Neil Olson - The Icon

The awed tone had returned. The priest had two modes-man of the world and wild-eyed believer-and they were beginning to alternate with frightening swiftness. Matthew suddenly wondered if Ioannes was not a little unbalanced.

“What have the voices told you?”

“Many things. They must be interpreted.”

“But you’ve arrived at some answer.”

“Not an absolute one. Anyway, it is not a thing you will wish to hear.”

“Tell me, Father.” But even as he spoke, Matthew realized that he already knew what the priest would say.

“I believe in my heart that this struggle will go on, the killings will go on, as long as the icon exists to tempt the weak. And we are most of us weak creatures. This object was created for another time. It can no longer exist in ours. It is too strong for our modern, godless condition. It must be returned to the power that inspired it.”

“You mean it must be destroyed.”

“Yes.”

They were both quiet while the idea took substance between them, a bridge or a barrier. Matthew wanted to remain reasonable, to assess the priest’s suggestion with cool detachment, but it was impossible. The idea was monstrous, even sacrilegious.

“I think,” he began slowly, “that you’re forgetting all the good associated with the icon, and giving too much credit to a few greedy old men. Do you give no credence to all the miraculous healings reported over the years? And even if that turns out to be just mind over body, don’t we have to respect the object which can inspire that?”

“No doubt healings have occurred. In my youth I saw women cured of their arthritis, and one man cured of his blindness, at a touch. These were mostly poor and doubting souls, always Christ’s favorites, and their contact with the work was brief. Compare this with the few who possessed it for some length of time. Ali Pasha, Müller, Kessler. Covetous souls, who may have lived long lives, but not happy ones. Strife and illness plagued them, they watched their loved ones die young. Then look at all those who tried to possess it, who came to grief somehow. My father and brother are two. Look at the lives it has used up and twisted. Your own godfather. Look what it has begun to do to you.”

“Don’t put me in that group, Father. I’ve been trying to let it all go.”

“And doing admirably, though I wonder if you can succeed. Müller and Dragoumis left the icon alone for years at a time but were always drawn back. I need someone like you, who has tasted the work’s power, to be my ally in this, to understand me. The icon carries death.”

“How can that be so if it carries the blood of Christ?”

“Where is the contradiction?” the priest demanded. “Christ was surrounded by death. Death pursued all his followers but the timid, and many millions have died in his name since then. The promise of Christ is salvation of the soul, not long life on earth.”

Matthew tried to frame a response, but his mind was alive with fear and agitation, and no logical rebuttal would come to him. The priest’s thinking was wrong. Not just wrong but dangerously simplistic, a product, no doubt, of his own brutal experience. Understandable, but somehow he had to set the man straight before Ioannes did something rash.

The telephone rang, startling them both. It seemed to Matthew that it must be late, yet the clock indicated it was not, even if full darkness had fallen outside. The candle had burned down; for short emergencies, clearly. He knew he should simply let the phone keep ringing, but some uncontrollable urge caused him to reach back to the counter and pick it up.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Spear. I am pleased that you are finally at home.” The voice was old and unfamiliar, and Matthew felt at once that he had made a mistake in answering. “We have some time to make up, so I will come to the point. Your grandfather is in our care, and it is necessary for you to speak to me about the icon. I understand that your knowledge of its present location may be imprecise, but I do require that you tell me all you can. Are we clear so far?”

“My grandfather.” What the hell was this? A threat, certainly, but from whom?

“Yes, Andreas is with us. We are getting on famously, but such things seldom last.”

“Listen. Who are you?” No, that was stupid. “Let me speak to Andreas.”

“Of course. Briefly.”

“Paidemou.” The old man’s voice sounded sleepy. “Do nothing. I have explained to these princes that you know nothing, but they are both stubborn fellows. Tell-”

“Well,” the first voice came back on the line, “that was not very constructive, but at least you can be satisfied that he is with us, and healthy. Now, Mr. Spear, I cannot stay on this call for long. Please speak to me.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” What a mess. They really had the old man. Were these the same people who had gone after Fotis, after Ana? He squeezed the receiver hard. “We should speak in person, shouldn’t we? Someplace public. With my grandfather there.”

“A meeting is an excellent idea, when I am convinced that you have something to share. You must convince me of that first.”

“Why would I tell you anything over the phone? This has to be an exchange, right?”

“That depends upon the value of the information. Do you know where your godfather is now?”

“I have a pretty good guess. I know that’s not enough. Let me check it out and contact you again tomorrow.”

“He is within the greater New York vicinity?”

“If my guess is right. How can I reach you?”

“You cannot. I will telephone you tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here. Let me give you my cell phone number.”

Matthew carefully recited the number, the digits swimming in his panicked brain.

“Very good. I need not mention, but I will, that you must not include the authorities or anyone else in your search. I am sure you understand.”

“Look, my grandfather isn’t really involved in any of this. My godfather and I dragged him into it. You should go easy on him.”

“I have no wish to be hard. Until tomorrow, Mr. Spear.”

Father John gazed at Matthew sympathetically after the younger man hung up the receiver.

“Do you know who it is?”

“No. It could be this del Carros. South American collector, tried to grab Ana Kessler a few days ago. Or it could be someone else.”

“You should contact the police at once.”

“Yes, I should. But he made it clear they would hurt Andreas if I did.”

“They may do that anyway.”

“I know. I have to try something. I have to go speak to someone.” He struggled to assemble a map in his mind, the roads of northern Westchester, that day trip with Robin to find Fotis’ house. The Snake’s denial of purchasing the property he had coveted for so many months had not been convincing, even that day in the park; and alone in his Salonika hotel room weeks later, Matthew had guessed what the denial was all about. But could he find the house again, without Robin’s assistance? Not in the dark, but first thing in the morning he must try.

“Let me help you,” said the priest earnestly.

Matthew gave him a hard look.

“What, the kind of help you were just talking about? I can live without that, Father.”

“Who else is there? All that I said before was intended only to convince you of what I believe. I will not force your hand. I want us to be allies.”

Matthew exhaled. God knew, he needed friends. Ana had to be kept out of it. He would want Benny with him when he went up against del Carros, but Benny would be only a liability in speaking to Fotis. So he was down to the mad priest. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.

Steam heat clamoring to life awakened him. The room was dark, the shade on the west window half-raised, and orange light had broken across the crowded trees and white stucco mansion on the opposite hillside. For the several long moments required to reach full awareness, Fotis was treated to this warm and placid vision of dawn, budding branches sketched from shadow by the rising sun, the sky shifting from deep lavender to blue, the real or imagined trill of birdsong. Dawn was primal, and he might have been a hundred different places, or a hundred different men. He might have been young.