The Icon

by Neil Olson

  “No. Just curious.”

  “You are, as they say, covering your ass.”

  “You bet I am. I’m the one who gave clearance for your grandson to leave the country. Now it appears that the matter has escalated. You don’t think you owe me some answers?”

  “So you have no information for me?”

  “I have information. I believe in sharing. I’m a sharing kind of guy. Share with me, Andy.”

  Very well, then. Andreas considered what to say.

  “Matthew was nowhere near where the incident took place. Someone tried to assassinate Dragoumis in the mountains. At least two were killed, one of them his nephew. The authorities there suspect November 17, which means that no one will be caught. Myself, I am skeptical.”

  “Why?”

  They stopped at a streetlight on Park Avenue. A tattooed bike messenger zipped down Fiftieth Street, crossed himself, then pedaled furiously into traffic, just ahead of a roaring Brinks truck. Andreas found Morrison’s questions tiresome.

  “The nephew was shot by a forty-five, and there was a motorcycle, which all sounds correct for 17. But Dragoumis is too old and obscure a target for them, and it happened too far from Athens.”

  “Who do you suspect?”

  “Everyone. Fotis has many enemies. Anyway, you are bound to know more than I do, so why not simply tell me?”

  “I don’t know that much,” Morrison claimed as they crossed the avenue. “They identified the second man. Serious prison time for everything from extortion to weapons sales. He was so mangled they thought he might be your friend at first. Now they think the hat and cigarettes were a kind of calling card from Dragoumis, letting whoever ordered the hit know that he had gotten the better of them.”

  “How did Fotis escape the scene?”

  “Not sure. They did find an abandoned car near a small airport in Kozani.”

  “He’s back here,” Andreas said with certainty.

  “Could be. I assumed he’d go into hiding.”

  “He will, but he came back here first. I tell you, Robert, I do not believe that icon ever left New York.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Ah, now we come to your information.”

  “The NYPD has been looking into Dragoumis’ employees, especially the one who disappeared after the theft. Anton Marcus, aka, Marchevsky. They picked him up at Kennedy the night before last. False passport, ten thousand in cash on his person. He’s actually a tough cookie, wouldn’t tell them anything. But there’s a guy he used to work for, Vasili Karov, liquor wholesaler, Russian mob. Apparently Dragoumis gets a lot of his boys from Karov, and there is some question whether they ever really leave Karov’s orbit. You following me?”

  “I am not yet senile.”

  “So anyway, they figure Karov may be mixed up in this. They shook him down once before but got nothing. This time, they tell him that Anton squealed, which is bullshit, but they must have made some good guesses. Two lawyers and eight hours later he cuts a deal, tells them everything. It’s pretty much what you guessed. Dragoumis and Karov cooked it up between them. The other Russian wasn’t supposed to get shot, but no one told him the plan and he put up too much of a fight. The icon gets put aside for Dragoumis. The Russians get three other paintings which they take at the same time. Except that Karov says Dragoumis tricked him, left the wrong painting for him to steal. Anyway, Karov figures that was his excuse to shaft the Greek and sell the switched painting to a new buyer.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Why would Dragoumis go to the trouble of setting this up just to leave the wrong painting? And why does Karov care, when the painting isn’t his in the deal? He’s making an excuse for double-crossing your pal.”

  “What was the name of the new buyer?”

  “Del Rios? Something like that. Probably a false name. Cops are looking for him now.”

  “Did Karov say how much he paid?”

  “A hundred and fifty, I think.”

  Not enough. The Russian might be bending the truth, but there was truth there. Del Carros—surely the name Morrison was fumbling for—had been willing to pay Ana Kessler a million and a half. Unless he was a complete fool, Karov would not settle for so little.

  “When did this exchange take place?”

  “Four days ago.”

  Before del Carros cornered Ana. Yet it was obvious from that meeting that he was still hunting for the icon. He had purchased the fake knowing it was fake. Why? To put Fotis off his guard? So Fotis still had the icon, had never parted with it. Andreas felt certain.

  They crossed Second Avenue and walked a little way without speaking. The old man understood that now was the time to pass on what he knew about del Carros, and what he guessed about Dragoumis. To let go of these last bits of secret information and be truly done with it. Still, he hesitated. Morrison touched him on the shoulder.

  “One more thing. A Felix Martín flew into Newark from Mexico City five days ago. Argentine citizen. Probably means nothing. There must be a hundred guys in Buenos Aires alone with that name, but it is one of the aliases your German used to use. Just thought I’d mention it.”

  Andreas said nothing. He had resisted Benny’s words the day before, and even now he wished that he was a man who believed in coincidence. Morrison began walking again, and Andreas fell into step behind him. They emerged onto First Avenue with a brilliant afternoon light striking the white-and-black tower of the UN, and a huge gray freighter moving down the East River.

  “There’s a great Greek restaurant just one block up. We’ll go there sometime. So, Andy, you got anything else to tell me? You sure do seem to be thinking hard about something.”

  “Trying to put some things together.”

  “You let me know if you do. I have to run.”

  “Thank you, Robert. I will keep you informed.”

  “That would be a first.”

  …brought back from the Holy Land by Helena, the mother of Constantine. Upon the robe were stains of sacred blood from the wounds of our Savior as he lay in his mother’s arms, fallen but soon to rise. From the robe, a section was cut bearing these stains, and sealed between two panels of cypress. Upon these Matthias, a monk of the Studium, created the image of the Holy Mother as she appeared to him in a vision, so that all who looked upon it knew this to be her true face. The image was then placed in the church of the Blachernae, above the silver casket which held the robe itself, and there it performed many miracles, especially curing the ill among the family and followers of the Emperor. From that church, the image would be brought forth in time of need and carried in procession around the walls to instill courage in the hearts of the city’s defenders….

  When, on that evil day in the year of our Lord 1453, the infidel Turks, by benefit of the weariness of the defenders and the faithlessness of their allies, laid low the great city of Constantinople, the church of the Blachernae was defiled, and the holy objects within it were destroyed. Then it was that a monk named Lazarus risked death to enter the church and take the Holy Mother created by Matthias from its golden frame upon the wall. Protected by the Virgin’s power, Lazarus walked through fire and devastation to leave the fallen city of Constantine and carry the holy image west. Thereafter he was seen throughout the lands of the vanished Empire for many years beyond the normal life of men, preserved by the Virgin above for the protection of the Living Presence below, and wherever he passed, the sick were healed, and the troubled in spirit were made calm. Some say he went to Thessalonica, and some say to Ioannina in Epiros, but to this day no one knows for sure what was the fate of Holy Mother.

  Ioannes folded the pages carefully and placed them in the envelope. They would open the way for him, he had to believe. In the beginning was the word. In what direction these words of Theodoros would push the boy, he could not guess, but something must be attempted. One voice had now separated itself from the rest, and it had become more and more adamant about the need for decisive action. He had
decided to surrender to that voice.

  After studying the map, he took the PATH train in from New Jersey, became lost in the bright tunnels and plazas beneath Penn Station, but finally found the platform for the number one train, which carried him to Columbus Circle. From there, he walked diagonally through Central Park toward his destination. He got lost here too, on the twisting paths and roadways, but he did not mind so much. The park was alive with growth this early May, faded yellow daffodils, just-blooming red tulips, sweet white and pink apple blossoms, cherry trees, lilac. He had not known the place could be so beautiful. And he understood that he was meant to appreciate it, even now, especially now, in this time of turmoil. It was always this way, moments of great beauty accompanying darkness of the soul. It was a gift not to be despised or ignored, and Ioannes drew breath deeply and smiled at everything around him.

  He had dismissed the useless investigator Jimmy, had stopped taking calls from Bishop Makarios. He had even left a call from the secretary of the Holy Synod in Greece unreturned. They had all made a mess of things. All those involved in the matter had been thinking only about themselves—small, mean plans. A bolder vision was required, and Ioannes had some sense of what he must do, though very little sense at all of how to accomplish it. He only knew that the boy was the key.

  The broad stairs of the museum were thronged with the usual students, tourists, homeless people, smoking and drinking soda and enjoying the day. Ioannes weaved through them and passed in the central door, through the grand hall of a foyer and over to a little alcove he had spied out on his last visit. The elevator was at the end. A key or card would be required to operate it, and so the priest merely waited by the doors, as if he were precisely where he ought to be. Within ten minutes a woman appeared beside him, trim, middle-aged, with glasses and a name tag hanging about her neck: Carol Voss. She smiled at Ioannes.

  “You realize that this is a staff elevator?”

  “Yes.” A whole world of corridors and rooms existed behind, beneath, between what the common visitor saw, he knew. As in a cathedral or monastery. The inner sanctum. “I am meeting one of the curators.”

  “They’re supposed to come down here and escort you in. Who are you meeting?”

  “Matthew Spear.”

  “Oh, Matthew’s a friend of mine. We’re in the same department. But I’m sorry to say that he isn’t here today. In fact, I’m not sure exactly when he returns.”

  “Really. How unfortunate. You say you are a friend of his?”

  “That’s right.”

  He had cut himself off from all investigative assistance. He could not hope to find the boy on his own, and must depend now on the greater design. There would be a purpose to whatever happened. The voice spoke quietly but firmly: trust her. Ioannes reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew the envelope, held it out to her.

  “You will give this to him when you see him, please?”

  “Um, sure, I don’t see why not.” She took the envelope.

  “It is extremely important that he receive it. As soon as possible. And also very important that no one but Matthew should see it. I pray that you understand me.”

  She was a quiet soul, like him, and she sensed his urgency in his stillness.

  “I promise to keep it private. I don’t know when I’ll see Matthew, though.”

  “I am confident that he will return here soon. I place my hopes in that, and in you. Bless you.” He turned and moved away before she could say anything in return, but he had made his impression. She was not the kind of woman to shirk the duty he had placed upon her.

  The sky above the avenue had grown strange. Still blue to the south, fierce gray clouds to the north. Ioannes could not tell which way the clouds were moving, or what the evening’s weather held. It did not matter greatly. He would walk in the park once more, extract some sweetness while he still might, before the terrible task beckoned again.

  There was something both touchingly intimate and maddeningly claustrophobic about her forced captivity with his family. His father was ill, though less so than she had expected, and still quite handsome, in a harsher way than Matthew. He stayed in his study, reading or sleeping, accepting the occasional visit. The mother had left Ana alone at first, when they arrived the night before, but had been at her all this next day. Trying to feed her every ninety minutes. Asking all sorts of questions about Matthew, as if Ana were a wife or girlfriend of long standing, instead of someone who had met her son only a few weeks before, someone who felt that she might already love him without really knowing him at all.

  “She likes you,” Matthew said, when they were alone for a while, his mother shopping, his father asleep.

  “Is that why she keeps scowling at me?”

  “That’s just her normal expression. She likes talking to you.”

  “She’s plying me for information about what’s going on.”

  “Don’t worry, she doesn’t really want to know.”

  “Anyway, what difference does it make if she likes me?”

  “None at all, but she does. Trust me.”

  “Would I be sitting here in your parents’ kitchen, after everything that’s happened, if I didn’t trust you?”

  He put his lips to hers and her body responded immediately, despite their exertions during the last two nights. They barely made it upstairs to the guest room, his old bedroom. There was something vaguely taboo about doing it in the afternoon in his parents’ house, with his father asleep below. She understood very well that there was a good deal of seeking for relief and comfort mixed in with the lust, but it didn’t make the sex any less intense or satisfying.

  Matthew fell asleep minutes after they finished, still making up for lost time. Ana waited a little while, watching his chest rise and fall, stroking his arm, and breathing in his scent. Her friend Edith insisted that you could forget about good looks, intelligence, and all the rest; attraction was about scent. Ana wondered if it wasn’t true. Then she crawled from the bed to her travel bag, digging out a box of Marlboros and a lighter. Sitting in the window seat, she pulled up the sash several inches, lit a cigarette, blew smoke into the breezy air and tried to set her mind in order.

  What she really needed was a day or two alone, away from everyone, including Matthew, to think all this through. They had promised each other to let the icon go, yet details had nagged at her for days. The name in the diary, del Carros’ hints, his fear of her knowledge, which made him say more then he should. Eight years earlier, during another terrible illness of her grandfather’s, he had raged semiconsciously about being responsible for her father’s death. This was not a new thing, and she had tried to calm him, but he had been inconsolable. It was supposed to be me, he had insisted over and over. As if the death had not been random, but that someone was meant to die. She had chalked it up to guilt and the delusions of fever, but like these later details, it had stayed with her.

  What to do about it? She could try to set up another meeting with del Carros, but that would be madness, and he would surely never go for it. She could leave it alone and hope that he would be caught, that the truth would come out some other way. Was she prepared for whatever the truth might be? Would it be better if he just vanished again, if it all remained a mystery?

  “What are you doing?” Matthew spoke from the bed. His voice was more alert than she would have expected.

  “Oh, just making myself crazy.”

  “You’re supposed to leave that to me.”

  “I was crazy long before I met you, sweetheart.”

  “Why don’t you come back over here?”

  Why not, indeed? Yet she sat there several moments longer, finishing the cigarette, wondering now about Matthew and herself, and if whatever was between them could survive beyond the elevated emotions of the current crisis. Would they still care for each other when all the excitement was over, when dull, hum-drum daily life returned? When the icon was well and truly put to rest? Was she really so eager to know? Better to enjoy it while
it lasted. She stubbed the butt out on the exterior sill, closed the window, then rose and went to him.

  22

  T he hospital in Queens was not as impressive as the one in Manhattan. Older, dingier, even less well organized, if that was possible. Andreas rode up to the eighth floor in an elevator that vibrated alarmingly underfoot. The tired Jamaican nurse beside him took no notice of it.

  His thinking had become confused once more. Morrison’s news echoed in his mind, testing his will. It was easy to tell himself that nothing had changed, that this visit was simply a last convulsion, a necessary act for purging his conscience and satisfying his curiosity. Easy to tell himself, but hard to believe. The important thing was not to involve Benny and Matthew any further. That much he was determined upon.

  The gray-green corridor was suffused with the universal smell of institutional sickness. Stale air, urine, cleaning fluid; the memory-scent of a hundred visits to men now dead. Andreas found the room easily enough. There had been a police guard for the first few days, he’d heard, but since the patient had become well enough to question, that had been dispensed with. It was his information they had been protecting, not this life. Nicholas looked up at him as he entered, face thin and pale, dark eyes wide with concern. Andreas understood that the wounded man might still not know what exactly had happened, and that his visit could hardly be welcome.

  “Peace, Nicky,” he said in Russian, taking a chair by the bed. The other man shifted under the white sheets, but the IV in his left arm limited his motion. Thick bandaging on his chest was visible beneath the flimsy blue hospital gown. Someone had placed a vase of yellow tulips on the rolling table beside him. A screen pulled halfway across the room separated his bed from the one by the window, where another patient watched a game show on television. Nicholas nodded, but spoke no reply.

  “I’m here on my own.” Andreas reverted to English. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “I’m alive.” His voice barely above a whisper.