Neil Olson - The Icon

“Did it not occur to you this could be a trick by your grandfather?”

“What, you think he’s faking being held?”

Fotis nodded, still looking him hard in the face. It was a sure sign of how deeply the paranoia of the last few weeks had penetrated that Matthew seriously weighed the idea in his mind.

“No. You have no idea how badly he wants me out of all this. He would not invent some scheme that sent me after you alone. You must know that.”

“Maybe you’re in it together.”

“That doesn’t make sense, for the same reason. You’re thinking out loud, you don’t even believe what you’re saying.”

“Perhaps.”

“We have to help him.”

“Of course we do.” But there was no heart behind the words. Fotis stared, unblinking, no longer seeing Matthew, but scheming again, stalling for time.

“So what does ‘princes’ mean?”

“The Prince,” Fotis began slowly, “was what your grandfather and I called the German officer I told you about. Or sometimes the Pasha, because he liked to live well, and surround himself with stolen treasures. He is the man Andreas made the deal with, sending the Holy Mother into exile.”

“Müller. The Nazi he was hunting all those years.”

“The same.”

“Del Carros is Müller.”

“It may be so.”

“What did he intend by telling me that?”

“Only that we should know. Or as a warning, perhaps, that we are dealing with someone far more dangerous than I had guessed. He is still a loyal fellow, your grandfather.”

“Yeah, and how will you repay that loyalty?”

“I have not the means to help him. I can barely protect myself.”

“You have the icon. It’s not worth Andreas’ life.”

“His life is forfeit already. You did not tell him, or them, of this place?”

“Of course not.”

“Then there is nothing they can get from him. Do you see? He has used his last opportunity to warn us. If you give them the information now, he still dies, and very likely you and I also. And they take our Lady. He would become the instrument of our deaths. Do you think he wants that? Do you think he wants Müller to have the chance to betray him again? For shame. They only win if they get the icon. We can prevent that. You must assist me.”

“I know someone who can help us. He’s ex-Mossad, a friend of Andreas. We can’t give up on him, we have to try something.”

“You understand nothing.”

Fury shook his godfather’s ill frame, and the hand gripping the pistol bounced on his leg. A dull trilling drew both sets of eyes to the desk, where a red light flashed on the console. Fotis jumped up and shuffled over to it.

“The priest has gotten curious, perhaps? No. Not the front door, the back, the back…”

He wheeled about and pointed the gun at Matthew’s head. The body language was so threatening that Matthew found himself throwing his hands up and recoiling two steps.

“Theio!”

“Who have you led here? Speak the truth.”

“No one. Just the priest.”

Fotis dropped the gun to his side again, speaking more quietly as he marched past Matthew.

“No, you have brought them. Maybe unawares, but they followed you.”

Recovering himself somewhat, Matthew followed the old man out of the room on shaky legs. Fotis turned once to put a finger to his lips, then started along the corridor, not the way they had come but in the opposite direction, turning once onto a shorter corridor. At the top of a steep, narrow staircase he gestured for Matthew to stay put, then started down. In moments, he had vanished around a turn and Matthew stood there, mute and helpless, staring at the place where he had gone. What should he do now? Who was down there? Should he go check on Ioannes? Indecision held him to the spot, and perhaps a minute later he heard a faint noise below. Then Fotis reappeared. The Snake struggled a bit on the ascent, but he gripped Matthew’s shoulder with a strong hand and placed his lips right at the younger man’s ear.

“I hear him but don’t see him. There’s another at the front door now. We’ll hold the second floor against them. Can you use this?”

Fotis held out a large pistol, grip-first. Matthew nodded hesitantly. His godfather slid the carriage back and forth as quietly as possible, chambering the first round, then placed the gun in Matthew’s hand.

“Squeeze the trigger hard. Stay right here and shoot anyone who comes up those stairs.”

He pressed Matthew against the wall, then slipped the Walther from his sweater and headed toward the front of the house. Fear of whatever was about to happen battled with the anger that events had overrun his intentions, but Matthew did not take his eyes from the stairs. He did not wish to distract himself with thinking, but thoughts came unbidden. If it was del Carros or his companion down there, he would need to act without hesitation, as Fotis had instructed. But what if it was someone else? The FBI, or Benny, or even Ioannes? If he waited to identify the person, would he get the chance to react? Could he look some stranger in the eye and pull the trigger?

Or was it all some game that Fotis was playing with him, yet again? He backed up ten feet to the turn in the corridor to make sure the old bastard wasn’t going down the front stairs with the icon. A faint noise from below made him quickly retrace his steps. Then all thought vanished as gunfire erupted from the front of the house.

Jan had not liked the plan one bit, but their options were few. They had drugged Spyridis, but he said little and clearly didn’t know where to find Dragoumis. The boy was their best chance. Seizing him would have been the surest course, but Müller gauged the young man’s tone and guessed that he did not precisely know his godfather’s whereabouts. Yet he might find him if given free rein. Jan’s trying to grab the boy and priest together could go terribly wrong, even leave Spear dead, and in any case three hostages would be a very clumsy business for two men. One was bad enough. The best plan was for Van Meer to trail the boy.

The Dutchman was annoyed, the closest he got to being angry. He’d been watching Spear’s apartment on and off for days, and was amazed the boy had been stupid enough to return. Let me take him, he urged Müller, he’s right here. Yet he had gone along in the end, and the trail had proved every bit as challenging as predicted. Müller drove the rental car while Jan followed on foot, and they had to scramble when they realized Spear was borrowing a friend’s car and about to disappear. Jan took the wheel and managed to maintain the tail all the way out of the city, up the Bronx River Parkway, and along the winding back roads of northern Westchester. Jan was good, and the boy was not experienced, but over so great a distance there was a chance he had noticed the pursuit. This meant they might be walking into an ambush.

Müller looked at Spyridis in the backseat, still unconscious from his last injection. He would get another one when the car stopped, and in all probability would not wake up again in this world. The Greek’s wrists were bound with a cord Jan carried for the purpose, and a blanket was thrown over his lap to hide them. Müller returned his eyes to the road, and realized he’d lost sight of Spear’s vehicle.

“Where is he?”

“He just pulled in there, the gate in the brick wall.”

“Then why are we driving past?”

Jan glanced over at him in mild disgust.

“We should go in behind him, you think? Invite ourselves in for drinks?”

They continued past the gate for a hundred yards but saw only trees and wall, then lost sight of the property. Jan turned around and doubled back, passing the gate again until he reached a wooded dell a few hundred yards on the far side, and parked among the weeds. He waved his cell phone, switched to walkie-talkie function, at Müller, then opened his door.