Neil Olson - The Icon

Between the kitchen and rear stairs was the converted pantry, which served as a security room. The house alarm was controlled from here, and it could be set to produce the terrible clamor typical of such devices, or only a low pinging coupled with a flashing light specifying the location of the break, on a panel in this room and another in the master bedroom. It was the second setting Fotis used while in the house. Why disturb the neighbors? Better to surprise uninvited guests. There were also eight video monitors for cameras placed on the house and about the grounds. Too few, but without someone to constantly monitor them, the whole array was useless anyway. He simply had not counted on losing everyone. The pilot, Captain Herakles, could not be bought for such menial work. The young Peugeot driver might have served but could never be trusted, and now rested beneath the Adriatic. That had cost him triple with Herakles. So many complications.

Just before leaving the room, he saw a movement on the monitor covering the gate. A dark sedan rolled between the big stone pillars and proceeded slowly up the drive. Fotis watched unblinking as the car slipped from the first screen to reappear moments later on the monitor near the front door. It looked to be the same car he’d seen Matthew driving twice before. Who else among those who sought him would be trusting enough to come straight up the driveway? Unless it was a diversion. Scanning all the monitors now, mind utterly clear, Fotis crouched to unlock a short gray filing cabinet and took a pouch from the bottom. Inside was a small black pistol, an old Walther from a friend in MI6. Still operational as of a few months ago, and the right size and weight for his shaky hand. He snapped in a loaded clip and put a second in his cardigan pocket. For the moment, he did not brood over the pointlessness of a fight. He was unlikely to win, and even if he did, he would have to face the authorities. Still, he was a lucky man, and with survival came possibilities. He would fight for his prize.

The screens revealed no other activity. Nothing in the woods. No one on the little hillock behind the house. The car sat silently for a full minute before the driver’s door opened and Matthew stepped out. Damn him, why had he come? Who was in the car with him? Surely not Andreas, who would never allow such a foolish approach. His godson headed for the front door, and Fotis forced down a rising panic. Why Matthew? And then again, who more likely? He desperately did not want to hurt the boy, but who knew what larger game was playing out here? He could simply refuse to answer the door. Would the young man try to force it? Could Fotis let Matthew walk away, having found the place? He fingered the smooth jade beads in his pocket. Instinct spoke. He deactivated the front door alarm. Then, without a plan, he went to face his godson.

The smile on his godfather’s face was a surprise, but Matthew realized that it should not have been. Any reaction contrary to expectation was precisely what should be expected of the Snake. The smile did not disguise the fatigue and worry around the mouth and eyes, the enervating agitation that seemed to bend his whole form. Illness, or the demands of this lousy business, was clearly killing Fotis.

“Excellent, my boy. You must tell me how you found me, but come in, come in.”

What else to do? The priest offered no actual protection, only the illusion of it, and that was better maintained by putting space between them. Matthew knew that Ioannes had no intention of driving away or phoning anyone if things went badly, but Fotis did not. Only after stepping inside did he see the pistol in his godfather’s hand, but there was nothing odd in that. He was a hunted creature, and Matthew had seen too many guns in the past week to be startled.

“Who is in the car?”

“A friend. A priest, actually.”

“He knows what is happening?”

“He knows some of it.”

“He will not come inside?”

“No.”

The old man seemed satisfied with this answer. He shut and locked the door, shuffled toward the staircase, paused, and then started up. The indecision and absence of courtesy were sufficiently out of character to disturb Matthew, but at the same time there was a satisfying sense of seeing behind the mask. He could do nothing but follow, first quietly unlocking the door again. The house resembled many he had seen in the area, a combination of stone and half-timber, slate-roofed and larger than it appeared to be. The interior walls were cream, scattered with bookcases and any number of impressionistic landscapes and religious works that had previously been in Fotis’ storage. The heat was ridiculously high, and Matthew shed his jacket as he climbed.

“I must have been more specific about the location than I remember,” Fotis posited.

“I would think you would be more interested in why I’m here.”

Fotis whirled about at the top of the stairs, his wide-eyed amusement verging on madness. The light from a high window caught an ugly yellow bruise on his left temple.

“Why? Why else? There are no secrets with us. We share the same hunger, only I hope you will see that my need is greater.”

The old man rushed off down the corridor, and Matthew could only yell at his back.

“You’ve got it wrong, Theio. It’s not about that. Listen to me.”

Following, Matthew entered a large bedroom near the back of the house. The blankets were still rumpled on the king-sized bed. Light poured in through three windows. A telephone and an odd console dominated the big oak desk, and his godfather sat in a leather chair in the corner, staring at the mantel. Leaning there, above an unused fireplace, was the icon. It was smaller than Matthew remembered. In fact, it seemed diminished in every way, unworthy of the blood and anguish spent on it. The eyes appeared to recognize this. They had lost their magnetic hold, their promise of mysteries to be revealed in time, and now looked only forlorn. Perversely, Matthew felt this new vision of the work begin to breed in him a feeling of protectiveness nearly as strong as the passion for revelation it had replaced. He became cognizant of the profound effect that the circumstances of his viewings were having upon his reaction. Ana’s presence had provoked a sort of holy lust, his father’s a deep fear and a need for healing. And now this appropriate sadness. Was it for Fotis? Was the painting no more than a conduit?

“She holds you still,” Fotis whispered.

“No,” Matthew answered, but it was not completely true. She held him differently now.

“Understand me, my child. I cannot live much longer. When I am gone she will be yours, but I need her with me if I am to die well. I have no other hope. If you had seen the things I have seen, you would not try to deny me.”

“The things you’ve seen? Or the things you’ve done?”

“Who else knows you’ve come here?”

He would not follow the old man’s lead. That was a tired routine.

“They have Andreas.”

“Who has him?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s this del Carros. He tried to grab Ana Kessler a few days ago. I’m pretty certain he had a deal with your Russians to get the icon.”

Fotis nodded. “You are sure they have him?”

“I spoke to him.”

“What did he say? Precisely.”

“Not much. I think he was drugged. He told me to do nothing, and he referred to ‘both’ of them, so I assume it’s only two men who have him.”

“Good. That’s all?”

“He called them ‘princes.’ I figured he was being sarcastic.” Fotis’ stare bored into the younger man for many long moments. Matthew knew he was being read, but he remained calm, in the knowledge that he was not hiding anything. “They’re going to call me soon,” he pressed. “They expect information on the icon’s location.”