Neil Olson - The Icon

“Give me time to get in. Then you come in the front, as we planned.”

“Yes, yes.”

“About ten minutes should be sufficient. Remember that I may not be able to speak once I’m inside.”

“We’ve been over everything. Just go.”

“Don’t be impatient. We’re too close now.”

No answer was required, and then Jan was gone, melting into the thicket of young oak and maple like a ghost. Müller took a deep breath and slid over to the driver’s seat. He let five minutes elapse on his watch before he put the car in drive, looked for traffic on the empty road, pulled out slowly. Jan was correct-damn him, anyway-there was no need for haste, no need to panic. They were closing the noose. Now was not the time for stupid mistakes.

As he shaped the turn and started up the incline, the brick wall came into view once more, old and moss-covered, and within a hundred feet the stone pillars appeared, bracketing the drive. He pulled over onto the grassy shoulder of the road, slipped out his cell phone, and settled in to wait for Jan’s call, glancing once more at Spyridis. Had he moved, or was it simply the motion of the car? He checked the road, the trees, the wall itself. Then he noticed the tiny camera on the west pillar, pointing straight at him.

Damn it all, he should have seen it before; there must be cameras everywhere. On instinct, he put the car in gear again and pulled into the long gravel driveway. Why give Dragoumis any more time to think? With luck, only the old Greek would oppose them. The cell phone on the seat released a burst of static, indicating that Jan was inside but could not speak. Müller felt his heart beating dangerously and sucked hard at the stale air in the car. He parked at the most oblique angle possible from the windows of the house, then got out and rushed to the front door.

There was no one in Spear’s car, so both he and the priest must be inside. Müller ignored the inevitable camera by the door and tested the large brass knob. It was unlocked. Either Jan had worked swiftly or it was a much too obvious trap. He slipped the pistol from inside his coat and pushed the door open with his free hand. Nothing happened immediately. He could see a handsome blue-and-red oriental carpet at the base of a staircase, and wide arches opening to sunlit rooms on either side of a hall. Müller stepped in quickly and made for the stairs. The first bang startled him, but by the second he was on the ground, rolling to his right, instinct overcoming age. There was at least one distinctive thump of a round striking wood. He bumped into the heavy leg of something and pulled himself to his knees, knocking his head against the bottom of a large dinner table. Through blurred vision he could see that he was in the dining room-out of the line of fire, he guessed.

He checked himself for damage but did not seem to be hit. The shots had come from the top of the stairs. Dragoumis-if that’s who it was-had waited for him to get well inside before firing, but his aim was off badly. The German shook his head as his vision cleared. He had been lucky. Now he was on sore knees with a bruised skull and no way to get up those stairs. Never mind; at least he was inside the house. He glanced across the hall. There was a large, plush living room with light pouring in through French doors over a white sofa, glass table, and thick flokati rug. It reminded him of a room in a house he had once owned, a place where he had been almost content. Don’t think of that now. There was a door at the back of the dining room, next to a tall, glass-fronted hutch. There must be a back stairway in a house like this. He had to find it, and find Jan. Müller stood slowly, painfully, and moved toward the narrow door.

The kitchen was large and gloomy, despite the white walls and blue curtains, and there was a faint smell of gas in the air. A bowl and a mug sat in the sink. There were two doors, in addition to the one from which he had entered. The one on the left appeared more promising, but no sooner had he thought that than a loud boom came from that direction. A larger-caliber gun than the one in front, so there were two holding the upper floor. Where was Jan? If the Dutchman was down, then this business was finished, and he would be lucky to get out with his life. Lucky. Hardly the correct word. There was no escape but one for a man his age. He was not leaving without the icon, whatever the consequences. He willed himself to move toward the sound of the shot.

A short corridor led into a small room full of filing cabinets and black-and-white monitors. He saw the cars parked in front, several empty views of the grounds, the front steps, the priest wandering aimlessly around the side of the house. There were no interior views. A moment later he glanced up to see Van Meer standing beside him. Jan smiled.

“You’ve lost your hat.”

“Yes,” whispered Müller, repressing his shock at being so easily surprised. “I guess I have. What about that shot?”

“A poor one. Missed me by half a meter, but someone is up there.”

“In front also.”

Jan nodded. “This is an unfavorable position. Two on two and they have the high ground. Wisdom says we should withdraw.”

“Impossible. We’ll never have this opportunity again.”

Jan nodded once more, having expected this response. His eyes were directed over the German’s shoulder at the kitchen door, and as they spoke his head made small adjustments to catch any stray sound. There were moments when Van Meer seemed pure mechanics, pure calculation, but Müller could tell that the gamesman in him had been aroused. He would not leave now.

“I expect a large bonus,” Jan said.

“Done. The front stairs are long and straight. It’s no good.”

“There’s an angle in back. Maybe four meters from the landing to the shooter.”

“That’s the way, then.”

“Wait here.”

Müller despised the tone of command from inferiors, but he was getting used to it with this one, and he watched the entry to the stairwell as Jan ducked into the kitchen. The younger man returned a minute later with a bundle of dishcloths tied together, stinking of something. Cleaning fluid, perhaps. In his other hand he held a wet towel.

They moved carefully into the stairwell, then up the narrow steps together. Jan pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and sparked the bundle, nodding to Müller. The old man slid along the outer wall, aware of the fist-sized crater in the plaster an arm’s length away. Before he quite cleared the angle, he stuck out his shaking left hand and fired three quick bursts, the noise tremendous in that tight space, then withdrew. Jan stepped into the open spot and tossed his flaming bundle up the stairs.

The air smelled of acrid burning. Would they light up the whole house, Müller wondered, still shaking? Was it fear or anticipation? When had he become so nervous, so feeble? Jan stared at him with that damned serene expression. A scuffing noise came from above, a foot stomping the fiery bundle. Crouching, Jan slipped halfway around the angle, fired twice, and ducked back. There was a dull metal thud on the stairs above. The Dutchman leaned out once more, then darted up out of sight. Müller took a deep breath and followed, picking up the wet towel on his way.

Two steps from the top a black nine-millimeter lay on the stair, and there was a smudge of blood on the corner of the wall. Jan stood in the smoky corridor, looking left and right. Müller tossed the wet towel over the burning pile of rags, stamped on it several times. The floor was scorched, but nothing seemed to have caught. Bullet holes were everywhere.

“You hit him,” Müller whispered.

“In the hand,” Jan said. “Spear. He’s nearby.”

“But disarmed.”

Disarmed, wounded, surely terrified. The German mentally crossed the boy off. Now it was down to Dragoumis, and the odds were back in their favor. The icon was here, somewhere on the second floor, or the Greek would not have abandoned the first without a fight. The corridor they were in connected with another about four meters ahead, where a right turn would take them to the front of the house. Van Meer took a glance around the corner.