waiting for you to arrive, as agreed.”

“But he is in there now?”

“Unless there is a way into the alley from the kitchen.”

“There may be.”

Jan showed him the most condescending smile possible.

“You would have me be everywhere at once? Perhaps you should overcome your cheapness and hire more men. Or otherwise trust to reason. He has used the main entrance every time. You worry too much about the wrong things.”

With great difficulty, del Carros held his tongue. It was completely unacceptable that he should be spoken to like this, but Jan ignored the niceties of the employer-employee relationship. And the old man could not rule out that his own anxiety was getting the better of him.

“Let’s hope you are correct. He is the last thread we have to follow.”

Paranoia was a common condition for anyone who had been in the game too long, and Andreas was not immune. The man who stepped out of the double-parked vehicle fifty yards behind the spot where Andreas left the taxi may have been nobody. However, paranoia could also save a man’s life, and so the old Greek passed by the doorway he’d meant to enter, and continued around the corner to Third Avenue.

An odd neighborhood. Indian restaurants, cheap diners, at least one obvious welfare hotel. Neither a good nor a bad part of town, but a passing-through kind of place-a good neighborhood to hide in. Andreas crossed the avenue suddenly and glanced behind as he looked south for traffic. The man from the car had also turned north on Third, but he continued on his way without looking back.

Andreas went down Twenty-ninth Street to Second Avenue as the light grew lower and paler, wasting time, but wanting to be certain. The fact that he was more vulnerable than usual-no Benny and no gun-fed his suspicion. The best thing would be to return to his hotel, but time seemed precious, and he had come all the way down here. He didn’t want to be defeated by irrational fear. Find it, Alekos had commanded him, get it out of Matthew’s life. Turning on Twenty-seventh Street, he headed back to Third, walked the block north, and crossed Twenty-eighth to the gray building he’d passed earlier. The double-parked car was gone. Andreas had still not made up his mind on a course of action when a man emerged from the building in question: squat, heavily whiskered, and sucking hard on a cigarette. When he tossed the butt aside and began shoving the plastic trash barrels into line, Andreas took it as a sign, and knew he had his man.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“What?” The unappealing fellow was immediately suspicious.

“I need to look at an apartment here.”

“No apartments. Everything is rented.”

“I understand. I need to look at one of the rented apartments. As part of an investigation.”

The man pulled himself up straight, but this accomplished little.

“Yeah? And who the hell are you?”

Andreas realized that a police officer would have shown a badge at once. Still, the man seemed movable, if he could find the lever.

“The third floor, apartment in the rear. The one who rents it is a countryman of mine.” Andreas reached into his coat for his old Foreign Service ID. It was an impressive item, small as a passport with gold-embossed leather and an official stamp next to his ten-year-old photograph. He gave the surly superindendent several moments to scrutinize it, trusting that the man could not read Greek. “Fotis Dragoumis. He is being investigated by my government.”

“What do I care? We’re not in your country. Here you need a warrant, from a judge.”

“We are obtaining one. It is a slow process in this city. I would rather move more swiftly. It is very important.”

“To you. Not to me.” The man pursed his fat lips, then lit another cigarette. “Come back when you have a warrant.” He blew smoke in Andreas’ direction and turned to his work.

“I may lose an opportunity by waiting. You may lose an opportunity also.”

“For what?”

“For profit.”

The words had an immediate effect, and the super shuffled his barrels distractedly.

“What profit?”

“Do you want to discuss this out here?”

They retreated into the vestibule, though the bulky super would not open the inside door. Andreas was acutely aware of his exposed back facing the big glass pane of the outer door as he slipped his wallet from his coat. He slid out five twenty-dollar bills, then hesitated.

“You do have keys?”

The man shrugged.

“Yes? No?” Andreas’ voice became sharp.

“I’m not supposed to, but these damn absentee tenants. You have to check a leak, you have to be able to get in, you know?”

“I know.” Andreas handed over the money. The super stared at the tiled floor for too long. The old man slid five more twenties out.

“You’re not taking anything,” the stocky fellow insisted.

“You’re just looking, right?”

“That is correct.” If he found anything worth taking, he would worry about it then.

The apartment was small. Only two rooms, the second a bedroom with a chipped bureau and a narrow bed that clearly got no use. The larger room had a good-sized painting on each wall, a landscape and three abstracts. A large, narrow cardboard packing case leaned against the small sofa, one end open and bubble wrap spilling out. It cost Andreas another fifty dollars to persuade the super to wait in the corridor. Then he went immediately to the open container. Inside was a green-and-blue abstract painting, as big as the box and still wrapped. Reaching his arm in as far as it would go, Andreas felt around behind the canvas, where the frame would have provided more than sufficient depth to hide a smallish, flat object. Nothing. Yet a great deal of the bubble wrap seemed to have been pulled out. Had the Snake retrieved the icon in the last day or so? Had he trusted it to be safe for a week before that, sitting in a packing crate in the middle of the room? Knowing, as he must, that the super was not trustworthy? It did not seem like Fotis.

Andreas turned a tight circle in the middle of the room, surveying walls, floor, ceiling in the dying light from the narrow, dust-streaked windows. What else? He explored the small closet containing nothing but wire hangers, testing its walls and floors for hidden panels. He slid painfully to his knees to search beneath the sofa, pulled up the cushions, opened all the cabinets in the tiny kitchenette, feeling more foolish by the moment. The super would expel him in a few minutes. Something was amiss here, something was slightly off, and it would come to him if he had enough time. Chair, coffee table, sofa, closet, paintings.