Death & Restoration

Flavia got home at ten, more tired than she could believe, starving to death and with a blinding headache. Argyll took one look at her, suppressed a desire to mutter about how late it was, and instead ran a bath and fetched some food. She was so exhausted she could barely eat but, after he had given her a broadside of tender loving care, she began to lose the feeling that her neck muscles were tied in knots. The bath helped too.

“We were close,” she said after telling Argyll about the hunt for Charanis, waving a sponge in the air for emphasis. “if we’d only had a little bit of luck …”

It had been gruelling. The result would have been the same whatever they’d done but, while spotting this man showed the carabinieri at their best, trying to arrest him brought out all their worst characteristics. Too many anti-terrorist training courses, that was the problem. Rather than Flavia and Alberto, with a couple of supporters, going round and knocking on the door of his hotel room, someone, somewhere—and Flavia suspected Alberto’s immediate superior, who was a man with a flair for the unnecessarily melodramatic—decided now was the time to give their Los Angeles-style rapid response unit a whirl.

The result had been total chaos which—quite apart from enraging the management of one of the most expensive hotels in the country and creating a very bad impression among a large number of its guests—probably served only to warn Charanis that he had been noticed, assuming he watched the news on the television station which sent along a crew to film an entertaining display of official muscle. At least Flavia persuaded Alberto to put out some vague story about drug smugglers to try and keep them away, although she doubted it would do much good.

As for the rest of it, she had watched appalled as truck after truck of heavily armed idiots ran around waving guns, shouting into radios, getting into position so that they could interdict, negativize or otherwise arrest and render harmless a man who had, in fact, checked out of the hotel the previous evening and was nowhere to be seen.

And all they had to do was ask in the first place. May the Good Lord defend us from such imbecilities.

“That’s a pity,” Argyll said when she finished and he offered her a towel.

“You can say that again.”

“Is he a regular customer?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of, no. Never heard of him before. We’ve put out enquiries to the Greek police, to see if they know anything about him. God only knows how long that will take. Last time we asked them anything the man we were interested in died of old age before we got a reply.”

“Sort of makes the case for Bottando’s international bureau, doesn’t it?”

“Sort of makes the case for people answering enquiries. I don’t think you need set up huge expensive organizations.”

“What do you do now?”

“Go to bed, I think.”

“I mean about this icon.”

“Sit and wait. The carabinieri can look for this Charanis character; I can’t do much with Mary Verney at the moment. Apart from talking to Father Xavier tomorrow there’s not a lot to do.”

She dried herself, with Argyll helping, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Human again,” she said. “You didn’t find anything interesting, did you?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On what you think is interesting, of course. Hang on.”

He walked out of the bathroom, letting a draught of cool night air blow in as he went, and came back a few minutes later.

“Look.” He held up a Xerox, then flicked it over to show a mass of scribbling on the other side which indicated how hard he’d been working on her behalf.

“Spirits,” he said. “Visitations by. Anthropological study of. Structure and meaning in the magical appearance of gifts. It’s an article Burckhardt published three years ago.”

“So?”

“That icon was brought by angels, remember?”

“What does it say?”

“According to this, it’s a common enough story. Angels seem to have worked overtime as delivery boys in the Middle Ages. Forever running around with paintings and statues, even whole houses in the case of Loretto, and leaving them in unlikely places. The general argument is that it is often enough a folk memory with some substantial foundation.”

“Such as what?”

“The example he quotes here is a church in Spain, near the Pyrenees, which has a miraculous statue. Also delivered by an angel, according to the legend. He reckons it was donated by a generous benefactor who distributed money to the poor to mark the occasion. This got confused as the generations passed and the gift of the statue became associated with the money, then it was thought that it was the statue which gave the money, so naturally it became a miracle. And the person who gave it turned into a delivering angel.”

“San Giovanni is associated with a cure for the plague.”

He nodded. “Better food, more resistance to disease. I suppose it fits.”

“Does it say that?”

“No. That’s me making it up. However, there is one reference to San Giovanni; nothing relevant, but he was obviously in the archive there once. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

She nodded dubiously. “Not much to go on, though.”

“I’m doing my best. There’s a lot of stuff to digest here, you know. It’s hard when you’re starting from scratch.”

“And I can’t think of anyone better to scratch away. Would you mind keeping on going? See if you can dig up anything more specific?”

He nodded. “All right. But only for one reason.”

“What’s that?”

He grinned at her. “I quite enjoy it.”

Flavia barely got into the office the following morning when a dire message came through from Alberto. Foreign ministry, please. Now. Heavy-duty stuff indeed, the sort of thing Bottando would do. But he was not around and she was in charge. She had never been in the building before, let alone been summoned to a meeting headed by a full-blown, senior smoothie.

He also, it seemed, was not used to dealing with members of the police and managed to convey the impression very swiftly that he strongly suspected that all such people had sweaty hands and probably did not bathe all that frequently. He sat behind his desk for all the world like someone preparing to make a last stand against the barbarian hordes, and made polite but condescending conversation until the distinguished visitor was ushered in.

This was, oddly enough, a trade representative from the Greek embassy, which caused confusion all round until it was explained that just because he was a trade representative, it didn’t mean he had anything to do with trade, you see.

“May I ask why the head of the department is not here, as I ordered?” the Italian said. Flavia bristled slightly, and she noticed an amused look from Alberto.

“I am the head of the department,” she said, and noticed how well and easily the words rolled off her tongue. “And you ordered nothing. You asked me to come, and I agreed. Now, do I gather that you, sir, are a spy, and we’re playing silly games here?” she continued, ignoring the Italian completely.

“Exactly, dear lady,” he enthused. “Silly games. Exactly that.” He gave her a large stage wink as he nodded approvingly.

“Good. I’m glad we’ve got all that sorted out,” said the Italian in a suit. “Perhaps we might proceed. I don’t have all day, and Signor Fostiropoulos is a busy man as well.”

“That’s a pity,” Flavia said. “We have all the time in the world. What’s a murder or two, after all?”

“That’s what we’re here for, is it not?” Fostiropoulos said.

“I don’t know. Why are we here?”

“You have been making enquiries, about a Signor Charanis.”

“We have.”

“And I am here to inform you that you have made a bad mistake. The idea that he could be in any way involved in any disreputable activity is quite ludicrous.”

“I don’t even know who he is.”

“He is a very wealthy man. Huge interests, all absolutely above board. He is a greatly respected man.”

“And a powerful one, if he sends you along to defend him.”

“Don’t be flippant. Or rude, signorina,” said the Italian diplomat.

Fostiropoulos nodded. “Quite all right. He is indeed powerful. I have come along merely to save you from wasting your time on a fruitless line of enquiry.”

“He wouldn’t collect paintings, would he?”

“Very much so. But that is hardly a crime.”

“You still haven’t told me why you are so sure it’s fruitless.”

“Firstly because Signor Charanis is at this moment in Athens, and has been since last week. Secondly because the man you are interested in is in his thirties while Signor Charanis is seventy-two. And thirdly because it is simply absurd to consider the idea that he would ever consider doing such a ridiculous thing. He could buy this picture—could buy the entire monastery, in fact—out of his small change.”

“I see. Nonetheless, we do have a rented car with our victim getting into it, and it was rented in the name of Charanis.”

“Criminals have been known to use pseudonyms in the past.”

“Have you seen his photograph?” Flavia handed over the grainy reproduction taken from the video machine. Fostiropoulos took it and, she noted, kept it. The difference between a spy telling the truth and a spy telling a lie was, she supposed, difficult to detect; and Fostiropoulos had probably had years of practice. Flavia’s instincts, more than her observation, told her the man instantly began covering something.

“I don’t recognize him. Certainly not Signor Charanis, who is over seventy.”

“I see.”

The Greek stood up. “That’s my contribution done, then. I must be going. I do very much hope that you find this man, whoever he may be. And that you will find that I have been of assistance to you. I’m sorry to bring this meeting to an end so swiftly, but I think there is nothing else to say on the subject. It was a pleasure to meet you, signorina.”

He nodded to Alberto, who had not been successful in saying anything at all, and did the same to the diplomat, who showed him out with all due ceremony, then shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Goodness,” he said. “That was close.”

“What was?”

“We very nearly had a major incident on our hands there. Do you have any idea how powerful this man is? Fortunately, swift action avoided it.”

“What major incident? Come to think of it, what swift action? I didn’t notice anything.”

“He was very upset.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“I hope you appreciate his consideration in coming here.”

“No one has thanked us for our consideration in coming here yet,” she snapped. “We’re not responsible to you, you know. Besides, he didn’t say anything at all.”

The diplomat eyed her coldly. Flavia eyed him back. She didn’t understand why she was behaving like this, but she undoubtedly enjoyed it. Did Bottando enjoy being obstreperous so much? Was it one of the hidden perks of the job?

“What could he say? You go around levelling baseless accusations which turn out to be a tissue of nonsense to conceal the gross mistakes you’ve committed, and you expect him to help? A lesser man than Fostiropoulos would have lodged a complaint at ministerial level and left it at that.”

“In that case you people are complete idiots.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And you are a bigger idiot than most. We make a routine enquiry—which normally takes weeks to process—and within twenty-four hours we have a top-level meeting with some Greek spook, who comes round here like a bat out of hell to point us in another direction. Doesn’t that strike even you as a bit odd?”

“No.”

“I’m quite prepared to accept that our thirty-ish suspect is not a seventy-two-year-old millionaire. So ready to accept it that this meeting was unnecessary. So what was it in aid of? Eh?”

A shrug, and the meeting ended. A few seconds later, Flavia and Alberto found themselves once more in the empty corridor outside.

“Moron,” she said when the door to the office had shut. “What a waste of time.”

“Do you believe him or not? Fostiropoulos, I mean,” Alberto asked.

“I believe what he said. It’s what he didn’t say that bothers me. Still, we’re just not going to get any help from that quarter, I’m afraid. Back to work.”

They walked down the stairs, and queued at the desk in the lobby to hand in their security passes and sign out. The receptionist checked the passes, ticked them off and said, “This was left for you, signorina.”

She handed Flavia a small envelope; she opened it and read:

“Dear Signorina di Stefano,

“I trust you will do me the great honour of joining me for a drink at Castello this evening at six p.m.

“Fostiropoulos.”

She groaned. “Of all the luck. Not only do I not get any useful information, I have to spend the evening being oozed over.”

“Don’t go,” suggested Alberto.

“I’d better. You never know. I might squeeze something out of him. If I don’t, I might risk another international incident. I must say, I do hate the personal touch. Especially when touch is likely to be the operative word.”

“It’s a tough life in the police. Now you know why they paid Bottando so much.”

“You heard about that, did you?”

“Oh, yes. Word travels, you know. I hope it doesn’t mean too many changes. What happens to you?”

“I’ve been offered the job of acting chief.”

“I’m impressed. Ma’am.” He bowed politely.

She grinned. “What do you think? Could I do it well?”

He thought carefully.

“Oh, come on,” she said.

“Of course you could. Although if you become as rude to everyone as you were to that diplomat man they’ll go begging for Bottando to come back.”

“Was I that rude?”

“Not diplomatic, no.”

“Oh. I was a bit nervous.”

“Try smiling coquettishly next time you tell people they’re contemptible morons with brains the size of a pea.”

“You think?”

“It might help.”

She nodded. “Maybe you’re right. I need to practise.”

“You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Now, tell me. What are you up to today?”

Alberto groaned. “What do you think? Miserable routine, checking hotels and airports and credit cards, mixed in liberally with miserable enquiries, explaining how it is that we ended up deploying thirty-five people in six vans with enough weaponry to fight a civil war in an attempt to arrest someone who wasn’t there. And, what’s more, telling it all to a large group of people who make their career out of telling other people how things should be done. Largely because they were so bad at doing it themselves that they had to be taken off active work to safeguard the public.”

Flavia nodded. “I thought so.”

“What about you?”

“Do you know, I’m not entirely certain. I’ll go to the hospital to see whether Father Xavier has come round and can talk. If he has, I’ll see what he has to say. If not, I have a horrible feeling I’ll spend the day sitting at my desk twiddling my thumbs hoping something will turn up.”

Jonathan Argyll, in contrast to Flavia’s mood of vacillation, set off the same morning with high hopes of accomplishing something useful. He had never been very interested in the nuts and bolts of Flavia’s type of crime, the how and the who of policing. Like all people who did not have the task of actually locking people up, he found the why of it all very much more interesting. In his view, everything else should be subordinated to that, and it would make crime a far more fascinating prospect. Of course, it wouldn’t result in many arrests, but that was not his concern. How the painting of the icon was stolen was simple enough, after all. Someone went in and took it. Easy. Who stole it was more interesting but offered only a couple of possibilities, judging by what Flavia had told him. Why they stole it, on the other hand—now that was a bit of a puzzle, as far as he could see. Just the sort of thing for a subtle, complex mind.

This flying painting, borne by angels, had not excited over much interest in the past few centuries; he had woken up that morning with the task of discovering why that situation had changed as his project for the day. For the week, if necessary, as he had given his charges a long essay to write which should keep their brows furrowed for several days.

He hadn’t told Flavia, being someone who liked to spring his surprises fully formed, but he reckoned he had an idea already. Not a big one, but something. It was a question, he thought, of what triggered Burckhardt into action. Whether that would help in getting the picture back was another matter, of course.

He explained his quest to Father Jean when he arrived at San Giovanni.

“You may look with pleasure, if you think it will help in any way,” the old man said.

“Do you have a record of what this man looked at?”

“Which man?”

“Burckhardt. The dead man. The one in the river. He cited some of your archives in an article, so unless he was a total fraud, he must have used them. I thought it might be useful to know what he looked at.”

Luck was not with him. Father Jean shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t keep records?”

“Oh, no. On the rare occasions someone comes here, we just give them a key to the archive room.”

“Is there a catalogue of the documents?”

Father Jean smiled. “After a fashion, but it’s not very satisfactory. In fact, it’s unusable.”

“Still useful.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it was all in the head of Father Charles, who knew the papers backwards and forwards.”

“And he’s dead, I suppose.”

“Oh, no. Full of life, but he is over eighty and his mind is not what it was.”

“You mean he’s senile?”

“I’m afraid so. He has his lucid moments, but they are becoming more and more rare.”

“And he never made a catalogue?”

“No. We planned to get it all down, and would have done so except that Father Charles had a stroke and was put out of commission. If we ever get a catalogue, we’ll be starting from scratch. And I’m afraid it is not a very high priority.”

“That makes life more difficult. Is there any chance of seeing him anyway? Just in case?”

“Probably. But I can’t take you to him myself. We have our latest crisis to deal with.”

“What’s that?”

Father Jean shook his head. “We seem to have a popular religious revival on our hands.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“Do you know, I’m not sure. I’m afraid the order spends so time running hospitals and schools that we are no longer sure what to do with religious feeling. Especially when there are signs that it is superstitious and idolatrous.”

“I’m not with you.”

“That icon. You heard, no doubt, that it was a sort of local protector. Guarding the quarter against plague and bombs?”

Argyll nodded.

“All that had died out, of course. Except for a few old people like Signora Graziani, it was hardly remembered. So I thought, anyway. For some reason the theft has brought it all to the surface again. They’re like that, the Romans. However much you may think they have become brash and materialistic, scratch the surface …”

“So what’s going on?”

“Everything. Late-night vigils asking the icon to return. Genuine fear, it seems, that the quarter is exposed to danger by its absence. Confessions tagged to the locked door hoping that a genuine show of contrition will make it relent, and come back …”

“But it was stolen.”

Father Jean shook his head. “It seems not. It seems that in the minds of a surprising number of people here, it got up and walked out on its own to indicate Our Lady’s displeasure. And will not return until she is satisfied everybody is in a properly repentant frame of mind. Obviously, I’ve read about phenomena like this in history books, but I never thought that I’d witness such a thing. It’s genuine, you know; absolutely genuine. The trouble is, that the order is being blamed.”

“What for?”

“For cutting Our Lady off from her people. Closing the doors. It’s all General Bottando’s fault, in fact, as he was the one who told us to lock the doors.”

“That’s his job.”

“Yes. And I’m coming to believe that it should have been our job to ignore him. So you see, we have to discuss this, and work out what to do.”

“Of course. Perhaps if you could tell me where this Father Charles is? If there’s any chance of getting something out of him …”

“Oh, that’s easy enough. He’s here. We look after our own, you know.”

Father Jean looked at his old watch, and grunted. “I can take you to him quickly. if he’s alert, I’ll leave you. Then you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

Very quickly, he headed off down corridors, up stairs, mounting higher and higher in the building until the decorations gave way and was replaced by older, blistered and peeling paint. The windows got smaller and smaller, and the ever more narrow doors became looser on their hinges.

“Not lavish, I’m afraid,” Father Jean observed. “But he refused to move.”

“He wants to live here?”

“He has done for sixty years and refused to budge even when he was the superior. We wanted to give him a lighter room on the ground floor. It would have made it easier for him to get around, and the doctors thought that more cheerful surroundings might help his mind. But he wouldn’t have it. He never did like change.”

He knocked on the door, waited for a moment then pushed it open.

“Charles?” he said softly into the gloom. “Are you awake?”

“I am,” an old voice said. “I am awake.”

“I have a visitor for you. He wants to ask about the archives.”

There was a long pause and a creaking of a chair from the other side of the darkened room. Argyll noticed the strong, musty smell of underventilation and extreme old age in the air, and braced himself for a difficult and unrewarding encounter.

“Show him in, then.”

“Are you able to talk to him?”

“What have I just been doing?”

“You’re in luck,” Father Jean whispered. “He’ll probably lapse after a while, but you might get something out of him.”

“Don’t whisper, Jean,” came the voice, cross now. “Send me this visitor, and get him to open the shutters so I can see what I have to deal with. And leave me in peace.”

Father Jean gave an affectionate smile and padded softly out of the room, leaving Argyll, oddly nervous, alone. He stumbled across the room to reach the wall and opened both windows and shutters. The morning sunlight streamed in with such intensity it was almost like being hit.

The light revealed a sparse, austere room, with a bed, two chairs, a desk and a shelf of books. On the wall was a crucifix, and from the ceiling hung a light with a single, unshaded light bulb. In one of the chairs sat Father Charles, looking at him calmly and with the infinite patience of age. Argyll stood still while the inspection was on, not daring to sit down until invited.

He was surprised by what he saw. He had half expected an wizened little man, as pitiful as old age can be, doddering and pathetic. Instead, the sight presented to him could hardly have been more different. Father Charles was still big, and must have been enormous when young. Barrel-chested, powerful and tall, even in ill-health, he dominated the room and made the chair he was sitting on seem far too small. More important still was his expression, which flickered with interest as it studied Argyll’s face with care, taking all the time he wanted, conscious that nothing would happen until he was ready to allow the interview to proceed.

After a while, and having established through his silence who was in control, Father Charles nodded to himself.

“And you are …?”

Argyll introduced himself, speaking loudly and clearly.

“Sit down, Signor Argyll. And there is no need to talk like that. I am neither deaf nor stupid.”

Argyll looked embarrassed.

“And don’t look embarrassed, either. I am, as Father Jean has no doubt told you, not what I was. But much of the time I am perfectly compos mentis. If I feel myself slipping I will tell you, and bring the conversation to an end. I am too proud, I’m afraid, to relish people seeing me in the state such deterioration brings. You would not enjoy it either.”

“By all means,” Argyll said.

“So, young man, tell me what you want.”

Argyll began to explain.

“Ah, yes, Our Lady from the East. Would you mind telling me why you are interested?”

Argyll explained about the theft. As he talked, the old man shook his head with interest.

“No,” he said. “It cannot be.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Then you are wrong. She cannot—will not—leave this house. It is impossible, unless”—here he smiled to himself—“unless world politics has changed markedly since I read the newspaper. And that was only yesterday, you know.”

So much for his mentis. More composted than compos.

“She will reveal herself in her own good time. Have no fear.”

There was no point arguing about it. Argyll tried a more oblique approach. “Nonetheless, your colleagues are very concerned, and want me to help. For their sake, even if it is unnecessary …”

Charles’s face twitched with a little smile. “I am not mad, sir. I talk perfect sense.”

“Of course you do,” Argyll agreed heartily.

“And don’t patronize me. You are much too young for that.”

“Sorry.”

Father Charles leaned forward and studied Argyll’s face. “Yes. I remember you. I have little time, I fear, sir. You had better tell me your business so that I can answer when I am able.”

Argyll explained about Burckhardt, and how he thought the dealer had come in pursuit because of something he’d been told which might have come from the monastery archives.

“I know it’s a long shot. But if I can discover what it was, then I might be able to find out why he was so interested, you see,” he said.

Father Charles nodded to himself awhile, and Argyll was afraid he was disappearing into his own mind. Then he looked up with a faint smile on his face. “Mr Burckhardt, yes. I remember him. He was here last year. I’m afraid I was a little wicked with him.”

“How was that?”

“A mechanic, if you see what I mean.”

Argyll shook his head. He didn’t see at all.

“Interested in style only and concerned to explain every thing. No appreciation of the power of these images. If people pray to her, then he saw it as a quaint example of outmoded superstition. If legends were attached to her, then he wanted to find a rational explanation which took away all the miraculous. He was cruel to other people’s beliefs. And above all he used them to make money for himself. So I’m afraid I was not as open with him as I should have been. He had to do his own work, and missed very much.”

“Oh.”

“In your case, I believe I will perhaps let you find what he did not. Do you know why?”

“Because the painting has vanished and I might help to get it back?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no. I have told you; she does not need your help. She will return when she wants.”

Argyll smiled.

“It is because you are kind, and you do not wish people to know it always. Often, when I am able, I go to the church to pray. I have done so several times a day for more than half a century and I like the quiet. I was there a few days ago, and I saw you come in and light a candle to her. And look embarrassed when Signora Graziani thanked you. It gave her great pleasure.”

“My Protestant conscience,” Argyll said. “It doesn’t always approve.”

“It was kind, nonetheless. To Signora Graziani as much as anyone.”

It was a long time since anyone had accused Argyll to his face of being kind, and he wasn’t entirely certain how to react. He thought that saying “thank you” might be appropriate; so he did.

“I don’t intend to compliment. I merely state a fact which makes me believe I can trust you with some of the documents I decided not to give to Burckhardt.”

“I’m very grateful.”

“Now, give me a piece of paper and a pen, and I will tell you what to look for. I would help, but I am afraid that my mind is beginning to play tricks on me again. You must leave me now, I’m afraid.”

Argyll did as he was told, and Father Charles wrote quickly on it, and handed the paper back. “Fourth cabinet, third drawer down. At the back. Now, leave me, please.”

“It’s very kind of you …”

He waved his arm impatiently. “Leave me now. Please, go away quickly.”

Argyll spent the next eight hours reading with painful slowness; all the documents were in Latin, and he had always been painfully bad at Latin. But he felt obliged to do it himself and not call in help, and so he sweated his way through gerunds and gerundives, dictionary by his side, moving forward word by word and phrase by phrase, until he was sure he was getting the translation right.

The trouble was the documents were in no particular order; they had been gathered together almost at random, as far as he could see. A page of inductions into the monastery; pages from the daily record of events; transcripts from the papal ports, bills of loading and unloading of ships from the year 1453. A record of a papal address. A note of a nobleman’s landholdings. Remarks on religious festivals, mainly to do with the festivals of the Virgin. Argyll was out of his depth. It was obvious that it was all important and relevant; Father Charles had done everything except spell it out to him word by word. But he still couldn’t figure it out.

But he felt captured by the old man’s spirit, and would have felt it a betrayal to call in some expert from the classics department, or a medievalist who would have been able to run through the manuscripts in a matter of minutes and tell him exactly what they contained. This had been given to him and him alone, and it was surely not too much to ask that he work it out by himself. Even if it took today, tomorrow and the entire weekend as well.

He had a cigarette break, sitting in the sun on a stone in the courtyard, thinking absently about what he had read so far, trying but failing to make sense of it. Perhaps the second or third bundles would give a clue. He noticed Menzies coming and going in the church. He waved, but didn’t feel like talking. Father Jean came out of the building and drove away in a tiny little Fiat. And from the outside he dimly heard the sound of singing.

Such was his mood that it took several minutes before he realized that this was strange, and even more before he got up to see what was happening. Going out of the door, he looked up the street to the church entrance, and saw a group of twenty people, mostly women, mainly old, standing and chanting. Some were holding crosses, or rosaries, and around them was a second group, this time of onlookers, among them a photographer and a man Argyll vaguely recognized as a reporter. He walked over and asked what was going on.

“They say it’s a vigil,” the reporter said with a faint smile of bemusement.

“Goodness.”

“They are going to stay until the painting is brought back.”

“It may be a long wait.”

The reporter nodded, and stared glumly at the crowd, wondering how he should angle his story. Touching tale of piety? Or whimsical story of Roman superstition, played for laughs. A tough one.

Argyll left him to his dilemma and wandered back into the monastery in case the reporter thought that he might have some inside knowledge.

Flavia had anticipated having to wait for Fostiropoulos in Castello’s that evening, and wasn’t disappointed. She was on her third cigarette and second bowl of nuts before he bounced in, beaming happily. He kissed her enthusiastically on each cheek, twice, for all the world as though she was his closest friend, and ordered champagne. Here we go, she thought. One of those evenings. Still, it was good champagne.

“What do you think of our mutual friend di Antonio?” he asked as he concentrated on filling the glasses.

“Who?”

“The man who organized the meeting this morning.”

“Oh. Him. Not a lot.”

“A fusspot. A major fusspot. All diplomatic services have them, I’m afraid. File marked, “not to be allowed out of Rome”. A pity, but there you are. That’s government for you. Over the years, it accumulates all sorts of strange people. The fusspots, the incompetents, the downright malevolent. Don’t you think? They silt up the works, but for some reason no one ever thinks of getting rid of them.”

“You speak from experience.”

He smiled. “Believe me. Personally, I think there should be a revolution every twenty-five years. Clear everyone out, and start again. Mao was right, although it’s a bit unfashionable to say that nowadays.”

“From my experience, you always end up with the same people in charge again,” Flavia said, vaguely aware that there might be a sort of under-conversation going on here. “However much you try to get rid of them.”

“Of course. But not all. And you can always recognize them. The style remains the same. Take my line of business.”

“Spying.”

“Trade, Flavia, trade. You don’t mind if I call you Flavia?”

“Not at all.”

“Gyorgos. Anyway, you see, in the good old days, we were worried about spies and communists and all that sort of thing. We knew what we were doing and why we were doing it. Guarding the flanks of Europe, I think. Then, pouf! All change. Strange things start to happen.”

“Such as?”

“It’s a bit odd. People lose their sense of orientation. The old certainties vanish, so they go back to even older ones. A traditional enemy vanishes, so they concentrate on one which is even more traditional. Do you see what I mean?”

“Not a clue.”

“Really? You surprise me.”

“Have another go.”

“Old Charanis. A strange man. What do you know about him?”

“Not much; I’ve only ever heard of him as an art collector and man about the galleries, although I thought he’d given that up. I remember a dealer complaining about it once. Didn’t he announce he’d more pictures than he knew what to do with?”

Fostiropoulos smiled. “That’s correct. He got old, began to think about mortality and became pious. And gave up old masters and has turned instead to donating works of art to churches. Such as icons. But he’s even given that up now.”

“Still, even you must admit it is something more than a coincidence.”

“Perhaps. He’s an odd man. The strangest thing about him is that he is a fervent democrat.”

“Why is that strange?”

“When we had the coup back in the sixties, he was against the colonels. About the only member of the hundred families who own Greece who was. Admittedly it was because he thought it was bad for business, but also because in his soul he’s a romantic. Greece the cradle of democracy. Virulently anti-communist, but no supporter of these nationalistic thugs who took over.”

“So he’s as pure as the driven snow.”

“Used to be an obsessive collector, so they say. With magnificent results, as well. The national museum is trying to get his collection left to them in his will. It’s a hard slog, not least because old habits die hard in someone like him. He wants so many tax breaks and concessions and contracts in return that it’s not yet certain it’ll work. On top of that, so I’m told, the director of the museum is balking a little at one or two pieces he owns.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Origins a bit doubtful. No one knows where they came from, or how they got there. Still, that’s irrelevant.”

“Is it?”

“It is. Because he hasn’t bought anything for five years or more and refuses absolutely even to consider buying more.”

“What a pity.”

“He spends all his time in retreat. Of course, because he’s a bit of a megalomaniac he has his own monastery, and a cell for meditation which is equipped with a satellite link and fax machine, but his heart is in the right place, as much as he has one.”

“Where is this?”

“Near Mount Athos. He spends more and more of his time there. Even dresses like something out of the Middle Ages. Rumour has it that he is repenting for his sins. He’s got a big job on his hands.”

“So we can forget him? Is that what you’re telling me? Same as this morning? So why this meeting?”

“For the selfish delight of your beautiful company, dear signorina. And to point out that you might, as computers tell us to do these days, refine your search a little.”

“I know I’m being obtuse …”

“Not at all. Not at all. You have been looking for someone called Charanis.”

“Oh, I see. Brother, son, daughter, cousin?”

“He has difficulties with his children, poor man, although I can’t imagine he was much fun to have as a father. Smothered them with material goods but, unfortunately, expected them to deserve it. He is absurdly competitive himself and, so it is said, took particular delight in winning, even when playing a little kid. When the poor boy was four, he used to try hard to beat him at table tennis. Of course, popular gossip says there are good—or at least understandable—reasons for this.”

“And? What does popular gossip say?”

“It says that nine months before Mikis was born his wife was more than a little indiscreet. Charanis at the time was having a passionate affair with some woman, and his wife did the same. Now, this is a great dilemma. To admit your wife is unfaithful is a shaming thing. To preserve your pride and bring up a cuckoo in your nest is as bad.”

“He did the latter and made the son pay for it?”

“Correct. Even after he divorced he kept the boy, largely, I suspect, to teach her a lesson. And Mikis has grown up with a very unfortunate personality and an unpleasant attitude towards authority. Of late, this has found its expression in politics.”

“Public service,” Flavia said. “Could be worse.”

Gyorgos grimaced. “I doubt it, unfortunately. He took up with the most venomous bunch of right-wing nationalists there are. The sort of people who make our old military junta seem like milksop liberals. Common pattern, I believe. A desire to impose order and discipline on the entire country and beat up foreigners to show you’re tougher than your father.”

“Lot of them about, these days. What does it mean in Greek terms?”

“As you’d expect. Don’t like Slavs, don’t like Arabs, don’t like immigrants of any form. A fervent desire to discipline the country and bring it back to true patriotism and order. The usual brew, but in his case, of course, it’s allied to our glorious historical past.”

“Athens?”

“Fraid not,” he said as he swept a bowl of nuts into his huge hand and thrust them into his mouth.

“Don’t tell me. Alexander the Great. He wants to conquer Persia.”

“A bit ambitious, even for someone as extreme as young Charanis,” Gyorgos continued after he had washed the remnants away with a large swallow of champagne and refilled his glass. “No; his past is the Christian empire. Byzantium, in other words. He and the motley collection of lunatics he associates with want to take back Istanbul. If Leningrad can become St Petersburg, why should Istanbul not become Constantinople again?”

Fostiropoulos picked up another fistful of nuts, then changed his mind and poured the entire bowlful into his palm and swept them all into his mouth and sat there chewing noisily and smiling at Flavia to reassure himself that she had got the point.

“He’s got a big project, then.”

“As I say, you go back to the old certainties. Don’t underestimate them. Religion, history and dreams of glory make a heady brew for some people.”

“You’re not concerned about this, are you?”

“Officially, no. Not least because he is still protected by his father, and he is not a man to annoy. Unofficially, five Muslims were burned to death in Thessaloniki a few months back, and we’re sure these people had something to do with it. There’s not many of them, they’re not powerful, but they are getting stronger. And yes, we are concerned.”

“Do you know where he is?”

He shook his head. “Not in Greece, that’s for sure. We know he was, that he made a three-day trip to London three weeks ago, came back to Athens and then vanished. No one’s seen him for over a week.”

“Went to London, did he?”

He nodded. “Does that concern you? Why?”

“Just an idea. Could you do me a favour?”

“Of course.”

“These pictures that alarmed the director of your museum. In Charanis’s collection. Could you find out what they are?”

“A pleasure,” he said, looking at his watch. “Anything else?”

“I wouldn’t mind a decent photograph of this man as well. One which isn’t so hazy.”

Gyorgos smiled, and reached into his pocket. “Nothing easier,” he said handing over an envelope. Flavia opened it up. “If you meet him again, do let me know. We are very interested in him, you know.”

“I will.”

“Now I must go. It has been a delight meeting you, signorina.”

And then he left, leaving Flavia with the remains of the nuts and just enough champagne in the bottle for another glass. What the hell, she thought, and poured it out.

Buoyed up by a pep talk of thanks and encouragement over breakfast from Flavia—who thought she might start learning the business of man-management with an easy target—Argyll returned to do battle with the intricacies of medieval handwriting and the complexities of dog Latin in a more determined frame of mind than he had managed the previous day.

He had, after all, something to work on. Previously, all he had known about the icon was that it was old and eastern. Now, from Fostiropoulos via Flavia, he had a bit more focus. Byzantine icons. Those travelling scholars and exiles the records had referred to so elliptically; they were the place to start, he felt sure, especially as the reference to the plague the painting fended off placed its arrival in the middle fifteenth century.

Constantinople falls to the Ottoman empire, and those who get away on western ships do so at the last moment. They bring what they can with them. Many are given pensions by the pope, or sympathetic monarchs in the west, guilty at not having gone to the aid of the Byzantines before it was too late. Some plan to launch a counteroffensive against the infidel, and travel the world, begging for help. others realize it is all over, that all hope died when wave after wave of Turks swept through breaches and brought two thousand years of Roman history to a violent end. These souls live out their lives as best they can, teaching if they cannot abandon the Orthodox faith, or entering monasteries if they can. They could at least console themselves in their exile that it all ended courageously, and that the last emperor, Constantine, had lived and died in the finest traditions of Rome, leading his dwindling band of troops until he was cut down by the enemy, and his body so dismembered it was never identified.

It was a gripping and poignant story, and Argyll felt a faint ripple of pleasure at the prospect of getting to grips with even the smallest fragment of it. Some of these lost and shocked exiles came to the monastery of San Giovanni. He was prepared to bet that one of them brought the icon as well. But so what? Many of these people brought lots of booty with them; some of them almost shameful amounts, the boats stuffed with valuables when they could have brought out citizens who were left behind. What was one picture amongst hundreds? How did it connect the end of the second Rome, and those who wanted to raise the third back to its traditional place?

The vigil had grown greater overnight. The number of flowers and prayers tagged to the door had grown, so that scarcely any of the old wood could be seen for as high as an arm could reach. Instead of a small handful of people encamped outside the door of the church, there was now a couple of dozen, and the sleeping bags suggested they were serious. A surprising number of them were young, as well. Yesterday nearly all had been old women, brought by sentiment and a feeling that yet another part of their universe had been forcibly taken away from them. Now ten or fifteen were young, some with the intense air of theology students, others drifting Europeans in search of something and hoping to find it on the steps of this old monastery. Argyll talked to them for a few moments; one seemed conventional in religion, another talked vaguely but intensely about the Great Mother. Two at least had thought it was a good place to spend the night. All appeared to have passed by and sat down for reasons which even they did not understand. They seemed perfectly tranquil and certain about it all, but Argyll felt very uneasy. He noticed Signora Graziani sitting on her own, and said hello to her. She smiled at him, and seemed uninterested when he said that the police were still at work. She didn’t appear to think it was necessary for the police to do anything, but was grateful for their efforts.

A little unnerved, Argyll went into the monastery, to find that the members of the order were even more jittery than he was. They had divided into two camps; one group regarded the show of piety on the steps as a nuisance that would have to be endured until it faded away of its own accord. The others felt that the whole business was an absurd display of sentimentalism and were inclined to employ more positive action to shoo people away. Only Father Paul, in fact, seemed perfectly tranquil and even quite pleased at what was going on outside.

“It’s real,” he said softly as he stood by the gate and placidly regarded the group on the steps outside. “This is how great movements have started, from simple, popular piety. Do you know, I think I am the only person here to have considered the possibility that this might be the work of God? Don’t you think that is strange?”

“I suppose it is. I don’t really know. I was brought up an Anglican; I’ve never really had much to do with religion.”

Father Paul smiled at what he took to be a joke, closed the door and made sure that Argyll had everything he wanted.

“I suggested that maybe the doors of the church should be flung open, to allow people inside in case it rains,” he said as he prepared to go off. “The idea was turned down for fear of disturbing Mr Menzies.” He shook his head and left Argyll to his labours.

The file was just as thick, and almost as impenetrable; with the sort of intense concentration that ultimately produces a raging headache, Argyll laboured in silence, translating, reading, thinking and noting. At least he made progress. in 1454, the monastery admitted two people; both, irritatingly if predictably, took new names for the occasion—Brother Felix and Brother Angelus—and neither was referred to by any other name. But, given the date, and the fact that there was a note that baptism was especially waived for them, it was reasonable to assume that they were fresh off the boat from the ruins of Constantinople, especially as one was in late middle age, and the other was described as a widower.

So, two new monks, and it would surely have been unusual for them not to have made the usual contribution to the order’s coffers when admitted. Where, Argyll thought, was the ledger of deeds and goods? And had they brought that icon, anyway? He leaned back in his chair and tapped his teeth with the end of his pencil, then smiled broadly. Like a crossword puzzle, he thought. Obvious when you know the answer. He bent over and crossed Brother Felix from the list. No point worrying about him. The picture had been brought by an angel, and here was Brother Angel himself, in the right place at the right moment. You could almost hear the wings flapping.

So, Brother Angel, he thought. Where did you get this fine piece of work? Did you pick it up on the way to the port, looting it from some church as it went up in flames and you dodged through the back streets to avoid the enemy soldiers? Was it an old family heirloom you’d sent on ahead, realizing disaster was looming? Did you steal it even from one of your fellow exiles so you could buy your way into a comfortable monastery when you reached journey’s end? What sort of person were you? Priest, nobleman or simple subject?

All good questions, which the documents in front of him did not answer. He didn’t even know who had arranged the collection. A strange assemblage it was, as well, different sorts of papers, dating from the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries, brought together without rhyme or reason. But some body, and not too long ago, had collected them. Father Charles, perhaps, before he’d taken to running the order. If it had been him, he had then locked them all away in this special file, and allowed no one to see them. There seemed little point; there was nothing even remotely terrible, or even interesting, so far.

He eyed the next brown paper folder warily; perhaps in here? Somehow he hoped not; seventy-five miscellaneous pages of Latin in varieties of bad handwriting. It could take him weeks to get through that, if he was being careful. He really should have paid more attention during his Latin lessons. How was he to know it would ever come in useful, after all? He flipped through the pages, hoping that by some miracle there would be passages in Italian to make his life easier, and groaned as he found exactly the opposite. Greek, for heaven’s sake. Ten pages in Greek. Life is very unfair, sometimes.

It was no good. He simply couldn’t do it. He stared moodily at the pages again, then shook himself. Nothing for it. He’d just have to hope that Father Charles was operational this morning. And willing to help.

The Gemelli hospital, where all the best religious illnesses are treated, was a mixture of the antiquated in architecture and the advanced in equipment. Merely because the nurses were nuns did not mean they were any less ferocious than their counterparts in more secular institutions; the sick threaten to disrupt the smooth running of the hospital, and visitors were a lower form of pond life whose mere existence was an affront to anyone seriously interested in health care. Getting in to see Father Xavier was, therefore, slightly more difficult than Flavia had anticipated; by the time she had battled her way through three floors of obstruction to Father Xavier’s floor, she was feeling both punch-drunk and irritated. At least he was finally conscious.

The last stage was easier, though not because of the nurses in charge; rather, the priest Father Jean had sent down to watch over the superior came forward and offered his protection; he held very much greater authority than a mere member of the police could ever have.

“Thank you,” Flavia said gratefully when the last nurse had pulled in her fangs and retreated.

“They are very protective, I find,” he said mildly. “And you are the third visitor today. They are concerned he may be tired out too easily.”

“Who else has been?”

“Father Paul, to see how he is doing. And another man from the police. That is why the nurses were cross, I think. They expect you to coordinate things better …”

“Somebody else from the police …? Who?”

“I don’t know. A very kind gentleman, very gentle indeed with Father Xavier.”

Flavia’s irritation was growing apace. It must have been one of Alberto’s minions—probably his sidekick called Francesco and she thought she had a clear agreement that questioning the old priest would be her job. Alberto hadn’t even wanted to send anyone. He was quite within his rights to change his mind, of course, but he could have told her in advance. That was only fair.

“Late forties, stout, balding, permanent sweat, slightly smelly?” she said, knowing that her description of her colleague would be recognized.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Not at all. He was in his thirties, I’d say. Very well-dressed, but a lot of stubble. But a very assured air about him, you know. Looked unusually chic for a policeman, in my view. But, of course, I’m not Italian myself …”

Flavia handed him a photograph of Mikis Charanis.

“Yes. That’s him.”

Flavia closed her eyes in despair as the details sank in. “When was he here?”

“About fifteen minutes ago. That’s when he left. He was only here for ten minutes.”

“And have you seen Father Xavier since?”

“No. I just sat out here …”

Flavia walked quickly to the door, brushed aside the remaining nurse guarding it and walked straight into the room, hoping desperately that her worst nightmares were not about to come true.

Father Xavier peered at her with mild interest from his bed. “Good morning, signorina,” he said, as alive and as well as could be expected in the circumstances. Certainly, he had not acquired a bullet in the brain recently. And for that, Flavia was profoundly grateful. The fact that it was mere luck, that Charanis could quite easily have killed the man had he been minded to do so, did not make her feel any better at all. Damn it, wasn’t Alberto meant to have put a man on the door?

She sat down heavily on the only chair available, and breathed deeply as she recovered herself. No point, she decided, in causing unnecessary alarm, or advertising your incompetence.

“I understand you have just had a visit from a colleague in a rival department,” she said with as much of a smile as she could manage. “I’m with the Art Squad, investigating the theft of your icon. Perhaps you could just tell me what you told him? That way I can stop bothering you.”

“By all means. All he wanted to know was what happened, and where the icon was. Which, alas, I could not tell him.”

Flavia frowned. “He asked you where it was?”

“Yes.” Father Xavier smiled. “I see you feel that is your job, not his. Not that it matters. I can’t tell either of you. I was in the church, to pray, and that was the last I remember.”

“You didn’t see your attacker?”

He shook his head. “No. He must have come up from behind.”

“And was the icon in its place? Did you notice it?” He shook his head. “I didn’t look. I’m afraid I’m not much of a help to either of you.”

“And you were in the church to pray.”

“Yes.”

“Is that usual? I mean, do you do that often?”

“I am a priest. Of course.”

“At six in the morning?”

“When I was a mere novice, signorina, we had to get up at three as well as at five. I like to continue that old way, even though I don’t think it right any more to impose it on anyone else.”

“I see. And while you were praying, did you hear anyone? See anyone? Speak to anyone?”

“No.”

“Nothing unusual at all?”

“No.”

Flavia nodded. “Father, it pains me to say so, but I’m afraid you are not only a liar, you are a bad one.”

“Your colleague did not have the effrontery to say so.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But I do, I’m afraid. You were in that church to meet Burckhardt. Even though your order had voted not to sell anything, you decided to go ahead anyway because you were desperate to raise money to cover your losses at your stockbrokers. You rang him, and agreed to meet him at six in the morning. You went to the church, took the key, and unlocked the main door so he could come in. Then you waited for him to turn up. That is perfectly clear; so much so that you needn’t even bother to confirm it. There can be no other explanation.”

She stopped and looked at him, to see whether she had hit home. His total silence convinced her she was absolutely right. It had been perfectly obvious, anyway. She let him stew for a while before continuing with a new idea that had just popped into her head.

“And to avoid trouble with your order, you tried to organize things so that it looked like a robbery. You were the person who left the anonymous tip-off saying there was going to be a theft.

“Now,” she said, before he could waste his breath with a denial, “your relations with your order are not my concern, thank goodness. I don’t have a clue whether you had the right to do it or not. And for the sake of simplicity, I might even be prepared to forget about the way you wasted our time with false reports. I could file a charge on that. But we have more important things at the moment. And I want whatever help you can offer me.”

“Or else?”

“Or else. That’s right. You note that I do you the credit of assuming that you wanted the money for the good of the order, and not to keep for yourself.”

“Of course not,” he said, almost angrily. “I have spent my entire adult life in it. I would never hurt it. Do you think I want money? For myself? I have never had any and wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. But the order needed it. There is so much to do, and it costs a fortune. And I have been blocked time and again by that band of recalcitrant, obstructive old fools.”

“Fine. So if you care about your order that much, you had better tell me everything. Otherwise, I will make sure it is embroiled in so much distasteful scandal that they will rue the day they ever let you through their doors.”

She peered at him, to see how this went down. To her alarm, when she craned her head to look at his face, she saw a large tear running down his cheek.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Get it over with. You’ll feel better.”

She stood up and fetched some tissue, then handed them brusquely to him and waited while he dabbed his eyes, pretending not to see just as much as he pretended there was nothing wrong.

“I suppose I have to,” he began eventually. “God knows I have reproached myself enough; I can hardly pretend I have been anything but a stupid old man. About two years ago, soon after I became the head of the order, I received a letter from a company in Milan, making an extraordinary offer. That is, if we gave them the equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars, they would guarantee to double it within five years.”

Flavia nodded absent-mindedly, then paused, thought, and stared at him.

“You didn’t give them it, did you?” she asked incredulously.

Father Xavier nodded. “It seemed too good an opportunity. You see, with the money, I would be able to fund the new mission in Africa without disturbing anything else. Even Father Jean would not have been able to disapprove.”

“It didn’t occur to you that there might be something fishy with anyone who offers such a thing? Risky?”

He shook his head sadly. “They gave absolute guarantees. And said it was an offer they were only making to a few select investors.”

Flavia shook her head sadly. One born every minute.

“Last month I got a letter saying that, due to unforeseen circumstances, the progress of the investment had been slower than anticipated. I made enquiries, of course, and discovered that according to the contract I could not get back even the money that remained.”

“Who knew about this?”

“No one.”

“You didn’t put it before the council, ask their permission, check with any outside advisors?”

He shook his head. “No. And before you say it, I know now I was a complete fool.”

“In that case I won’t say it. So, you gave these people a quarter of a million dollars. Exactly how much have they lost?”

He sighed heavily. “Nearly all. They are reluctant to tell me.”

“I bet they are.”

“And about then I got a letter from Signor Burckhardt, offering to buy the icon. For nearly enough to make good the loss.”

“Good Lord! That’s an absurd amount. Why was he prepared to pay that much?”

“He said he wanted to make sure we would accept, and didn’t want to waste time in foolish negotiations. Of course, he didn’t bank on Father Jean.”

Flavia thought. What dealer would offer nearly a quarter of a million when there was a reasonable chance it could be had for a fraction of that amount?

Answer, obviously, one who was working to commission. Five per cent of a quarter of a million is more than five per cent of fifty thousand. Burckhardt must have had a client lined up.

“Go on.”

“So we had a meeting to discuss the possibility of selling some of our possessions, and Jean made sure it was turned down flat.”

He paused to see whether this was being heard sympathetically. “I was desperate, you see. I had to get hold of some money.”

“So you decided to sell the thing anyway.”

“Yes. I believe it was within my competence as head of the order. I arranged for him to come to the church to pick it up. He was going to bring the money, take the icon and go. And then, I suppose, I would have reported a burglary.”

“Just a second. What do you mean, he was going to bring the money with him? In cash?”

“I said I wanted the money. In cash. I’d had enough of being made a fool of.”

It got worse and worse. Flavia by now could barely believe what she was hearing. She had heard of some stupid operations in her time, but this set new standards.

“And then?” she asked. “What went wrong?”

“I don’t know. I went to the church just after six, unlocked the door and took the Virgin off the wall, and put it in a bag. Then I waited. And someone hit me. That’s almost the last I remember.”

“And that was when someone took the Virgin?”

“No,” he said definitely.

“How do you know?”

“Because she was still there. I know.”

“How? You were unconscious.”

“She talked to me.”

“What?”

“I was dying, I know I was. And she saved me through her grace. She came to me and said, “Don’t struggle, don’t worry, it’ll be all right. I’ll make sure.” Such a soft and gentle voice; full of compassion and care. Immediately I felt suffused with a warm glow of peace.”

The old Catholic in Flavia fought a momentary battle with the equally venerable old cynic, and decided to call it a draw. It had made Xavier cooperative; that in itself was truly something of a miracle. That didn’t mean she was prepared to accept that the icon wasn’t stolen by the man who hit him.

“It was a miracle,” Xavier went on. “My skin goes cold just to think of it. I have acted badly, and deserve little favour, yet I am blessed with her forgiveness. Tell me, what are you going to do with me?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea at all. Fortunately, other people decide that. I merely find out what happened. But you are in big trouble, believe me.”

Flavia walked from the Gemelli to the office; a long walk, right across the centre of town, taking her across the river and through the medieval quarters. By all reasonable standards it was absurd and a waste of time that could be much better spent. Stopping for twenty minutes at a quiet, back-street bar for a coffee and a glass of water was even more foolish. But she reckoned she needed time to think things through.

And besides, she thought she needed a little celebration. Not because of any achievement on her part, certainly. She realized she had come perilously close to having another murder on her hands. But she knew that Charanis had gone into the hospital, talked to Father Xavier and left. It established that Charanis was not only still in Rome, but also, it seemed, did not have the picture. He must have thought Burckhardt had it; then killed him when he refused—or couldn’t—say where it was. And he’s still trying. What makes him think there is any chance of getting hold of it now?

And there was the obvious point that if he didn’t have it, who the hell did? That perhaps was the central problem, and, consequently, one that had to be put aside and forgotten about for a while. Mary Verney was the prime suspect, of course, except for the fact that she was still here.

Flavia sipped her drink, and watched the office workers and occasional tourist who had been lured down the street thinking they were on the way to somewhere, stopping frequently and looking with puzzlement at their maps, turning them upside down and then doing an about turn before heading back the way they came. Know how you feel, she thought as she paid her bill and stood up.

One final detail awaited her on her desk which clinched it. A note from Fostiropoulos, admirably swift. The director of the Athens museum negotiating for Charanis’s pictures was concerned about one picture in particular. A Tintoretto with very dubious origins. Naturally the man hadn’t mentioned it to anyone before because he didn’t want to offend a vastly rich potential donor unfairly, but he was keen to know where it came from.

It took Flavia only twenty minutes to find out. The picture had vanished twenty-six years ago from a castle in Austria. Just like that, no warning, no clues and never seen again. Exactly the style of Mary Verney when she was on top form. One of the ones they hadn’t found out about last year. Got her.

Half an hour later, she had Mary Verney arrested. No politeness, no personal touch this time. Just three large policemen with a car. She told them to bundle her in the back and bring her to a cell in the basement. Don’t talk, don’t say a word. No explanations. Make it seem as grim and intimidating as possible. Frighten the life out of her.

They did a good job of it. For all her life of crime, Mary Verney had never been in trouble with the police before. Even traffic wardens made her nervous, and the experience of the Italian police at their least charming rattled her considerably, as did the fact that she was left to stew on her own for three hours before Flavia decided the time had come for a conversation. When she walked in with a file of notes as a prop, the woman seemed properly chastened. Flavia adopted a world-weary, businesslike air. Another one to put in jail. Oh, dear.

“Now, then,” she began after she’d sat there for several minutes reading her notes and making marks in the margins with a pencil, “I should tell you that we have enough for the magistrate to charge you on several counts. Firstly with leaving the scene of a crime. Secondly, conspiracy to commit theft, and thirdly—and most importantly—conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Murder?” Mary Verney said, her head jerking up in astonishment. “What murder?”

“Peter Burckhardt.”

“That’s absurd.”

“I don’t think so. We will be arguing, with evidence, that you informed one Mikis Charanis of Burckhardt’s presence in the church of San Giovanni on the morning that the icon was stolen and Father Xavier was attacked.”

“I’d never even heard of this Charanis before.”

“We will prove that twenty-six years ago you stole a Tintoretto for his father.”

“Nonsense.”

“Far from being retired, as you say, you came to Rome specifically to steal that icon, either for the father or the son. I don’t care which one. Personally, I think you should have taken your own advice. You’ve lost your touch. Greed, Mrs Verney. I’m surprised at you. I would have thought you had enough sense to know when to stop. Now you’ve blown everything.”

There was a long pause, as Mary Verney considered how right Flavia was. She always knew in her bones this was going to be a disaster, so the fact that she was sitting here, quite probably facing a hefty jail sentence, should come as no surprise. And all because of that man, whom she had liked and trusted, and who didn’t even have the courage to face her himself.

Was there any way out? If she kept quiet, she would undoubtedly go to jail. What’s more it was unlikely Charanis would believe she would keep quiet, and so would carry out his threat. And if she told the truth? Surely the same result.

“How long are you going to take over this?” Flavia asked.

“I was wondering whether you might want to come to some accommodation.”

“No. I don’t need to. So talk to me.”

“The question is whether you can help me.”

“The question is whether I am prepared to.”

This seemed to produce a stalemate, and Flavia was not in the mood for playing games today. There had been more than enough of those already. “You seem to be wanting a deal. You give me something, I give you something. I’m not interested. I want the truth, full, whole and unabridged. I want a way of checking it. And I’m not going to offer you anything in advance at all. No promises, no deals and no assurances. Take it or leave it. I don’t know why you’re so desperate to steal this picture, and I don’t care. That’s your business. So, either get on with it, or forget it.”

A third long pause, then Mary shook her head. “I know nothing about any icon or murder. I was walking on the Aventino that morning merely by coincidence. I haven’t stolen anything or injured anyone. I am a little old tourist. That is all I have to say.”

And with a calm look very much at odds with what she felt, Mary folded her hands on her lap and gazed placidly at the policewoman sitting opposite to her.

Flavia glared at her angrily. “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re in this up to your neck.”

She shook her head. “How many times do I have to tell you? I do not have the icon.”

This time Flavia lost her temper. “I know you don’t. Menzies does,” she said angrily. “He took the thing home to clean it. And won’t let us have it back until tomorrow when he’s finished. He might have told us, but he didn’t, and it’s not the point in any case. The point is that you came here to steal it and it went wrong. One man died and another was put in hospital. Now, tell me, what happened?”

A third shake of her head, although this time a slight glint in the eyes showed that she knew she’d won. She had kept her nerve; Flavia had gone too far. “I have nothing to say on this matter at all. Charge me or let me go.”

Flavia slammed the file shut and strode out of the cell, then leant heavily against the cool of the concrete wall.

“Well?” the man on duty asked. “What am I to do with her?”

“Keep her for another few hours, then let her go.” She marched back to her office to consider what she had done. Then she took a taxi to the monastery to see Dan Menzies.

Argyll’s quest for an easy solution to his own Greek problem met an early reverse as he climbed the stairs to Father Charles’s grim little room. He met Father Paul coming down, as calm and serene as ever.

“I’m afraid I do not feel that would be a good idea,” he said after Argyll had explained. “He is not well at the moment.”

“I wouldn’t detain him long. But he could save me an awful lot of time. He’s given me a puzzle and as far as I can see he already knows what the answer is.”

Father Paul shook his head. “You can try, of course. But I’m afraid the illness has overcome him again. It is difficult to get much sense out of him, and you would not be able to rely on anything you did hear. His dementia, when it comes, is overpowering.”

“How long does it last?”

“It depends. Sometimes a few hours, sometimes days.”

“I can’t wait days.”

Father Paul looked helpless. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can say to assist you. By all means go and see him; even if he doesn’t understand I think that human company is a solace to him. I try to visit him myself whenever possible. He found me and brought me into the order, so I owe him a great deal and it is a pleasure. But I think you will get little from it.”

“I’ll try anyway. He doesn’t get, ah, aggressive, does he?”

“Oh no, not at all. Not physically.”

“He shouts? Just so I’m ready for it, you understand.”

“He can be very frightening. He says terrible things. And sometimes …”

“Sometimes what?”

“He speaks in tongues.”

Father Paul was obviously struck by this last manifestation of the old man’s madness; Argyll found it the least alarming of all prospects.

As long as he gives a running translation, he thought to himself as he climbed the last few stairs after telling Father Paul he’d try anyway, he can do a mime act for all I care.

Still, dealing with madness was a slightly unnerving prospect; he had seen far too many gothic horror movies for him not to have a sense of trepidation as he knocked on the door and waited for a reply. There was none, so, after waiting a few minutes with his ear to the door, he quietly opened it, and peered in.

It was dark again, but this time he knew where to look and, through the thin slices of light coming through the closed shutters, he saw Father Charles on his knees in front of his chair. Praying. Bad manners to interrupt someone while they are praying. He started to back out.

Then Father Charles spoke, lifting his head, but not turning round. Greek, by the sound of it. Too fast for him, though.

Argyll stood there, wondering what to do next, then Father Charles turned and gestured for him to come in, repeating the phrase. Argyll was relieved; not only did the old man seem sufficiently aware to realize he was there, his face had little of the madness Argyll had expected. Total serenity and calmness, in fact, his eyes half closed, his gestures slow and almost languid. He looked at Argyll, held out his hand and waited.

Argyll walked over and took it, but the slight frown that crossed Father Charles’s face indicated something else was expected from him. He didn’t want it shaken, didn’t want to be helped up …

With a burst of inspiration, and not a little audacity, he bent over and kissed it. Bingo. Father Charles nodded and allowed himself to be helped into his chair. He gestured for Argyll to sit down on the floor, at his feet. Argyll obeyed and watched carefully for a new clue.

More Greek; Argyll nodded as though he understood. Then what sounded like Latin, then a language which was way outside his range. What had the man specialized in? Sanskrit? Assyrian? Hebrew? Could be any of those. Father Charles looked concerned when he realized he wasn’t getting through, and tried again. He swept through German and what sounded like Bulgarian before coming up with a sentence in French. Good enough. Argyll nodded furiously, and replied.

“It is your duty and privilege to remain quiet,” Father Charles said with a tone of regret in his voice at having to issue the reprimand. “I may have fallen far and been forsaken, but you will give me the honours that are mine. So much was I promised.”

“Sorry. Sir.”

“And you will address me in the appropriate manner.”

“Forgive me,” Argyll said contritely. “But what is that?”

“Your most Holy Majesty.”

“You’re a monk,” Argyll said. “Wouldn’t “Father” be more appropriate?”

Father Charles paused, and peered at Argyll closely. “I see my disguise works. Who are you, young man? I recognize you. I have seen you before. And you don’t know?”

Not much to say to that. Argyll shook his head.

“Yes, I am a monk, so it is said. I dress in these clothes and pretend. But that is for the world; not for me. You come from his Holiness, Callixtus?”

Argyll smiled. He didn’t know much about religion, but he knew who the pope was. And Callixtus he wasn’t.

“And he never said,” Father Charles continued, sounding almost amused. “Not even to you. How very like him. If you are to be my emissary, though, you must know. Otherwise you may make an error and ruin everything. But you must swear a vow of silence, that you will never reveal anything beyond this room, not even in the direst necessity. Do you so swear?”

What the hell? Completely potty, but strangely touching. At least he had a considerable amount of grandeur in his madness. Argyll swore away.

Father Charles nodded. “Know then the truth as I reveal it to your ears. I am Constantinos XI Paleologos Dragases, Emperor of Byzantium, Noblest soul, God’s vicegerent on earth, heir to Augustus and Constantine.”

Pretty grand. Argyll gaped at him in astonishment. The Emperor Constantine smiled condescendingly. “I know. You thought me dead, yet here I sit. But how I am lost, ruler of half the earth, hiding and disguised in this place, pretending to be a monk and having to celebrate in secret, in a little back room so that no one will know of my continued life. Only two or three people know it, and now you are one of them. You must keep this secret, lest all be ruined. The Emperor died on the walls of Constantinople, falling to the infidel. So the world believes, and must continue to believe until all is ready. Then he will return, sweeping down under the protection of her likeness, to restore the faith. But surprise is of the essence. A little trick, but justifiable, in the circumstances, don’t you think?”

Argyll nodded.

“It will take time, of course,” the old man said thoughtfully, but with a glint of battle in his eye as he plotted in his mind. “But our situation is not as hopeless as it seems. The Venetians and Genoese will help; will have to help because of their commercial interests. George of Serbia will do the same, because he knows he is next. The knights of St John on Malta can be relied on, I think. And there is also the Morea.

“But,” he said, leaning forward intently, “it must be done correctly, this time. Our forces are few, and we can make no mistakes. If I am to regain my throne, everyone must know what to do and when to do it. I figure a three-pronged attack. The knights land in Anatolia and pin down the forces there. George sweeps across the Balkans to the straits, and meets up with a seaborne fleet of Venetians and Genoese.”

“And yourself, your majesty?” Argyll said, almost forgetting this was simple madness and half seeing the pennants on the ships ready to sail. “You must lead them.”

Father Charles smiled, nursing his secret. “Of course. Of course. Now, I shall tell you a secret. The greatest of them all. And show you God’s goodness. Out of this disaster, this most bitter lesson, goodness shall come. Byzantium fell for a reason. It was His displeasure at our divisions. East and west, spending more time fighting each other than our common enemy.”

He stopped, and cocked his head to one side. “Check the door, sir. I fear being overheard.”

Argyll dutifully got up from his sitting position, joints cracking from the strain of being so uncomfortable, and peered round the door. “No one there,” he said quietly. “We’re not being overheard.”

He came back, and Father Charles, face suffused with excitement, leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“For the past six months, I have been negotiating the reunification of Christianity. East and west will come together again and act as one. It is a miracle; Christendom will be stronger and more powerful than ever before. I had a sign that day, in the Church of Holy Wisdom, before the walls fell. It was too late then, our contrition, but I knew my task, and I am close to completing it. Callixtus and I, we have reached agreement; he will put his whole weight behind the enterprise. And the first the infidel know of this will be when I appear once more before the walls of Constantinople, at the head of an army of French and German and even English knights. They will be overpowered and swept away.”

“And until everything is ready, you will hide here, pretending to be Brother Angelus? Is that the idea?”

He nodded slyly. “Good, eh? With only my servant Gratian, who would suspect I would live in such reduced circum stances? Lull them into a false sense of security. And all the while my secret emissaries and those of his Holiness cross Europe, weaving a net to catch the infidel in so tightly he will never escape until he is exterminated utterly. So, now you see the need for the utmost secrecy. Do you see?”

“Of course. But such a secret cannot last forever.”

“It won’t have to. There is little time. His Holiness is behind the plan wholeheartedly, but he is old and sick. And a faction at his court is opposed, and want to exploit my weakness. Another reason for secrecy. We must strike fast and hard.”

Argyll nodded. Made sense to him. “But isn’t there a bit of a problem here?”

“What problem?”

“You’re dead, right? I mean, you’re pretending to be dead. Killed on the walls, and all that. If you are suddenly resurrected, who’s going to believe it? Won’t everyone say you’re just an impostor? And refuse to follow you? Following the Emperor is one thing; following a fake is another.”

Father Charles wagged his finger. “Very astute, young man. But not as astute as I am. Believe me when I tell you; this has been planned well. They will believe I am who I am, but it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because they will follow her.”

“Who.”

“The Hodigitria.”

Argyll looked at him, and Father Charles chuckled, then turned deeply serious.

“You are stunned into silence. I thought you would be. Yes, young man. Yes. Rejoice at the news. She has survived. The holiest picture in all the wide empire, the Mother herself, painted by the hand of St Luke guided by God, and a true image of her likeness and that of her only begotten son. She lives and is here.” His voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “In this very building. All true Christians will follow her. He who has her blessing is destined to hold the Christian empire in his hands. So it is believed and so it will be. Now, guard my secret until we are ready to act.”

By the time he left Father Charles’s room, the return to sunlight and normality as sudden a shock as if he had suddenly been transported in a time machine across the centuries, Argyll was well off-track. He had found out what the picture was, or what it might be; that was all that was important. He should have got into a taxi and gone straight round to Flavia and told her.

But he didn’t. He was so bemused by Father Charles that he forgot all about what seemed to him now to be a somewhat parochial and trivial aspect of the whole business.

He didn’t even doubt it, or not much. He headed back to the university library for one reason only: to confirm Father Charles’s story. He knew it was true, or at least a reasonable interpretation of events. Father Charles was completely out of his mind, but he was still intelligent. Somewhere in his brain all sorts of connections had short-circuited, probably at the shock of the painting being stolen. The tale of the Emperor, the loss of the picture had all become jumbled up in his head, causing him to identify too much with those subjects he had studied in the past. But just because his method of telling it was a little unorthodox, didn’t mean the tale was senseless; it had just come out in an odd way.

But first he could at least see if there was anything on record which contradicted the story. He collected piles of books; built himself a small fortress of volumes in one corner of the library before opening them and starting to read. Ouspensky on Icons. Runciman on the siege. Pastor on the Popes, Ducas for an eyewitness account of the fall. Then dictionaries and encyclopaedias and digests. Enough to be getting on with.

He read furiously, then got up for more, and started again, reading incredibly quickly and with a level of concentration he could rarely manage. An hour passed, then two, and still he found nothing, not a word, to make Father Charles’s madness seem impossible. The Emperor was said to have fallen on the last day of the siege, but no one ever properly identified the body. The Turkish Sultan Mehmet II impaled a head on a stake, then stuffed it and sent it round the courts of the Middle East to show his victory, but there was never the slightest proof it was the right head. The Emperor Constantine vanished, and was never seen again. There was no body, no eyewitnesses to his death. That didn’t mean that the Greek Brother Angelus was the Emperor, but it didn’t prove that it could not be, either.

So what about the painting, the Hodigitria. It was easy to establish that this was the most venerated icon in the whole of the east; a Virgin, left hand outstretched, with a child on the right arm. Paraded around the walls in 1087 and credited with saving the city from disaster, and brought out from the church in times of war and emergency. Traditionally said to have been painted, from the life, by St Luke. The special symbol uniting Emperor, city, empire and Christendom. The Turks had destroyed it, in the orgy of looting and violence that was their right when a city which resisted was taken by siege. But again, no witnesses. No one saw them do it. And on the evening before the final assault, the painting was not brought out and paraded around the walls as was the custom. If ever divine help was needed it was then. Her failure to appear would surely have demoralized the troops terribly. So why not? There could be no reason—unless it had already left the city, smuggled out on one of the Venetian galleys that were already slipping out of harbour and running the gauntlet of the Turkish siege to get to safety. Perhaps the Emperor had laid his plans well in advance, and realized that not even the Virgin Mary herself could save his city from its own foolishness. So he made sure she was safe, and set up his own last-minute escape, already thinking about his counter-attack. Then he came to Rome, to plot and wait.

But the counter-attack never happened. No massing of armies, no reunification of Christendom; nothing. Nobody lifted a finger, and Constantinople became and stayed Istanbul. Argyll began on his pile of books about the popes. The name was right, at least; Callixtus III was pope from 1455, and dedicated his papacy to recovering the east. But nothing came of it. The only attempt at reunifying Christendom had been years before, at the Council of Florence, and it fizzled out in mutual acrimony. And Callixtus himself died in 1458, to be replaced by a new pope more interested in building projects and artistic patronage. Certainly, if the Emperor had survived, then his chances of a revanche died with Callixtus.

One final question. Father Charles had talked of the last night in Santa Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom, before the final assault. Ducas had an account of it. How in the panic, the remaining population, knowing the end was near, went to the Church of Hagia Sophia to pray, and had to make do with whatever priests were around. Catholics submitted to Orthodox priests, the Orthodox to Catholics, neither caring which was which, for the first and possibly last time. The Emperor was there, before the battle trumpets sounded and summoned him to the walls. Perhaps such a sight could inspire a man; certainly he was right in saying it was too late. A few hours later the troops burst in; many of the congregation were killed, the rest enslaved, and the next day the most venerable church of all became a mosque.

Argyll yawned and looked at his watch, then started with alarm. Six-thirty already. He’d been there for nearly four hours; the time had passed almost without him noticing. As he came back to the real world, he realized his back hurt and his shoulder muscles were protesting at the insensitive treatment they’d received. He began putting the books back on the shelves, then picked up the phone to see where Flavia was.

He was in a taxi minutes later.

Argyll found himself oddly hesitant when he found her. Even though Father Charles was a lunatic, he had sworn to keep his secret. On the other hand, he saw no reason why this should extend to the icon as well. And perhaps his case would seem stronger if he left out the information that he had it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Flavia was unlikely to be impressed by being told his evidence came from a Byzantine Emperor who’d been dead for over four centuries. It cuts into your credibility. Come to think of it, and here Argyll did begin to think of it almost for the first time, it was a bit unlikely.

So he improvised a little. “I’ve been through the documents, and done a great deal of work on the side. In fact, I’ve done so much so fast my head’s spinning. And I think I’ve figured it out. The picture is—or at least your man believes it is—something called the Hodigitria. Does that mean anything to you?”

Flavia shook her head cautiously. “I assume it’s an icon.”

“Yes. Mary. With child. That’s right. The distinctive aspect is that the child be on the left arm. There’s thousands of them, it seems. One of the most common formats.”

“So? What’s so special about this one?”

“By tradition they all derive from a single original. Painted from the life by St Luke. So called because of where it was kept in Constantinople. It was the icon of the Byzantine empire. The protector, and the supreme emblem of the empire. As long as Constantinople had it, the city could never fall and Christianity would hold sway in the eastern Mediterranean. And had a right to hold sway there.”

“Didn’t work too well, did it?” Flavia commented drily.

Argyll almost felt offended at the aspersion. “Officially, it was destroyed during the final assault by the Turks. The important bit,” he said sternly, determined to make the proper excuses, “is that as far as I can see it wasn’t. It was taken out of the city to safety. So its miraculous powers were never tested. I’m sure it wouldn’t have made any difference, but there we are. It was brought to Rome by a Greek travelling under the pseudonym of Brother Angelus, and deposited in the monastery of San Giovanni, where it has stayed. Until a couple of days ago. That is what your man Charanis wants.”

“Is it the only contender?”

“Oh, no. There are more paintings attributed to St Luke than there are to Vermeer. Three in Rome alone. From what I’ve read, the pedigrees of these others aren’t so good. Besides, that doesn’t matter. This is the only one which can claim to be the Hodigitria.”

“And Burckhardt knew this?”

“So it seems. He was in the archives and even though I think he missed the whole story, he got enough to make some sense of it.”

“Is this thing real, Jonathan?”

He shrugged. “Was it painted by St Luke? No; it seems to have been mentioned first in the eighth century. A Holy Fake, if you like. Whether it is the same painting, I don’t know; there’s a good chance. That’s the target, anyway. Have you found it? Come to think of it, has this Charanis man of yours?”

She shook her head. “He’s still here, and still looking. Which gives us a chance of catching him. With Mary Verney’s cooperation.”

“She’s going to help?”

Flavia grinned nervously. “I hope so. She doesn’t know it yet, though.”

“What’s her motive in all this?”

Flavia shook her head. “Damned if I know. It’s not money, that’s obvious. This man seems to have a hold on her somehow. And it must be a tight grip for her to take so many risks. Do you feel like making yourself useful this evening?”

“I’ve been useful all afternoon.”

“In that case a few extra hours won’t be noticed.”

“What do you want?”

“Go and keep an eye on Dan Menzies for me. I’ll be round in an hour or so.”

Mary Verney was released by the police after about eight hours in the police station, and left the building with almost a light heart. She had withstood the pressure and kept her nerve. Initially she had been tempted to cooperate with Flavia; Mikis Charanis was a dangerous lunatic, and she was in too weak a position on her own.

But then Flavia overstepped. Once she knew they had no solid evidence against her, her hand was strengthened. And once she knew where the icon was, she had a motive. She could finish the job, with good luck. And surely she deserved some.

The problem, as far as she could see it, was perfectly simple. Charanis had her granddaughter and wanted the icon. She wanted her granddaughter, but didn’t have the icon to give in return. Menzies did have it—or might, she wasn’t so stupid as not to consider the possibility of Flavia being either wrong or devious—and so she would have to collect it from Menzies. Simple and easy. Just as well she had taken the trouble of finding out where he lived when she found out he was working in the church. And just as well he had never met her.

What was the alternative? Luring Charanis into a police trap? Fine; except his father would use every weapon in his considerable arsenal to get him released and would probably succeed. And even if he did go to jail, he still had his associates, and once it became clear that Mary Verney was responsible for his being in jail, then she and her granddaughter would pay a heavy price. She wanted no harm to come to her granddaughter, and did not want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.

She was not someone who was used to sitting back and accepting her fate; in her mind she saw her whole life as a struggle, to protect her and hers from the outside world. That was why she’d started stealing in the first place. She was used to doing things her way, at her pace, and for her own advantage. Being pushed and corralled by thugs on the one hand and the police on the other gave her such a feeling of being squeezed that she almost felt ill. Not that she had no sympathy with Flavia; one of the curiosities about her, so obvious that even she was aware of it, was that she generally regarded herself as a law-abiding citizen. And, apart from stealing for a living, so she was. She tutted over rising crime figures she read about in the newspapers, advocated stiff penalties for criminals and, generally, blamed the parents. Which she did in her own case as well. But, usually, she always managed to put what she did into a different category. Apart from the one occasion when she had been blackmailed, she hurt no one, and destroyed nothing. A redistribution of goods. She had few moral scruples about how she had spent her life; most of the people she’d stolen from could well afford their losses. But she had no illusions either, and had an odd sense of justice. Charanis offended that and there was nothing to be done about it.

She was pouring herself a drink when the phone rang. The porter downstairs. A visitor. Her heart skipped a beat. She listened for a while, then recovered slowly.

“What a surprise,” she said coldly when he’d finished. “Perhaps you’d better come up, Mr Charanis.”

Mary hadn’t seen him for years; not since she had personally delivered a picture, and ended staying on in his house for another month in what was one of the most delightful, if poignantly short, periods of her life. The most charming, and the most exciting, man she had ever known. And then he goes and does this to her; she was certain he must be behind this. She had only encountered his kind, personal side in the past; never before been in the way stopping him getting something he wanted.

But even now, with her in her fifties and him very much older, her heart beat a little faster at the prospect of seeing him once more. And she was frightened as well; not just because of what he was doing to her, but also for fear that his ageing would confirm her own, and show her memories to be illusions.

Certainly he had changed; although as he stood there, bowed over now and old, the lopsided grin on his face and mischievous look in his eyes instantly made her begin to respond before she savagely repressed the impulse.

“A long time,” she said coolly.

“Far too long,” he replied in his thickly accented English. “It’s good to see you again, Mary.” There was a long pause as they looked at each other before he added: “How are you?”

“It’s strange that you of all people should ask,” she replied. “Considering what you have done to me.”

He nodded. “I feared as much. You are under something of a misapprehension. I have done nothing.”

“You have kidnapped my granddaughter, and left me with a high probability of going to jail. To my mind, that is not nothing.”

“Your granddaughter, is it? Have we become so old already?”

She poured herself another drink, and noted with pride that her hands were absolutely steady. Good, she thought. At least I can still control something.

“Tell me what has happened.”

There was something in his calm approach which stopped her making a sneering response and do as he asked. About his son, and the icon and her granddaughter. About the police and the murder of Burckhardt. The old man looked more and more sombre as she continued, his head bowed almost until he looked as though he was asleep. He wasn’t, she knew; he had always done that when he was thoughtful.

Eventually she finished, and he sat there silently.

“Well? What is it? Are you going to say you have nothing to do with this? Or simply that you don’t believe me?”

He looked up at her. “I’m afraid I believe every word. But no. I have nothing to do with this. Nothing at all. Surely you realize I would never do anything like this to you, of all people?”

“I would have thought not. But I tried to talk to you and was fobbed off.”

“I was on retreat. I always give strict instructions that no one is to disturb me.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you cannot control your own son.”

“He is not my son.”

“Who is he, then?”

Charanis shrugged. “He was born after you and I were together. It was an accident, but in a way my own fault. Your fault. I turned a blind eye, but was not a very good father. I maintained all the properties until a few years ago, and then my patience snapped.”

“Why?”

“He was dealing in drugs. For no reason; God knows he didn’t need money and even if he did such a thing was unconscionable. I was father enough, or stupid enough, to use my influence to have the case dropped, but I refused from then on to have anything to do with him. I am old-fashioned, perhaps; but there are some things I will not overlook. Mikis kept on pushing until he discovered what it was. He has money enough, and neither of us miss the other’s company. Since then he has become more and more evil. That is not too strong a word, believe me. He has used his money—my money, the money I made and gave to him in a fit of stupidity—to foment hatred because he sees himself as a future force in politics. And he is willing to do anything and sink to any depth to get some measure of power. I thought for a while it was just a period he would grow bored with as he’s grown bored of everything else in his life, until I began to hear of what exactly he was doing. He is doing real harm, Mary. He may have killed people. He seems to think that will show how strong he is. There is only himself; he has no sense of right or wrong at all. And I am responsible. I anyone could have made him different, I could.”

“You didn’t, even if you could have, which is doubtful. And he’s on the loose now. Why, exactly, is he doing this to me?”

“About a year ago I had a letter from this man Burckhardt. He’s a man I know well and trust. I’ve bought many things from him in the past. He is honest and reliable. He knew that I collected icons and asked if I wanted another one. I said no; I have five hundred and won’t be able to catalogue even those by the time I die. But he said this would be the jewel of the collection. He came to see me and talk to me about it.”

“And?”

“He said he had found the Hodigitria. You know what that is?”

Mary shook her head.

“The holiest icon of Byzantium, and he could prove it. And he did. He showed me enough evidence to conclude that there was an reasonable chance that it was the real picture, brought by a fleeing monk after the fall of Constantinople. I told him to get it, no matter what the price.”

“Fine. But how the hell does this fit in with what’s been going on here?”

“I initially turned him down, remember. And he touted the picture around other people. And also talked to Mikis. He didn’t know I no longer spoke to him and hoped he would persuade me to listen. When Mikis heard what it was, he decided he could make use of it himself. Turn it into a banner, a standard for his particular brew of contemptible politics. At least, I’m certain that is what happened.”

“Burckhardt was operating for you, was he? I suppose I should have guessed.”

“You should have. I gave him a draft for up to a million dollars to get the picture and told him to come back to me for more if necessary. The last I heard from him was that he had struck a deal for a quarter of that sum. Then friends tell me the Italian police are making enquiries, and that Burckhardt had been shot. So I come to find out what is going on.”

“How did you find out about me?”

“There are ways,” he said with a wry smile. “In this case, a friend in the embassy called Fostiropoulos.”

“How did Mikis find out about me? Why didn’t he just hire some bruiser? It’s not a difficult job.”

Charanis looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, and thought. “I suspect that is his sense of revenge. It burns strongly in him.”

“What on earth for? What have I ever done to him? The last time I saw him he was only six. He could hardly remember me.”

“He seems to remember you very well. You see, he blames you for the collapse of my marriage to his mother. He has rearranged the facts so that all was a veritable garden of Eden until you appeared. Not the case, of course. Yanna’s behaviour was intolerable long before that. But we all must find reasons for things. He knew you stayed with me, and it was no secret in my family then that you supplied me with pictures. When the national museum queried the origins of one of them, he could easily have reached the right conclusion with a little work. I suspect he saw a way both of getting the icon and of visiting on your family some of the same misery you brought on his. Now tell me. Do you have the picture? If so, give it to me now, and I will sort out everything for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, meaning it. “But I don’t have it. I wish to God I did. I may have it soon.”

“Mikis mustn’t get it. It would not only be dangerous, it would be blasphemous. I will not allow it.”

“I see things differently. If I had it, I would hand it over to him now, and hang the consequences. I want Louise safe, and frankly, I wouldn’t care if the entire Balkans went up in flames as a result.”

Charanis shook his head.

“Will he harm Louise, do you think?” she asked, daring at last to hear the answer she most dreaded.

“That’s your granddaughter’s name? Not until he gets the icon. After that, I don’t know. It is possible. Cruelty is the one thing he is thorough about.”

Her heart was pounding now. It was her worst nightmare. A straightforward bit of force she could deal with: a contract was a contract even if terms were violent. But she was dealing with a man who was unbalanced. She saw her options shrinking, then disappearing. If she refused to give him the icon, Louise would die. If she gave it to him, she might still be killed. She had to tell him what she planned to do.

He thought a while, then sighed with bitter old age. “Then I suppose there is no choice. I think I always knew it would come to this, sooner or later.”