Neil Olson - The Icon

“Yes?” Müller prompted.

“Nothing. Lots of doors.”

“Can you see the top of the front stairs?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then the Greek can’t block them without getting hit from here. Circle back around and come up the front, and we’ll move in from both sides.”

“Spear is here somewhere.”

“Never mind him. Dragoumis is the main thing.”

The Dutchman looked dubious, but he nodded, slipped down the short corridor, and vanished noiselessly down the back stairs. Müller edged to the corner and glanced around, seeing only what Jan had described. This was it. They were closing in by the moment. The surrounding houses were probably too far away to hear the shots, and Dragoumis would never call the police. They had him, unless they committed some blunder. Like losing track of rounds. How many had he fired? Only three, he was fairly certain. He searched his coat for his spare clip and came up instead with a small leather case. The syringe and narcotic. He had neglected to give Spyridis another shot before leaving the car. It hardly mattered; the man was out cold and bound besides. Yet such errors reflected a state of mind. He must focus. He must do better if he was to survive this day. No more mistakes. Be like Jan, he told his shaking hands, a machine, until the business was finished.

Benny’s silver Nissan came up the off-ramp at terrific speed, barely stopping for Ana to get in, and they were back on the curving parkway in under a minute. The first thing she’d done was call Benny. Matthew’s message had given her very little to go on; he’d only wanted her to know what he was up to in case something happened. However, he’d already told her the story about searching for his godfather’s house with the old girlfriend, who had grown up in that part of the world. Robin was the key. Benny went straight to Matthew’s apartment and ransacked it for an address book, which he quickly located. Men were notoriously bad about actually recording anything in such books, but Benny had found a Robin Sprague with a phone number, and Ana had convinced him that the call was better off coming from her.

It was early, and she had caught the woman preparing for work. There was the expected resistance and annoyance, and Ana had to toss out a lot of personal information about Matthew in order to prove the close connection. Then she told Robin that he was in danger-something involving his godfather. Robin knew Fotis, and clearly did not find this too hard to believe. The details had gotten fuzzy in the intervening month or two, but as best she could, she reconstructed the route to the house. Ana would not tell Benny what she had learned, but insisted that he pick her up on the way. He was already driving north at that point, and her ploy infuriated him. You’re putting Matthew at risk, he raged, but the delay would only be a few minutes, and the matter was too important for her to concede. She calmed Matthew’s parents by telling them she was going to see him, which was true, she prayed. Then she hurried down the hill on foot to Fennimore Road, and west a few hundred yards to the Bronx River Parkway exit.

“You see, no trouble at all,” Ana said as Benny accelerated.

“The trouble is in front of us. Put on your seat belt, I’m not slowing down.”

“You really think they followed him?”

“It’s what I would do. Now tell me where we’re going.”

They passed the Kensico reservoir and turned off onto more winding secondary roads. It would have been a drive to enjoy on another day, lakes and forest and gorgeous vistas, but Ana was tight with tension, checking every landmark against Robin’s vague instructions, trying to forget how much might depend upon her making the right choices. Before long they passed through a wooded dell, then came up a rise to the brick wall and pillared entry. Ana could just make out the slate roof beyond a screen of trees.

“This is it, this is the house.”

“You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be, Benny. We’re not going on much here.”

Benny turned around out of sight of the house and returned to the wooded hollow, parking where the weeds had been crushed by the recent presence of another vehicle.

“Stay here,” he commanded Ana, putting her behind the wheel and making her slide down in the seat. “Keep your eyes on the road and the woods, and if anyone looks curious, drive the hell out of here. Don’t stop to talk. Don’t get out of the car for any reason.” He patted her shoulder. “You did right to call me.” Then he vanished among the trees.

She waited five minutes, then followed. She was frightened, but more frightened at the idea of sitting in that car and wondering what was happening up in the house. And she was angry; a slow, smoldering rage had been growing for days. The image of del Carros’ smirking face hung in her mind, taunting her. The trees had not yet acquired their full complement of leaves, but there was a distinct haze of green, and the small trunks were clustered closely enough that she could not see very far ahead. About thirty yards in she passed carefully through a great rip in an old chain-link fence. A little gully rose swiftly to level out behind a small stand of pine, beyond which she could make out the house, about a hundred feet away. She flinched violently when several sharp bangs issued from somewhere within the walls. So much for everybody talking this through, but who was shooting at whom?

Ana made her way behind the pines to the front of the house. Two cars sat in the long drive, and the front door stood half open. She moved quickly, in a long curve that would let her use the vehicles as cover. As she went from one to the next, her eye caught a figure slumped in the backseat of the black Marquis. An old man in a raincoat, with a blanket across his lap and a fedora pulled down over his eyes. His head lay still against the seat. Was he dead? She lifted the silver handle and the door popped open. Then she crawled over the seat to him. Ana had met Andreas only once, but she recognized him easily as she slipped back the fedora. Straight-nosed and sunken-eyed. Two days before he had seemed too young to be Matthew’s grandfather, but now he looked very old indeed. His dark eyes opened slowly and tried to take her in, but then closed again. He was ill, wounded, or drugged. She pulled the blanket aside and saw that his hands were bound, the fingers white from the loss of circulation. There was no obvious sign of harm.

She needed to get inside and find Matthew but didn’t feel she could leave Andreas alone. On the car floor was a bottle of spring water, and Ana snatched it up and wrenched off the white cap, putting a few drops on Andreas’ dry lips. His licked at them and coughed.

“Mr. Spyridis, try to wake up.”

She applied cool handfuls to both sides of his face, and he murmured some complaint. She shook him gently, then more vigorously. When she slapped his cheeks with more cool water, his hands sprang up out of his lap, fingers laced together in one strong fist, and just missed striking her under the chin. She slid back several feet.

“Mr. Spyridis, listen to me. It’s Ana, Matthew’s Ana. Matthew is in the house. Do you understand?”

He was looking at her now, confused and suspicious, but nearly awake.

“Matthew’s in the house,” she continued. “And Benny. There’s been shooting. What? What did you say?”

“Where is Müller?” he rasped.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Del Carros.”

“I’m not sure. Did he bring you here? Is Jan with him?”

“Yes.”

“Can you stand?”

Andreas shrugged. She moved swiftly around the car and dragged him out by the door facing the house. He could not keep his feet without assistance, and slumped against the vehicle. What the hell good was he in this condition? She grew impatient trying to understand him.