The Icon

by Neil Olson

  “And what do you think he means to do with it?”

  “Do with it?” Plastiris was younger than Andreas, Matthew figured, and measurably younger than Fotis. The story of the Holy Mother and what had happened during the war—to the extent that anyone really knew the true story—was an open secret in the Greek intelligence community, at least according to his grandfather. But it was a very old story now. Could it be that Sotir did not understand the icon’s power? “I think he means to keep it.”

  “That’s a lot of trouble, and a lot of expense he has gone to, just to keep it. Are you sure he doesn’t intend to sell it?”

  “He would never sell it.”

  “I am sorry, I know that he is your godfather, but I have always understood that Dragoumis would sell his own mother if he saw the profit in it.”

  “Not this. There’s no price high enough. He believes in the icon’s power.”

  “Yet he was willing to trade it once.”

  “I think,” Matthew said carefully, recalling the shame that still attached itself to his grandfather over the incident, “had it been left to Fotis alone, he would not have gone through with it. I think he always meant to keep it.”

  “Yes,” Plastiris said wistfully, and then again with sudden anger, “yes. It was up to your Papou to do the dirty work, and take the blame. You would think, with all the terrible things that happened later, the civil war and the communists, you know the history?” Matthew nodded, and Sotir plowed on. “You would think everyone would have forgotten, but it’s not true. Friends, I call them friends, ohee, but men who know your Papou as well as any man could, who value his courage and intelligence, they still spit, you know, cross themselves, when this matter is mentioned. Many worked for the Germans. For profit, for safety, to sabotage the communists, that was allowed. But to turn over a religious treasure for guns was véveelos, how do you say, sacrilege. And Dragoumis, with his lies and his fatal interrogations, his friendship with the colonels, they never mention him. It was his idea, yes, but it was Captain Elias, and only Captain Elias, who handed over the icon. So that is it, your Papou will never live it down.”

  Better a thief than a heretic, thought Matthew. Strangely, and despite his own distrust, it pleased him to hear someone defending his grandfather. Andreas’ stoicism, his refusal to explain, to defend himself, invited attack, but it wasn’t right. They were both quiet for a few moments.

  “How does the German fit into this?” Sotir asked.

  “The German?”

  “Your Papou’s German, the SS officer, from the war.”

  “Him, right. I don’t think he does. Fotis just used his ghost to distract Andreas away from what he was actually doing. Even hired an actor to play him, I guess.”

  Plastiris shook his head and smiled grimly.

  “He is a devil. So has Andreas given up on that, finally?”

  “I don’t know. I never knew until recently what an obsession it was for him. Nobody ever spoke about it.”

  “The trail was cold before you were born. He should forget it.”

  “I still don’t have the whole story, but he says there are signs Müller is alive.”

  “What signs?”

  “Some aliases have shown up on passports going into or out of Bulgaria, Turkey, other places. Some have appeared as the names of buyers in dubious art deals.”

  “He would be almost ninety.”

  “Well, so is Fotis.”

  “Ah,” Plastiris smiled, “but he is Greek. Germans don’t live so long.”

  “Some of these Nazis have.”

  “Yes. Sin would appear to be an excellent preserver of life. In which case, I expect to live forever.” They raised their glasses in a salute and finished the cognac. “Sleep well tonight, Matthew. The Resurrection service does not finish until after midnight, and you shall need your wits about you for dealing with Dragoumis.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “I have done nothing. I hope that you will call upon me if you require true help.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “You have candles? For the service?”

  “I’m sure there are a dozen places by my hotel to buy them.”

  “No, no, I have a box here. Come. This, at least, I will do for you.”

  16

  D ark hair and eyes, olive skin, immaculately groomed and dressed in a black suit of Italian design. He would be handsome, thought Ana, if he were not so false and fawning in his manner. Across the gallery, he looked like a European movie star, but up close there was something about Emil Rosenthal that could only be described as sleazy.

  “Ms. Kessler, I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is. We have many friends in common, and I’ve been meaning to ring you for ages. It was such a wonderful surprise to get your call.”

  In fact, he had tried to reach her any number of ways, invitations to openings, messages passed through supposed mutual friends. Ana had acquired a reputation—unearned, she felt—for being a free spender. However, she bought contemporary work for the most part, and while Rosenthal had once dealt in modern, he had since inherited his father’s gallery, specializing in early European: medieval and Renaissance art and artifacts. It was her grandfather’s collection he was after, she was quite sure.

  “Let me show you around. I know this stuff isn’t your first love, but it might intrigue you.”

  The dark walls and soft lighting were comforting somehow, more like a museum than a gallery. There was little on display, so the tour was short. They looked at a fourteenth-century Spanish illuminated prayer book, moved on to a sixteenth-century Dutch portrait of a florid merchant, and finally moved to an older wooden sculpture of St. George on horseback, cracked, paint fading, but still glorious to behold with his golden armor and spear held high.

  “From Syria,” said Rosenthal. “I already have two buyers lined up.”

  “Two? How will they divide it? One gets the horse and the other the saint?”

  The dealer laughed too loudly.

  “No, no, I think that one will get both, certainly. Just a little healthy competition. Medieval art is still terribly undervalued. Sometimes we have to play little games. I have a bad habit of overpaying, so I have to make it up somehow. And of course, when I sell on commission, I owe it to my client to get the best price. We do very well for our clients here.”

  “I have no doubt you do.”

  “A little doubt, certainly. Our success in recent years has led to some unfortunate slanders. Which, in turn, have led to these absurd legal issues.”

  “I did read about an investigation.”

  “How could you not, it having been so well publicized? A nuisance only, I assure you. They have discovered nothing improper, and will discover nothing improper.”

  Which was not the same thing as saying that there was nothing to discover.

  “Anyway,” she said, “you’re in good company.”

  A nervous smile appeared. “Excuse me?”

  “Christie’s, Sotheby’s.”

  “Ah, well,” he mumbled, “unlike many, I have no quarrel with the auction houses, but that is hardly the company I keep.”

  “And those investigations are equally foolish, don’t you think? I mean, price-fixing is as old as time. What they really ought to investigate in the sale of looted art.”

  He was nodding furiously into the long pause that opened, obviously speechless at the idea of her raising the subject of stolen paintings. Yet he recovered swiftly.

  “That, too, is as old as time, I fear. And if you head down that road too far you must drag in our friends at the museums, and that would be just too great an embarrassment for everyone. My God, MOMA would be renting empty wall space by the mile if they had to hand over every work of dubious provenance. Keith Haring would get a whole wing to himself.”

  They both laughed wickedly at the thought. Then the dealer fixed Ana with his brown, liquid gaze, as a lover would.

  “Truly, I’d welcome the opportunity
to eliminate all doubt about what we could do for you.”

  She maintained the eye contact.

  “Your offer for my grandfather’s icon was most generous.”

  “Alas, not generous enough, it appears.”

  “No, it wasn’t that. I was attempting to do the right thing. Which, like most such attempts, went terribly wrong.”

  He shook his head in sympathy. Two scarred veterans of the art wars, ready to become soul mates. She could sense him moving in for the kill.

  “Maybe we should talk in my office.”

  Ana looked about the room. There was only a pretty young intern, busily labeling boxes and answering the telephone.

  “If you would be more comfortable.”

  “I think we both would.”

  The office was brighter than the other rooms, and furnished with plush beige chairs. Rosenthal closed the door and took a seat beside Ana, rather than behind the huge, empty desk.

  “I was terribly sorry to hear about the theft,” he said at once.

  “I hope you were paid.”

  “Yes. But the point was to return the work to the Greek church, so it’s very upsetting.”

  “Of course, of course. And now there is some question of whether that fellow, the Greek philanthropist, was even working with the church, I understand.”

  How much did he know? About Matthew too? She had come here not to answer his questions but to get answers of her own.

  “There was a representative of the church involved. I met him. Unfortunately he’s gone missing since the theft.”

  “And the businessman, Dragoumis, he is missing too, yes?”

  “Not missing. Ill, I believe. Anyway, I’m leaving all that to the police.”

  He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

  “Best thing to do. As you say, you were paid, so it’s not really your affair anymore.”

  “Actually, it’s not quite that simple. I trust we can speak in absolute confidence.”

  The sudden expression of sincerity that transformed his face nearly made her laugh, or applaud, but she contained the impulse. She thought for a moment that he would take her hand, but he settled for touching her knee.

  “Your trust is well founded. Without extreme discretion, I would be out of business in a week.”

  “I accepted a good deal less for the icon than what you offered. I did so because I felt I was doing a good thing, the right thing, and I didn’t want to put the squeeze on the church. Now…”

  “You feel screwed.”

  “Precisely.”

  That sympathetic shake of the head again.

  “May I say something? Never mind, I will. The matter was dreadfully mishandled. I don’t blame you. Why should you not follow your lawyer’s advice? And I’m sure he had your best interests at heart, but Mr. Wallace is not a young man anymore, and it’s a new game out there in the art world. It’s not a gentleman’s game, I’m sorry to say. It takes contacts, savvy, and a certain fierceness. You needed an experienced dealer involved in that sale.”

  “That seems apparent now.”

  “I don’t mean to scold. I would have offered my own services, but I was approached by a collector to act as buyer before I even knew the work was on the market.”

  “Yes, about that.” Things were going so well that she decided to press her luck. “I’d like to know who that collector was. I don’t suppose you could tell me. It would put me in your debt.”

  Rosenthal’s face went blank, but Ana could feel the impulse to be agreeable, to purchase her loyalty, struggling mightily with his natural inclination toward suspicion. A moment later he chuckled nervously.

  “Ms. Kessler, you would make a lie of my claim to discretion. And I don’t see what good it would do you now, with the sale made.”

  “Please call me Ana.”

  “Gladly. And you must call me Emil.”

  “Emil. There are several issues here. The sale of the icon was made under certain conditions, which appear to have been violated. If it can be recovered, I would have a very good claim to it.”

  “I see.”

  “In which case I would need a new buyer. I also have a number of other medieval pieces which might be of interest to your collector.”

  “Ah, but those aren’t reasons to contact the man directly. In fact, for your own sake, I would discourage it. Such transactions really do require an experienced go-between. For my part, it would be foolish to provide information which might remove me from the deal.”

  “There would be no question of that. We can make it a condition of your putting me in contact that you would handle any business between us.”

  “Alas, my first obligation is to the buyer. He may feel that I have compromised myself by associating too closely with you.”

  “Then you can represent my side of it. But you’ll need to cooperate with Wallace.”

  “I do not think that Mr. Wallace would agree to such an arrangement.”

  “He’ll do what I tell him to,” Ana said. “My lawyers serve me, Emil, not vice versa.”

  Rosenthal smiled and clapped his hands together.

  “Well said. I confess you do intrigue me. But look, I have to be honest, I don’t think the man was interested in anything but the icon. And you and I both know the chances of it being recovered.”

  He was being far more careful than she had expected. Something more was required.

  “OK. The reason I need direct access is a personal one. I have to ask this man some questions. I have reason to believe that he may have information about my grandfather. I can’t say more than that.” There, she’d thrown that little secret on the table, at last.

  “Now I understand,” answered the dealer, gently. “It seems like the best thing would be for me to contact him and see if he is willing to speak to you. How does that sound?”

  “Reasonable. Except that if he refuses, then I’m nowhere. Whereas if I could speak to him directly, I think I could persuade him to open up.”

  “If anyone could make a man do more than he intended, I’m sure it’s you, Ana.”

  She would need a shower when she got home. Meanwhile, she had come this far.

  “You can’t know what all this means to me, Emil, and I won’t try to explain. So let me be more concrete. I’m going to have more work to sell to somebody, sometime. Maybe a lot of it. You’ve made an eloquent case for needing a dealer, and early European is your thing. I’m not going to make any promises…”

  “Please don’t. Before you parade more riches across my greedy vision, let me make a confession. The information I have for this man is very thin. Just a name and a voice-mail number. Mostly, he contacts me. I’m not even sure if the name is real.”

  Ana tried not to reveal her disappointment.

  “Well, then. There can be no breach of trust in your giving me that information. If he doesn’t want to speak to me, he simply won’t call back. Either way, I’ll remain grateful to you.”

  Rosenthal relaxed. Then went around the desk and took a card from the center drawer.

  “I’m glad you see things that way. I happen to agree. Mr. del Carros has taken his own precautions, so I needn’t worry too much about protecting him. And perhaps he will be pleased to hear from you. You have a pen?”

  She took down the information on a small pad she kept in her purse, but there was a sudden disquiet in her mind. Del Carros. Where did she know the name from? Had her grandfather mentioned him?

  “Thank you for this. I have to ask one more thing, at the risk of being rude.”

  “Let us not stand on ceremony, Ana. We’re friends now.”

  “That was a hell of a lot of money your Mr. del Carros was willing to spend. The icon is rare, but there isn’t anyone who would assess it at anything near a million and a half dollars.”

  “I did not inquire into the gentleman’s motives. I did inform him that the offer was well above market value, but he pressed me to proceed. Religious art can have a strange effect on peop
le. There are those who would not part with it for any price, those who would pay any price to have it. I believe he would have gone higher still.”

  “But look, you’ve got a name and a phone number. How do you know this guy is on the level? How do you know he won’t vanish and embarrass you when it’s time to pay up?”

  Rosenthal leaned back and smiled once more.

  “I can assure you that Mr. del Carros is absolutely trustworthy. I give you my personal guarantee that he will meet his obligations. You see, he and I have done business before.”

  “Coffee? Water? We’ll have brandy afterward, to celebrate.”

  “Take the cloth off, let’s see it.”

  “Patience, my friend. We still have business to discuss.”

  The thick, steel-haired Russian smiled pleasantly, but the old man calling himself del Carros was not in a patient mood. Were he dealing with gentlemen, he would make a greater effort at civility, but these thugs with artistic pretensions disgusted him. Still, they had what he wanted, and he must not seem overeager. They must be made to believe that he would walk away if the conditions were not acceptable.

  “Business has already been discussed, Mr. Karov. That’s the only reason I am sitting here.”

  “Circumstances have changed since we talked. There have been complications. Surely you heard that one of my men was shot.”

  “I understood him to be one of Dragoumis’ men, and one of your own people shot him.”

  “Dragoumis has no men. Cooks and managers. I supply him with his bodyguards. Unfortunately, this one returned before my boys were out of the house, and there was an accident.”

  “Bad planning, I would say.”

  Karov shrugged.

  “Things happen. Anyway, it’s an extra expense.”

  In truth, del Carros had expected something like this. There was an additional hundred thousand above the agreed price in the case on his lap. Cash. The idiot had demanded cash, as if he had learned thievery from the cinema. As if he were still rooting around in the shattered landscape of Mother Russia, stealing cars and kidnapping bureaucrats. Here was his big payday, and the greedy pig would try to wring every penny he could from the exchange, maybe even call off the deal and make del Carros come crawling back. That must be avoided, but it didn’t mean he intended to surrender easily.