Neil Olson - The Icon

“My friend,” Fotis said with real warmth, “my old, dear friend.” They squeezed hands, rights over lefts, shaking their intertwined fists like happy children, like palsied old men. Andreas was always surprised by the affection he received from his old boss, ally, adversary. There was dampness in the corner of Fotis’ eyes, and he grinned a huge smile of expensive false teeth, looking his comrade up and down. Then his face turned stern, and he swiveled a fierce gaze on the young Russian. “You donkey, you couldn’t take his coat?”

Blackbeard murmured an apology and helped Andreas out of the heavy gray fabric. Fotis appraised the black suit and white shirt buttoned to the collar, and laughed, a short, barking exhalation.

“You look like a priest.”

“Your man seemed to think I was one.”

“Well, no wonder, dressed like that. Sit, sit. Coffee? Cognac?”

“Just water.”

Without instruction, Blackbeard slipped out the rear door of the study. Fotis clasped his hands before him and leaned back in the creaking chair, a satisfied look on his face. Andreas took him in properly now. An elaborate maroon smoking jacket, stitched with abstract designs, hiding his too-lean frame. Slippers on his long feet, a box of Turkish cigarettes on the table by his elbow. Behind him, a stack of large, framed canvases leaned face-away against the wall. In fact, there appeared to be more paintings hanging about the room than Andreas had remembered previously, and despite the poor light and his imperfect knowledge of art, he guessed that some were quite valuable. A winter landscape. A small, very old-looking religious work, the Annunciation or some such. Gold leaf from what could only be an Orthodox icon threw reflected light from a dark corner. His old friend had many identities, many roles he liked to play. Fotis the spy, Fotis the exiled politician, Fotis the respectable businessman. Now it appeared to be Fotis the collector.

“How was your flight?” Dragoumis asked, switching from English to their native tongue.

Andreas shrugged. “I’m here.”

“It’s hard on old men, and you are younger than me. Even once a year I find too much now. I may not see Greece this spring.”

“Oh, I think you will go.”

Blackbeard returned with a glass of tepid water, which was how Andreas preferred it.

“That is all, Anton,” said Fotis, and the young Russian left the room again.

“How is the restaurant?” Andreas asked.

“The restaurant,” the other groaned. “Quite successful. We have our loyal customers, you know, from the neighborhood, and now we are getting young people from Manhattan. Apparently, we have been written up somewhere as the best Greek food in Astoria.”

“Congratulations.”

Fotis waved a hand. “What the hell do those people know about food? Anyway, I am not involved much with the restaurant these days.”

“No?”

“I have an excellent manager, who doesn’t even steal. And I have other concerns.”

It was an invitation, but Andreas was not interested. He knew about his friend’s various activities, and if there were some new ones, it was no matter. Ambition did not impress him, nor even audacity in the pursuit of it. There was a sort of sad desperation in Fotis’ extralegal dealings-the desperation of a dying man trying to stave off fate with accomplishment.

“My son is ill,” Andreas said.

Fotis looked at him hard, sympathy vying with annoyance at the change in subject.

“I know.”

Of course he knew. Matthew, Andreas’ grandson, was also Fotis’ godson. Irini, Matthew’s mother, was Fotis’ niece. The two old men were hopelessly entangled. There was no chance of escaping each other.

“Matthew tells me that it’s bad,” Andreas went on, needing to speak. “Alekos is not responding to the treatment.”

“Maybe he needs better doctors.”

“They are supposed to be the best at that place. Mount Sinai.”

“There are better ones in Boston. But then, science can only do so much.”

“We do not have such illnesses in my family.”

“You must have faith.”

Was it a taunt? Spoken with such gentleness, it was more likely an old man’s forgetfulness.

“I do not think I am likely to acquire it so late in life.”

Fotis stared at him, unreadable, the ever-present jade worry beads clacking in his hand.

“My poor Andreou.”

They sat in silence for a minute or two, comfortable with it. Andreas sipped his water and finally decided to indulge the other man.

“Some of these paintings are new.”

Fotis’ eyes lit up. “I have become more involved in collecting the last few years,” he said eagerly. “I think it is my true calling.”

“Ah.”

“Never mind that, I know what you’re thinking. Only a fool would collect art for money. Too unstable. I enjoy it. I enjoy pursuing my own peculiar tastes, and I enjoy being surrounded by beautiful things.”

“This landscape?”

Fotis shifted to look. “Dutch. A student of Bruegel, I’m told. Beautiful, yes?”

“Very beautiful. And I see you have an icon.”

“A few of them. Not very old, or valuable. They have been greatly overproduced in recent centuries. This one is Russian.”

“You would like to collect some authentic Byzantine examples, no doubt.”

Dragoumis turned back around, a smile both cold and satisfied on his long, regal face.

“There is no real trade in Byzantine icons. Not enough of them in private hands. It’s all museums and churches, so it is hard to set a price. Their true value is spiritual.” Fotis the pious.

“Of course.”

“You know that Kessler is dead.”

Andreas sighed. It had occurred to him from the start that Kessler and the icon were behind this forced visit.

“I had heard.”

“Keeping up those contacts. Good.”

Andreas shrugged. Why bother saying he’d read it in the New York Times? Fotis assumed that all information must come through intelligence channels. Let him think that Andreas was still plugged into the network.

“So,” Fotis continued, “what does our fine government of Greece think of this development?”

“What should they think? All they would know of Kessler is what you told them.”

“You believe so? In that case the file is empty, because I told them absolutely nothing about Kessler. Why would I?”

“Neither did I. Perhaps they have other sources. You won’t learn anything from me.”

They became quiet again. Andreas wondered where the bathroom was.

“The granddaughter is executor.” Dragoumis slid a long brown cigarette from the pack and lit it. “She is looking to have the whole collection appraised.”

“Have you offered your services?”

Fotis laughed, blowing swirling orbs of smoke.

“I’m a small-time collector. I assumed she would go to one of the auction houses.”

“Logical.”

“But it seems she has loftier goals. Her lawyer has been speaking to some of the major museums. I can see it now, the Kessler Wing of the Metropolitan.”

Andreas’ radar began sounding.

“Why the Metropolitan?”

“Just an example, but it’s the most obvious choice. Kessler concentrated on medieval. There aren’t many places in this country that could do justice to that. None of the other New York museums.”

“Why New York? Why not Europe?”

“Perhaps they will try Europe. New York was his home, though. Bad history across the Atlantic. The Swiss wouldn’t touch him. Probably not the Germans, either. Anyway, you’ll never guess whom the Met is sending over to look at a few things.”

He did not have to guess.

“Your grandson,” Fotis continued. “The world is small, my friend, no?”

Andreas managed not to show alarm, but he was unnerved. Dragoumis was older, sicker, self-deluding, but here was why he had always been better at these games. He was relentless, and he constantly found new ways to unbalance you.