Neil Olson - The Icon

Paintings. The landscape did not go with the abstracts. That was nothing, Fotis collected both. It was smaller than the other paintings. Smaller, but with a large, deep frame that raised it a few inches from the wall. He stepped onto the sofa, balancing carefully on a spongy cushion, and lifted the painting from its hanger. Then stepped down and flipped it. He had been so certain of success that the empty space in the frame confused him. It was precisely the right size. He could even detect spots where the inside wooden frame had been rubbed against something. It had been here. Or something had been, and what else but the icon?

Andreas rehung the landscape. Tiredness took him and he sat down. He almost felt he could sleep; just put his head back on the striped cushions and fade into oblivion. Another one of Fotis’ abandoned items. Once more, too slow. He would never catch the Snake.

The super spoke to someone in the corridor, and Andreas struggled to his feet again. Quickly, he lifted each of the other canvases a few inches from its perch, just far enough to see that there was nothing behind it, then moved toward the door. It occurred to him at the last moment that he should have defied the super’s instructions and turned the locks.

A youngish, blond man wearing a leather jacket and tinted spectacles entered the apartment, smiling. The same man who had seemed to be following him earlier. And quite likely, Andreas intuited with resigned dread, the Dutchman who had slashed Benny. There was no way out of the place but through him, and the man would be quick.

“Mr. Spyridis, sorry we are late. You have probably examined the place already, but I need to beg your indulgence while we do so again. Turn around, please.”

Andreas easily batted away the hand that reached for his shoulder, but he was too slow to stop the fist that struck his stomach. Not a hard punch, or he would have ended up on the floor, gaping like a caught fish. In fact, the gentleness of the blow was almost an insult, customized as it was for an old man, yet sufficient to send Andreas to his knees, gasping softly. Black patches danced before his eyes while the other man’s expert hands searched him for weapons, finding none.

“We are very confident, I see,” the blond assailant murmured, standing up straight. He pulled Andreas gently to his feet. “Listen, please. It will take nothing for me to harm you. And I know your qualities, so I will be prepared for whatever you do. Sit here and catch your breath.”

It took several moments after he sat down for Andreas to notice that someone else had entered the apartment. A man older than himself, in a heavy coat like his own. Thin lips and protruding blue eyes. It was at moments like this that time became compressed, years fell away like dead skin, age was no more than the wrinkled casings that covered the young men they had been, and in some ways still were. It didn’t matter that he had seen this man only three or four times up close, fifty-six years before. Andreas recognized Müller instantly. The old German stared back at him, expressionless.

“Del Carros,” Andreas said for no reason.

“If you prefer,” the other man responded, in a voice different from the one remembered, in an accent warped by time and travel. “I hope Jan was not too rough with you.”

Andreas thought of saying something snide, but shortness of breath prevented him. He knew that fear would come next, once he got over the shock, but hoped to maintain a clear head and an attitude of calm. He understood that the Dutchman could hurt him easily, and would probably do so eventually. Andreas was afraid, not of the pain, but of shaming himself. Silence was his friend now. He must neither provoke nor cajole, but bide his time and hope for an opportunity.

Jan conducted his search swiftly, hitting all the same spots Andreas already had checked, begging his pardon as he stepped next to him to remove the landscape from the wall. He and Müller then examined the interior frame for a minute or two.

“It was here,” the German said, looking up at Andreas. “I wonder where it is now.”

Their two expectant faces irritated him unreasonably.

“What the hell would I be doing here if I knew that?”

The German nodded agreeably.

“I thought you might be in it together, you and Dragoumis, but now I see differently. He has betrayed you again, yes?”

The fool saw nothing, Andreas realized, but good, let him pursue that line of thinking.

“Still,” Müller continued, “you must know him better than anyone. You can probably guess what his next step will be, where he is now.”

Andreas shook his head noncommittally. Müller would think whatever he wanted, and whatever he thought might be put to use. Müller. Incredible that he now stood before him. Unreal somehow.

“And if not you,” the German went on, “then perhaps your grandson. Maybe he is the one who knows. Maybe he and the girlfriend have kept some secrets from you. What do you think? Still nothing to say? Why do I believe that the three of you together could connect all the pieces?”

Careful now, thought Andreas. This was just the terrain he feared treading on. Show nothing. Jan whispered some words.

“Yes,” Müller agreed. “Time to go. Nothing more we can accomplish here. You will come with us, Captain. We’ll give you a little time to decide how you can best assist us.”

There was nothing to do but go. At least he would have the advantage of knowing where they were. The Dutchman helped him to his feet once more, then took up position behind him. Müller started out the door first.

“Look out for that superintendent,” said Andreas. “He’s a thief.”

Jan laughed.

We need to talk, Mr. Spear. Matthew. There can be no further delay.”

Ana had argued strenuously against his going into the city. Even his parents, who were mostly ignorant of what was happening, tried to forbid him. Yet his work wouldn’t wait forever. His department chief, Nevins, had shown enormous patience with Matthew’s continual absences, but the senior legal counsel wanted a meeting about the icon business, from which a probation or suspension could easily follow. He promised Ana that he would go straight from the train to the museum, stay out of sight, and return as soon as possible. After he read the pages that Carol had left in an envelope on his desk, however, his mind could not focus on his work, and the odd looks and probing questions of colleagues finally drove him out of his office and into the relative quiet of the Islamic wing. There, before the blue brilliance of the wall-sized mihrab from Iran, the priest found him.

“Father John.”

“Ioannes, please. You told me you were Greek.”

The light reflected off a thousand turquoise tiles gave the man a sickly pallor. There was no smile this time, only intense concern, and a brave attempt to restrain it.

“That’s right, I did,” Matthew confessed. “I wonder why. I’m American, of course. Someone told you to find me here?”

“One of your associates. Don’t be upset, people will tell a priest anything. Apparently you come to this room often. I can see why; it’s quite beautiful.”

“And quiet. I’m sorry the Byzantine rooms aren’t finished yet. Meantime, I slip over borders and religions.”

“The Orthodox and Muslims have much in common. Only a fool would deny it. Did you read the material I left you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I’ve removed myself from the situation. It’s too dangerous for amateurs. People have been hurt.”

“People have been killed. More will be.”

“Perhaps, but I can’t do anything about that. I only risk becoming one of them. You too, Father. These guys don’t care who they hurt. Priests have died before.”