The Icon

EPIROS, 1944

The crypt beneath the church was many years older than the structure above, and housed the bones of countless village ancestors. Some old men claimed to know which shelf of skulls, shards, and powder belonged to which family, but most agreed that such arrangements had become confused generations ago, and the bones went wherever they fit. During times of persecution the crypt had been a sanctuary for prayer, and a refuge for wanted men, it was said; but the same claim was made for every crypt, cave, and cellar in the region. More recently, the dank, tangled passages of the ossuary had become a place to avoid for anyone who had sampled even a taste of his own mortality, but they continued to hold a fascination for the young.

As a boy, Andreas had shown no interest in the church, but the crypt was another matter. He would take whichever brave souls who would accompany him, even his gloomy half brother, on after-dark tours of the chamber, scaring the other boys senseless with made-up tales. Mikalis, bred on his mother’s grisly Bible stories, scared least easily. Decades later, Andreas could still call forth the image of his runtish sibling, at the edge of the lantern’s light, staring transfixed at a broken skull in a dark crevice. A disturbing memory. It would take until Mikalis went to the seminary for Andreas to understand what he had seen in his nine-year-old brother’s face: not ghoulishness, but reverence.

A shot sounded nearby, a German Mauser, and the captain crouched among the spindly trees behind his cousin Glykeria’s house. Were more andartes about; the communists perhaps? More likely a soldier’s nervousness. A dangerous thing. All it would take was one frightened eighteen-year-old Austrian conscript to shoot a villager, and the whole company would empty their rifles at anything that moved. By morning the place would be a smoking ruin, women and children dead in the streets, another Koméno or Klisoúra. Andreas, who now went by the name Elias, would have to prevent that, but first he must get to the crypt. It was the most likely route of escape from the burning church.

Germans were scattered about the roads, and the captain moved cautiously. Fotis had called him Elias, herald of the Messiah, some bad joke, but the name had stuck. Most of the guerrillas took aliases so that the enemy could not trace them to a family or village which would pay the price for their actions. Who knew that the Germans would not care, that they would simply kill any random fifty or hundred civilians in the area? Tonight, the captain could call himself Elias or Fritz from Berlin, but if they caught him with a pistol in his belt, he would be shot, along with half the village.

The crypt entry was more or less an open secret. Every child knew of the low path that split off of the road to the churchyard. Beyond the last houses-shacks, really, for squatters or monks-at the edge of the wood line, a passage appeared in the earth at the steep bottom of the slope. Tall weeds and wildflowers abounded there, but the entrance was not hard to find. Most men had to duck to enter, and Captain Elias more than most, being tall. He would have to make his way by feel until he reached the place where a lantern was stowed. The walls were earth for the first twenty meters, uneven, liable to collapse. When his toes kicked the little step up, and he felt cool stone beneath his hand, he knew he’d found the ossuary.

The roar of the fire was audible, but no heat penetrated the crypt-just a thin smell of smoke. He made his way clockwise to the niche where the lantern was stored, found it: one panel of glass was broken, the candle a mere stub, but it would serve if he could find his matchbox. Yes, there. The spark of the match head was like lightning in that space. Slowly, an illuminating glow grew, and the shelves of yellow bones were before him. Beyond them was the stairway that led behind the flaming altar above. The bones were watchful, unmoved by recent events. They seemed saintly in their lifelessness, purified by death. Yet their owners were just dogs like me, thought Elias: selfish, angry, ignorant fools; breeding, feeding, boasting, stealing, killing, dying, generation after generation. They were not good souls simply because they had perished. Just wreckage. Just bones.

At the far end of the aisle, the sound of the fire grew louder, and he could see black smoke rolling down the stairway. The door above was open. Thrown aside by someone making an escape? Covering his mouth, the captain approached more closely, bent nearly to the ground: blood, dark pools in the shadowy lantern light, on several of the worn steps. The acrid smell was thickening. He would not be able to stay long. Elias searched the other aisles as swiftly as he could, and quickly found what he’d most feared.

In the space nearest the south wall, where the oldest bones lay, he saw a bunched black cassock on the floor. He put the lantern down carefully, his movements slowed, breathing the poisonous air freely now, and knelt beside his brother. He rolled the body over, and his right hand came away wet with blood from a wound in the back. The face, as the light found it, was far too pale, the eyes glazed, the mouth a pained rictus, and Elias reflexively covered it with his free hand. It required a long, deep breath before he could look again. There, an awful, jagged wound in the throat, around the larynx. Designed not necessarily to kill, but to silence the victim instantly. The captain knew that particular wound well. He had inflicted it a few times himself, had taught its use to his young disciple. He thought again of the strange look Kosta had given him earlier, and read new possibilities into it.

The aching grief welling up within him felt all out of proportion to the affection he had shown Mikalis in life. They had different mothers, had chosen different paths, believed different things. They were not close, except in the instinctive way that blood sometimes demanded. Elias would have died to protect Mikalis, yet could not swear that he loved him. Died to protect him; yet had he not let him escape his grasp, race to his death? The captain closed his eyes, tried to steady himself once more. Knife was better than fire, surely. The job had been mishandled, though; he’d not died at once but managed to crawl down here. Bled to death, a martyr to a painting.

His hands shook with rage, but the rage only masked a withering self-judgment. He could blame the Snake and Müller for dreaming up the trade, but he could not blame them for his part in it. The actual plan was his alone. The icon meant nothing to him, weapons were what mattered; but it had all gone wrong now. One life had been lost already, and more would follow if he could not discover who exactly had betrayed the dirty scheme, if he could not find a way to sew this ugly business back together. If he could blame Müller, there might be a righteousness to his anger. Yet he knew that the Prince had been as surprised as himself to find the church ablaze, and he certainly would not have stayed around to engage the andartes if he had the icon-he’d be back in Ioannina by now, with his loot. The captain looked at his brother’s face once more. It wasn’t a German who had stabbed Mikalis. No, the betrayal lay much closer.

Elias slipped the small gold cross and chain from around the priest’s neck and placed them in his pocket. There was nothing else of value on the body. Grabbing hold under the armpits, pillowing the limp head against his leg, the captain dragged Mikalis to a corner of the crypt, nearer the tunnel exit. There, he arranged the body as respectfully as possible, placing his kerchief over the face, only noticing now the dark blisters on the hands, the burned and frayed bottom of the cassock. The priest had fought both flame and wounds to crawl down here and die among his ancestors. The captain placed two fingers on the cold forehead in a sort of benediction, but no words came. Next, he retrieved the lantern, doused the flame, and returned it to its place. Then, dizzy from the invisible fumes, twice as blind as when he had entered, Elias made his way back out into the night.

The glow from the church lit the valley, the fire reaching its apex. Elias stuffed his hands in his pockets, chin down, eyes alert, and slipped into the village. A small crowd had gathered at the base of the lane to the churchyard, women and children, buckets in hand. Four German soldiers prevented their progress. Light from the flames above caught the sentries’ helmets and young faces, and Elias could see that they were edgy and ready to shoot the first fool bold enough to step forward. Müller would not want the andartes to escape by slipping into the crowd, pretending to be part of the fire brigade, and he would let the house of God burn to its foundation. Was that a clue? If there was a chance the icon was still in the church, would the German not have every adult and child, even his own men, throwing water on the flames? What had he seen before the smoke drove him out of the sanctuary? Had the Holy Mother been removed before the fire, and did the Prince know it? If Müller thought the icon was still intact, somewhere, then anything was possible.

Elias slid around the group unnoticed. His only clue was Kosta, and he had to make a choice now: the house or the shop? If the boy had escaped the fire, and if the captain’s fears were true, then Kosta would not lead pursuers to his own home. The shop, then. Elias pushed on toward the heart of the village, using the crooked back streets. At the top of a lane the square came into sight, where another crowd was gathered. This one seemed dominated by helmeted figures and shouted commands. A number of people stood together by Tzamakis’ tavern, under guard. Village elders. Glykeria’s father was there, but Elias did not see Kosta’s father, Stamatis Mavroudas, among them.

The Mavroudas shop faced the square, but the captain had no intention of trying the front door. Instead, he slid into an alley just wide enough for a man, invisible in the night shadows. Within a few yards the space widened into a small court, four meters square, and he was before the back door. The curtains were drawn on a tiny window, but Elias could make out candlelight behind them. He slipped his pistol from his belt and gently pressed his ear to the door. Only silence at first, but a minute’s patience was rewarded by a raised voice, questioning, angry. Elias knew the voice.

Stepping to the side of the door, he rapped hard upon it. Silence once more.

“Who’s there?” a weak voice asked, finally. The old man, Stamatis.

Elias merely rapped again.

The bolt slid aside within, and the door opened a hand’s breadth. Mavroudas looked flushed and frightened. “What do you want?”

Elias looked the man in the eye but directed his words past him, into the room.

“Fotis, it’s me.”

There was a telling pause. Then the candle was covered, the door pulled wider, and Elias stepped inside. The door thumped shut behind him, the candle leaped back to life as a large bowl was lifted up, and the familiar figure of his commander stood by the table. Huge black mustache, hawklike nose, somber eyes in a long, sloping forehead. Fotis always conveyed a sense of calm, but the captain could see tension etched in the forehead and the jawline. The Snake was angry.

“You shouldn’t use my name.”

Elias ignored the comment. Stamatis knew them both.

“What are you doing here?” Elias demanded. It was not the tone to take with a superior, but he didn’t care. Fotis should have been with the team sent to retrieve the guns, simultaneously with Müller’s removing the icon. Elias, the only one among the guerrillas who knew where the Mother was hidden, had insisted on assigning roles. He’d never forgotten the covetous way Fotis had admired the work years before, stroking the cypress panels as he would a lover. He wanted the Snake nowhere near the church when the confiscation occurred, and leading the team that seized the guns was an honor Fotis could not refuse without revealing some ulterior motive for the whole scheme. The captain had thought it all through. A false message would get Mikalis out of the church; the Germans guarding the wrecked villa where the weapons were stored-three or four men in Müller’s pay-would fire some rounds at the andartes and withdraw. Each side would get what it wanted, and only the Prince, the Snake, and the captain would know what happened.

“Interrogating this son of a whore,” Fotis answered him.

Mavroudas had used Elias’ entry to shuffle across the small storeroom-now empty of the barrels of olives, figs, and cheese that used to crowd it-toward the front of the shop. Fotis covered the distance in two strides and flung the cowering merchant back into the old chair, which groaned beneath his sudden weight. Coiled rope and a six-inch blade sat on the table, on either side of the fat candle. Fotis had placed them carefully, to give Stamatis something to think about.

“Why aren’t you with the men I sent?”

“They are safe,” the Snake answered casually.

“What happened up there?”

Dragoumis looked at him hard.

“What do you think happened? The Prince didn’t get his gift, so he didn’t call off the men guarding the house.”

“You couldn’t overrun them?”

“We could have. There were only a few, but they had a machine gun, and it would have cost many men. God knows they were eager, but they were not my men to spend that way.”

We’re all your men, thought Elias, and you spend us in whatever manner suits you.

“So why are you here?” he pressed.

“The same reason as you. To find out what the hell happened.”

“You seem to know already.”

“I could say the same.” Fotis circled the table like a shark.

“Here we both are.”

“Kosta went into the church during the shooting. I don’t know why he went in or if he got out.” Elias could not mention Mikalis. It was too new, too raw.

“The son, yes, he is part of it.”

“And this one?” Elias kicked the chair leg and Stamatis flinched.

“This one,” Fotis answered evenly, a hand upon the merchant’s shoulder, “was seen leaving the church, with another man. And something wrapped in a bundle.”

“Before the fire?”

“During the fire.”

“Seen by whom?”

“It’s a lie,” hissed the old thief. “It’s a lie. They all hate me. Peasants. They would lie for a crust of bread. Captain Elias-”

“Enough of that.”

Dragoumis slapped the merchant’s face to quiet him, and Elias became aware that the old man’s desperate words were directed at him alone. Some tacit, if hostile, understanding already existed between the other two men. They were beyond petty issues like guilt or innocence, and bargained now for other lives, and the style of necessary deaths. Elias stepped closer to the table. Sweat glistened on Stamatis’ forehead. His clothes were clean, probably freshly put on before Fotis’ arrival, yet the bottom of his large beard was distinctly singed, and his matted gray hair smelled of smoke. The captain leaned over the shaking man.

“Where is Kosta?” he asked.

“Yes, where?” Fotis seconded. “You’ve sent him away with your prize, haven’t you? Where do you think he can go? You know we control all the countryside around here. Where will he go that I can’t find him?”

Stamatis shook his head vigorously, though what it was he denied was unclear. The whole pathetic situation, perhaps. A schemer snared in his own scheme. Intolerable. What the hell had he intended? Elias wondered. Not to get caught, first of all, but he must have known he would be suspected. To leave the village quickly? To sell the icon? To whom? To keep it until after the war? How to get answers from him? They could pretend to negotiate, but he would never believe them. Not now, not with the knife on the table. Besides, there was no time.

“I want to write a confession,” the merchant announced.

Fotis drew a deep, explosive breath, then let it out. His voice stayed calm.

“Listen to me. I am going to take your fingers off one by one until you tell me where your bastard boy is, and what you have done with the icon.”

“I want to write a confession,” Stamatis insisted, voice quavering. “I’ll tell you everything, but I want it on paper. And the captain must keep it, so one honest man will know the truth.”

“I can know it just as easily if you speak,” Elias answered, catching a withering look from the Snake for engaging in this dialogue at all.

“No, no, it must be on paper. So that you may prove I said these things. Men trust nothing spoken these days.”

It was some game the old thief was playing. Simply buying time, perhaps, but Elias decided to call his bluff.

“So, write.”

Fotis snorted in disgust but did not contradict his subordinate. Maybe he felt that the captain knew the merchant’s ways better than himself. Perhaps he feared the things Mavroudas might say in Elias’ presence, if pressed too hard. Elias knew that if he had not entered when he did, the interrogation would have reached the ugly stage by now, as it was still likely to do. And maybe that was the better course. Stamatis was stalling; Kosta-if Fotis was right about that-could not yet be far away.

The merchant snatched a stubby pencil from a cup, and a soiled sheet of brown paper from beneath the table, and began writing. Fotis risked a peek out the small window, and Elias slid over next to him.

“You got here quickly.”

“Yes.” Nothing more, of course. It was one of the Snake’s rules never to explain, never to be placed on the defensive. It meant nothing either way. Yet it seemed only natural that fellow officers should discuss such a disastrous dissolution of their plans, not to mention forge a new strategy, and Elias could not help finding his chief’s reticence disturbing.

“Where are my men now?” he asked.

“The little hill above the north road.”

“So close? Müller has fifty soldiers.”

“The church is south. For all he knows you’re still there. He won’t split up and strike north, not in the dark.”

“He could call for reinforcements.”

“He is not even supposed to be here,” Fotis snapped. “Those troops are borrowed. He came for a trade, not a fight. Anyway, your men will know to scatter if there is trouble.”

“Who did you leave in charge?”

“The one you picked, Giorgios. What happened at the church?” Fotis finally asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Elias answered. Two could play the game. Besides, it would not do to say he wasn’t precisely certain what had happened. “Are you sure this one has the icon?”

“You have another idea?”

“I only wonder how a man could escape that inferno. Or a painting. It may have simply burned.”

“I don’t think so. I think this bastard lit the fire behind him to cover his tracks.”

“You said he came out during the fire.”

“He lit it in front to keep Müller out. Then he escaped another way.”

“How did he know Müller was coming?”

Fotis fixed him with a rare expression: incredulity bordering on disgust.

“How else? His son. Your trained dog, Kosta.”

Of course. This conspiracy was not newly hatched; father and son had been in communication all along. Kosta had been with Elias when he told Müller the plan, and again when Elias gave Stefano the message that would flush Mikalis from the church and keep him from harm while Müller took the icon. Kosta, his most trusted man. The Snake saw understanding transform the captain’s face.

“You were deceived, my friend. The boy was the old man’s spy in your camp.”

“You knew?”

“I just realized it tonight. And so have you, don’t deny it.”

A shout from the table startled them both.

“Damn it all to hell,” Stamatis cried, tearing the page lengthwise. “Damn you both, I won’t do it. I won’t confess to what I haven’t done.” He tore the page to pieces.

Fotis moved quickly to the table, and the merchant threw the paper in his face, then sprang for the knife on the table. Dragoumis grabbed wildly and nearly caught the blade with his hand, then managed to snag the older man’s wrist before the knife could find his throat. The table leaned and the guttering flame threw wild shadows about the room as the men struggled.

Elias first reached for his pistol, but that would make too much noise. Instead, he grabbed the rope and pulled it around the merchant’s neck, yanking him back into the chair.

“Release the knife.”

It clattered to the table, and Fotis quickly snatched it up, his wide eyes narrowing in rage.

“That’s enough. Tie him there, with one hand free. We’ll have answers now.”

The captain had seen this before. Communists, collaborators, once even a German corporal, tied to a chair while Fotis worked on them with the knife. Torture had its uses. Time was wasting, and the fat thief was a likely candidate to break quickly. Still, Elias hesitated.

“Tie him,” Dragoumis demanded, his composure gone, his face flushed with blood.

A hard rap at the door, followed quickly by two more. Fotis went to the window.

“It’s Marko.”

They covered the light again, and a thickset young man slipped in. He nodded to Elias who ignored him. Marko had a way of appearing when there was dirty work to do. He was a baker’s son from a few villages away, but not with the captain’s andartes. He worked directly for Dragoumis. Fotis had shaped him, or perhaps nature had. Nothing unsettled the boy, no order was too grim. Elias believed that he had found such a one in Kosta, but Marko was the genuine item. Perhaps a lack of cleverness was the key. Kosta was clever, damn him.

“What’s happening out there?”

“They’re gathering people in the square,” Marko replied.

“They started with the old men, but now they’re grabbing anyone, even some women. I guess there aren’t enough men left. I was lucky they didn’t take me.”

“Did you kill any Germans at the church?” Fotis asked.

“One,” Elias answered.

“That’s forty they’ll shoot at sunrise. You’ll be lucky if they don’t burn the place.”

“Bastards,” said Marko.

Elias had let his grip relax, and Mavroudas slipped the noose, but only to fall like a heavy sack at the guerrilla leader’s feet.

“Captain, for the love of Christ, spare me from these beasts. You’re not like them, you’re a good man, everyone respects you.”

“Get up.”

“No, please, I beg you. Show mercy, it is in your hands.”

The merchant’s face was damp with tears, his eyes wild. Elias knew that his terror was genuine, yet there was also a staged quality to the outburst. Stamatis seized the captain’s right hand between his own in a prayerlike fashion, and fixed him with a meaningful stare. Even as he struggled to pull his hand free, Elias felt a scrap of paper being pressed against his palm.

The room’s dynamics shifted invisibly. The old thief had made his choice; the rest was up to Elias. He felt the other men’s eyes upon him and knew that Fotis rarely missed a trick.

“Let go of me, you pig.”

“No, listen, I don’t know where the boy is, I don’t-”

He clouted the merchant across the face with his left hand, rotating his body in rhythm with the blow, stuffing the paper into his pocket while his right hand was obscured from view.

“You have no friends here, Mavroudas,” Fotis said quietly, his calm restored. “Marko, put him in the chair and tie him, one hand free. Which hand do you want to lose first, Mavroudas, left or right? You see, you still have some choices.”

Marko worked swiftly. Stamatis, his last card played, nothing to distract him from the horror to come, stared stony-faced at the wall, a whimper escaping him as the knots secured him in place. Elias would not watch. It was one thing to kill strangers in a fight, quite another to slowly drain the life from a man you had known since childhood. Yet the merchant’s actions had caused Mikalis’ death. It was right he should die. So let him; Elias had other work. He headed to the door as Fotis took up the knife.

“Where are you going?”

“To find my men on the north hill.”

“Yes, good. If you must move, the old monastery, not the cave.”

“I know my business,” snapped Elias.

“Of course. Otherwise, stay on the hill and I will find you there.”

“What is the plan if he talks?”

Fotis smiled unpleasantly. “He will talk. We will discuss it when I find you. Take care, my boy.” The last words spoken in that urgent hush which convinced you of their sincerity.

Stamatis’ whimpering reached a higher pitch, almost a scream, as Elias slipped out into the night. “Put something in his mouth” were the last words he heard.

Activity in the square continued. Scattered pairs of Germans were everywhere, pounding on doors, looking for something or someone. Müller probably had a dozen false leads to pursue, fed to him by panicked villagers trying to save themselves. Elias kept within the darkest shadows, thankful for the lack of moonlight, and slipped street to street between houses, stopping at a bend in an alleyway. He found the box in his vest pocket, with only a precious few matches remaining. Drawing out the little scrap of paper with one hand, he struck a match against the cold stone wall with the other.

St. Gregori’s chapel. Spare the boy.

That was all. He touched the dying match to the paper, watched it flare brightly and vanish in ash. St. Gregori’s. A good choice. It was not in regular use, and the captain had a hard time remembering just where it was. To the north somewhere, but well off of any road. Spare the boy? How could he be serious? Did Stamatis not know what Kosta had done to Mikalis? Did he think that Elias was unaware? Why should his mercy be greater than the Snake’s, who had not lost a brother? The old thief had gone soft in his final minutes, but it did not matter.

How to proceed? He no longer trusted Fotis. It was best that he hadn’t mentioned Mikalis, for then Fotis would not trust him to act rationally. The most important thing was to get to the chapel quickly. With the icon he had bargaining power, he could still make some kind of deal. Stamatis would talk; Fotis would be directly on Elias’ heels.

The next few streets were clear of Germans, and this allowed freer movement. Stefano’s tavern was closed, no light visible inside. The Germans might have the barkeep, but Elias doubted it. Not for nothing did he trust messages to Stefano. The man was a collector of secrets but never spoke them unless the price was right, and he was skilled at arriving and departing unnoticed. Where would he be now? Not at home. The wife and child were dead; only the mother-in-law was in the house, and Stefano would not care what happened to her. He would not be walking the streets with a roundup in progress. No, Elias guessed that Stefano was sitting in the darkened tavern, waiting for the danger to pass. The captain went to the back door. There was a bolt on the inside, but Elias remembered that the bracing screws were loose. A polite knock was not going to serve. Without deliberation, he stepped back and threw his left shoulder against the door, which leaped on its hinges, making a terrible noise, but did not give. So much for surprise. The captain stepped back again, shifting his right shoulder forward and placing the bottom of his left foot on the wall behind. Killed by a nervous tavern owner, he mused in disgust; and I gave him that damn pistol! Then he sprang forward with all his strength.

The door gave, just, but the shock of the impact staggered Elias and he stumbled to the floor. He stayed prone for several seconds but spoke at once, to identify himself.

“Stefano, it’s me.”

The tavern keeper would not have willingly let him in, but would not shoot him now that he was. Empty chairs and tables loomed in the faint light from the windows. The bar stood by the kitchen entry, and Elias crawled that way. Peering around the edge, he made out a figure peering over the top. He placed his pistol against the man’s knee.

“I’m down here.”

The tavern owner jumped in surprise.

“Easy,” said the captain, rising to his feet. “Put your pistol down.” He had not actually seen a weapon, but he heard the thunk of it being released. “Light a lantern.”

“Who has oil, besides you and the Germans?”

“A candle, then.”

The low, flickering light revealed a swollen bruise around Stefano’s left eye, and his refusal to look at the captain made questions almost unnecessary, but Elias had to be certain.

“Did you deliver the message to Mikalis?” Elias asked.

“If you ask me, then you know I didn’t.”

“Who did that to your face?”

“Mavroudas. The old man.”

“To learn the message?”

“He already knew that. To persuade me not to go, to let him go in my place.”

“Beat you with one hand, paid you with the other.”

“What does it matter?”

“You’re very casual for a traitor.”

Stefano’s eye widened, the first sign of real alarm.

“I am no traitor. Did he not deliver the message?”

“You must have known that he intended more than that.”

“How am I to know what he has in mind? He threatened to kill me if I crossed him.”

“He delivered it. Then things went wrong. Mikalis is dead.”

“No.” The tavern keeper’s face collapsed, and tears welled up in his eyes. Did he think that Elias was about to execute him, or was it real grief for the life of the popular priest? Who could say? The captain wanted to strike him, but might knock him senseless, which would not serve his purposes. He stepped in close and put the pistol to Stefano’s throat.

“I should kill you, but I need you to do two things. You must not fail in either.”

Stefano nodded.

“You will go to the German major, Müller,” Elias continued.

“You’ll tell him that the business at the church was a mistake. The deal is still possible. I will bring him what he wants before sundown tomorrow, but he must not shoot anyone. If he does, everything is off. He must be alone when you tell him, and you must reach him before sunrise. Do you understand?”

Stefano paused only a moment, licking his dry lips.

“I will do it.”

Elias stepped away and put the pistol back in his belt.

“If you do, you will save many lives. But you must be swift, and you must convince him. No one can know of this, ever. It is your death if you speak.”

“Of course.”

The tavern owner’s eyes burned with sincerity, but that would pass. Such secrets got out. Someone would see Stefano and Müller together, maybe the communists would get hold of him. It was just the sort of story they wanted to hear, republicans and Germans in bed together. Stefano would say what he must to survive, or even sell the information. He was slippery, an unwise choice, but there was no one else. Kosta was gone. Elias’ other men didn’t know what he was doing, and they would never support it if they did. Every man in the village was compromised. Though who was he to judge, Elias wondered of himself; he, the most compromised man of all? All the good men were dead.

“After you see Müller, go to my father’s widow.” He would not call her his stepmother. “Tell her that her son’s body lies in the northwest corner of the crypt. She may send a man there to find him. Go yourself if she asks.”

Stefano seemed more daunted by this task than the previous one, but nodded his assent.

“Don’t fail me, Stefano. Don’t fail all of us.”

They left by separate doors. Back on the dark streets, Elias made all possible speed toward the north hill. It was low, not heavily wooded, but on this moonless night it was merely a looming shadow, and he could make out no sign of his men. He still did not know what they might have heard, or guessed. Would they welcome his arrival, or stand him against a tree and shoot him? Pressed for time, he rushed up the slope, content for them to discover him. They did. Halfway up, young Panayiotis emerged out of the shadows.

“You’re clumsy tonight, Captain. I almost thought you were a German.”

“Take me to Giorgios.”

Most of the men, twenty-five or so, were among the boulders near the summit, the rangy former infantry sergeant pacing fiercely among them. Giorgios was slightly ridiculous in his scraggly beard and soiled Italian colonel’s uniform-booty from the Albanian campaign-but he was the best leader of men that Elias had.

“Mother of God, it’s good you’re here,” said Giorgios when he saw the captain. “We needed you before. The damn Snake wouldn’t let us attack.”

So they were still blind to the subterfuge, thought Elias, with a strange sadness.

“Slowly.”

“We found the villa where the weapons were stored, right where you said it would be.”

“Yes.”

“Just a few Germans guarding it, one light machine gun. We could have taken it, but when the shooting started at the church, the Snake sent word that we were not to try.”

“Sent word? He wasn’t with you?”

“The Snake? At first, but not then. He said he needed to watch the Germans in the village. He left me in charge. I should have ignored him, we wasted an opportunity.”

“No, Giorgios, you did right. The men are more important than the weapons. Listen to me now, I need your help. Tell me how to find Gregori’s chapel.”

“Gregori’s chapel? Why?”

“Kosta has betrayed me.” He could not bring himself to say

“us.” “He has gone to this chapel to hide. I must seek him there.”

It was still quite dark, but the sky was just beginning to pale in the east. Elias could not read Giorgios’ reaction, except in his silence.

“The devil take him,” Giorgios finally whispered. “Is the icon destroyed?”

“I do not know. Old Mavroudas meant to steal it. The Snake is dealing with him. I must find Kosta now.”

“And Father Mikalis?”

The grief swelled again. When all this was over he would sleep for days, or perhaps forever, depending on how things fell out.

“Giorgios, the chapel. Help me.”

“Down the other side of this hill, the path to the high meadow. Follow it to the end.”

“That’s Mary’s chapel.”

“Past that a kilometer, and up a rocky slope. You will be almost to Vrateni. It is a very desolate place. The chapel commands the ground. Be careful. Better still, take some men.”

“No, I go alone. You must take charge here. Spiro and Leftheris are at the old monastery, the rest at the cave. Move to a safer place, if you can, and await word from me. Follow the Snake’s commands if they seem wise to you, but protect the men. And Giorgios, do not tell him, or anyone, where I have gone.”

The sky was just light enough now to read the confusion and unease on the andarte’s face. No one loved the Snake, but Giorgios was experienced enough to know that it was never a good thing to have commanders at odds with each other. Elias, with no words of comfort in his heart, turned away from the young soldier and the brightening eastern sky, and pushed north once more.

13

SPRING 2000

He had stood right there by the window, face in shadow, as befit his clouded intentions, perhaps. Ana couldn’t say for sure. Outside it rained, and she had not turned on a lamp, so the room was dim-the long, cold dining room that they had not been in together before. Neutral ground. Matthew did not want to venture further into the house.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he’d said. “I couldn’t speak to you until the police did.”

“Did they tell you that?”

“No.”

“You didn’t want them to think you would influence my statement.”

“I didn’t want you to think that.”

“OK.”

“There are things you should know.”

“I’m listening.” But he couldn’t seem to shape his thoughts, at least not swiftly enough to suit Ana, and like an idiot she had blundered on in a clipped, angry burst. “I didn’t say anything that should implicate you, if that’s what you came to find out. I told them that I knew your godfather was the buyer, that you had told me. I don’t know why I did that. I don’t even know if it will help you.”

He shook his head, face twisted in frustration or disgust, and she thought she read him in that instant, thought that maybe he was not so far from being the man she felt she knew, despite the things he had kept from her.

“I didn’t want you to do that,” he had finally said. “I don’t care what you tell the police. I came to tell you what I know.”

It had all poured out of him then, his godfather’s subtle guidance, Matthew’s fixation on the work, his willful ignorance of the plot taking shape around him; and the more he spoke the more depressed and disengaged she had become. Questions banged at the door of her mind but could gain no entry. She was stuck on the one fact: he had come into her life to manipulate her. How then could she ever trust him? How could she know if anything that had passed between them was real? She could not, though she might yet try if he would even address the issue. But he would not, and she understood, with a keen sense of self-loathing, that without that question answered, the others-involving the full extent to which she had been played for a fool-were meaningless to her. She would not show it. Let her self-disgust seem like anger. He deserved her anger.

She had made him sit in one of the old, uncomfortable wing chairs, and eventually she began to analyze what he said, letting her thinking turn cold and clinical. Matthew had no doubt that the icon had been the reason for the theft, despite the other paintings taken. She decided to play along, to assume his innocence in anything beyond the initial manipulation.

“Has your godfather been questioned?”

“No. He’s in Greece. He became suddenly ill right after he got there.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“He has been ill with something, but he’s a trickster, that guy.”

“You think he’s behind the theft?”

“I don’t want to, but it’s a possibility.”

“He put down almost a million dollars to steal it from himself?”

“From the church, to which he owed it by the conditions of the sale. You had a blind offer for almost twice that. He used the church to get his price, and to block other bidders. Theoretically, I mean; I hope I’m wrong. There may have been other reasons as well.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him from the start?”

“He wasn’t involved from the start,” Matthew insisted. “Or he was, but I didn’t…When the museum sent me over, I didn’t know of any connection, except that he knew Wallace. Which you also knew,” he reminded her, pointedly. “Later, he told me the church approached him, made it sound very casual. I should have spoken to you then. He asked me not to. He convinced me that it didn’t change anything whether you knew or not, and knowing would only make you suspicious.”

“And that didn’t make you suspicious?”

“There was other stuff, too. I’m not going to lay it on you. I was stupid about the whole thing. I’m sorry, Ana. I truly felt the icon should go back to Greece.”

“What if I had decided to go with a private buyer?”

“Then that would have been that.”

“You wouldn’t have tried to talk me out of it?”

“Not if your mind was made up.”

“Bullshit.”

“What could I have done? I couldn’t make you choose against your will.”

You could have made me do anything you wanted, Ana thought bitterly, but again the anger was directed mostly at herself.

“How can I believe anything you’re telling me now?”

“That’s a fair question. I can’t answer it. You have every right to doubt me.”

So calm and reasonable, even in his guilt.

“Fuck you, Matthew.”

He had stood quite suddenly, as if she had thrown cold water in his lap. She struggled not to stand also, to keep her expression closed and ungiving. He could not stay, not now, yet she desperately did not want him to leave.

“Have you told the police all this?”

“They know the facts; the rest is hypothesis. I held back some of the history.”

“What history?”

He’d hesitated, clearly not wanting to tell this part. “The icon comes from my grandfather’s village. It turns out he and my godfather were involved in some scheme to trade it to the Germans, during the war.”

More secrets. There was no bottom to them, apparently. The grandfather clock’s metronomic click assaulted her thinking. Her great-great-uncle had built it; her grandfather had shipped it here with his other possessions fifty years before. Ana had loved the clock as a child, but at that moment she found herself wanting to toss it onto the street for the junk collectors.

“That would seem to be worth reporting,” she had said coolly.

“The details aren’t very clear.”

“You came here to tell me everything, remember?”

“This isn’t the sort of story you tell without knowing the truth behind it. It’s pretty damning stuff, and everyone involved has a different version.”

“How did my grandfather get the icon?”

“That I really don’t know. But I’m going to try to get some answers, for both of us.”

“How?”

Swaying where he stood, wanting to be gone, he had looked right at her for the first time.

“I’m going to see my godfather.”

“They’re going to let you leave the country while they’re still investigating?”

“I don’t plan on asking permission.”

“Matthew,” she began, rising to her feet, approaching him before she knew it. “You could get into serious trouble. It might look as though you’re running.” Was he? Were her instincts wrong? They had not been very dependable so far, but then why had he come at all?

“He’s more likely to speak to me than to anyone else.”

“He won’t tell you the truth.”

“He might. Or he might give something away.”

“Look, if you’re right, then he had his own man shot. He’s dangerous.”

“I don’t think he planned that.”

“Then he’s not in control of the situation,” she had insisted. Why was he not getting it? “Someone out there is willing to kill for this thing.”

He’d opened his mouth to speak, but there was no easy answer to that ugly fact, and the truth of it settled around them quietly.

“Fotis is family,” he finally mumbled. “Besides, I helped create this mess.”

“Which is a stupid reason to make it worse now. Don’t go.”

She had tried awhile longer to dissuade him, knowing it was useless. For all his seeming rationality, he was actually incredibly stubborn. He left without touching her-sure he had forfeited that right, no doubt. She had given him no encouragement, had maintained her toughness to the end, but she fixed his dark head of hair and slouched, retreating back in her mind. Then she wandered into the dining room and sank into her hard chair, hollowed out. It was more than likely that she had seen him for the last time.

That had been two days earlier, and Ana sat now in the same empty dining room, shadows banished by the strong light through the windows, the warm sun of spring. Matthew would be in Greece. She expected no word, only hoped that he was safe, that he was not playing at some game that would prove too much for him. She had tried to put the matter of the icon out of her mind. After all, she had gotten money, gotten the thing out of her life, which was most of what she wanted. The police would take it from here. It was the Greek church’s business to cry foul, not hers. She had fulfilled her side of the bargain. That oily Father Tomas had stood right there in the hall, watching his men carry the package out to the van. Let him explain what happened next, if they could find him.

And yet…Her intentions had been subverted; where was her anger? For that matter, where was her sense of responsibility? This had been no idle choice. The icon’s provenance was sketchy, as with much of the other work her grandfather acquired just after the war. Her father had seemed embarrassed by it, and her grandfather’s adoration had a covetous, unhealthy quality. Ana might never learn the details, but she had no doubt that the Greeks in that village of Matthew ’s ancestors had not parted with it willingly. It belonged back there. She didn’t subscribe to family guilt as a concept, to the responsibility for old wrongs being passed down the generations. Yet she had long suspected that shady transactions lay behind many of the old man’s acquisitions, and she had never raised the matter with him. Now she had the estate, and with it certain obligations. She didn’t intend to make a life’s work of seeking proper restitution for every painting on the walls around her, but the business of the icon had jumped to life on its own and could not now be ignored. There wasn’t a lot she could do, but there were a few troubling details to ponder. One particular matter had bothered her all along, and set her wondering-not for the first time-about connections between these new events and things that had happened in the past. Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish, her dad had always said. Was that an argument for pushing forward, or for stopping now?

Ana strode down the hall to the kitchen. The place to start was Wallace. He knew things he wasn’t sharing. She had always understood this about him, but had hoped her grandfather’s death might cause him to drop his guard, release a few of those dusty family secrets. This hope had been disappointed; his armor remained in place. She’d had it in the back of her mind that testing the market for private bidders on the icon might bring forward someone who knew about its past, and her grandfather’s. Possibly even someone with knowledge of what had happened that week her father went to Caracas. She hadn’t shared these thoughts with Wallace, and he had kept his inquiries very much to himself, steering her dutifully toward the institutions. By then she had become too distracted by Matthew to press the wily lawyer.

She dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette, her fifth of the morning. She would go through a dozen today. Eight yesterday, six the day before. Like quitting in reverse. She had been smoke-free almost four years. All it took was that first one, an hour after Matthew walked out the door, and she was back where she started. She drummed her fingers on the table. The kitchen now reminded her of Matthew, despite the fact that he had been here only half a dozen times. She exhaled the thought in a blue cloud of smoke. Never mind. The way to feel close to her runaway lover was to pursue the same mystery that he did. The thought stopped her. Was that all she was doing, trying to feel close to Matthew, to make his obsession hers? Were all those ideas about responsibility just flimsy justification? She inhaled the sweet poison, felt her body hum. Did it really matter?

Ana grabbed the telephone and dialed.

“Wallace and Warford.”

“Hi, Millie, is he there?”

“Ana. He’s in the middle of something. Can he call you back?”

“Tell him I’ll wait as long as it takes for him to be free.”

“It’s really better if he calls you.”

“I’ll wait. Please tell him.”

He let her hold for many minutes, as she knew he would, and her agitation grew exponentially over that time. Then that deep, gravelly voice was in her ear.

“My dear, sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

“We have business, Arthur. More paintings to sell.”

“I know, I really do apologize. But look, we need to do this in person. Let me pass you back to Millie and we’ll make a date.”

“I have a question. The private buyer on the icon, the one ready to spend a million five. I want to know who that was.”

He was quiet a few moments. “Why are you still thinking of that?”

“Because it strikes me as strange that anyone would offer that much.”

“Who’s to say if he would have paid in the end? I didn’t find the approach very credible, or I would have pushed you harder to explore it.”

“Yeah, well, look how credible the church deal turned out to be.”

“The church is not responsible for what happened. And you got your money.”

“Anyway, tell me who our spendthrift buyer was.”

He sighed heavily, a disappointed sound, but she was not going to be deflected. He had played that long-suffering father game with her for too long.

“The approach was made via a dealer of rather dubious reputation, whom I would prefer not to name.”

“Why? Did he ask to remain anonymous? A dealer? Come on, Arthur, whose lawyer are you?”

“Emil Rosenthal.”

“You’re kidding. That creep?”

“Now you know my reasoning in not pursuing it.”

“But who would work through a guy like Rosenthal?”

“Who knows? Rich eccentrics use all sorts of unsavory middlemen. Someone’s giving Emil business. Anyway, he’s not going to tell you.”

“And you have no idea who it was?”

“Of course not.”

“Too bad.”

“You’re not thinking of speaking to him, I hope.”

“No,” she lied. “No, I don’t see what purpose it would serve, and he’s so slimy. I was really just curious.”

“Best to let all that go. Let me give you to Millie now, and I’ll see you very soon.”

“Good. We have a lot to talk about.”

14

For a long time after he woke, Fotis thought he might be dying, and the idea was not entirely unwelcome. Hot sweat was cooling on his wracked limbs, despite the heavy blankets, and he was having difficulty breathing. Water in the lungs. Sitting up would help, but he could not command his muscles. His mind was full of a thick muzziness, unable to hold a complex thought, and he imagined sinking deeper and deeper into this state, until there was no more awareness, no more pain, until he was released from the prison of his traitorous body. Then he remembered the dream.

It had not possessed the detail and time-suspended horror of earlier versions, but it had been a worthy echo. Those same shapeless, denuded hills, stretching to the horizon beneath a leaden sky. The same endless road twisting through them, his feet upon that road, walking but making no progress. Shuffling forms to his right and left, once human, he knew, all moving in the same direction. Someone waited for him; he knew that also. Someone or something that meant him harm waited for him, black arms outstretched, like vulture’s wings, and the fact that he would never reach that fiend, but would be forever approaching it, did nothing to lessen the terror of its waiting. He had awakened then, but from the earlier visions he remembered that the hills turned to valleys, the valleys to tundra, impossibly flat and endless. Then he would pass the dark hill and empty crosses on his right, pass under the stone arch that marked the final stretch, pass into the tunnel, knowing he was near the end of the road, feeling it with every fiber of his being, yet knowing simultaneously that there was no end, that he would walk forever. This was what awaited him. This was the purgatory into which he was willingly sinking.

Fear coursed through him like cold liquid and he opened his eyes again. The ceiling seemed far above, his peripheral vision was gone. He tried to shout but heard only a weak gurgle. Gathering all his breath and strength he tried again, producing a long, weak moan, like a man crying out in his sleep, then fell silent, airless, lightless, awaiting the long descent.

Suddenly he felt strong hands upon his shoulders, felt himself pulled violently upright, saw the walls and the long slash of white light between the drawn curtains, wheeling about in his vision. His lungs convulsed. He heard a wheezing noise, then the agony of air rushing into his chest. In another moment sharp coughs shook his body, and a bitter, metallic taste was in his mouth.

At length, he slumped against whoever held him, spitting phlegmy gobs into a handkerchief held below his face. Disgusted with himself, with life. Pulling free, he swayed uncertainly as pillows were stacked behind him, then allowed himself to be pressed back, three-quarters propped up. Exhausted. Ready for sleep once more, but terrified by the prospect. At least he could breathe.

“Can I bring you anything?”

Fotis looked at the man. Not Nicholas. Nicholas was fighting for his life in a hospital in New York. This man was Taki, Fotis’ nephew, who would do anything for him. Fotis was in Greece, at the big house he had built outside of Salonika. New York was 5,000 miles away, the theft had gone wrong, and he had no reliable source of information. A desperate plan. A mad chance he was taking, but all his reasons came back to him with that dream. God had a purpose for everything.

“A glass of water.”

He sipped slowly. The water went down like mercury at first, heavy and unquenching, but eventually his throat felt somewhat soothed. His nephew stood attentively by his side. There was no love in the face of the ex-soldier and failed house-alarm salesman, but Taki was loyal, and eager for employment. And his black market connections were useful.

“Will you eat some breakfast?”

The idea sickened him, but some attempt was necessary.

“Coffee, and some bread.”

“Your godson is downstairs.”

“Matthew?” The old man was momentarily at a loss.

“Matthew is here?” And yet, why was he surprised? It was only the timing that had caught him out. He had known there was a fair chance that the boy would come. “How long has he been here?”

“An hour. I tried to send him away, but he won’t go. I didn’t want to throw him out.”

Of course you did, thought Fotis. Taki was Matthew’s mother’s first cousin, but the two men hardly knew each other. Taki had nothing against Matthew, but he would not like the boy claiming special status. He had been fending people off all week-friends, business associates, insurance investigators-and was clearly enjoying the role of gatekeeper.

“No, you did right. I will see him.”

“After you eat.”

“No,” said Fotis, thoughts shaping themselves instantly.

“Send him up with the food.”

Taki seemed shocked. Fotis never met the world without being washed, dressed, and fed, but Matthew was a special case. His anger would need subduing, and the proper presentation was required. These considerations came to the old man unbidden, the product of sixty years of deception. The quick shift from the mortal terror of minutes before to these familiar tricks provided a superficial balm for his mind; and yet, deeper down, it oppressed him. He no longer knew what it was like not to plan every encounter in advance. He no longer had an honest relationship with any man. His instinct had become a thing apart from him, a trained animal, sometimes deadly, and only barely under his control. That the intrigues he engineered this time were at the service of his soul brought him some measure of peace. If the Holy Mother could heal him, all must be forgiven.

What would the boy know? The New York police were focused on Anton and his Russian connections, but they would be expanding their investigation. Fotis had worked hard on Father Tomas’ credibility, having him secure the actual endorsement of the Greek church, paying him in small installments for his collaboration. And now the fool had vanished with half a million dollars of church funds, rendering all his recent actions suspicious. Of course, Fotis had known Tomas was a thief, but not that he was under investigation by his superiors and would choose this moment to go underground. Maybe it was best; maybe questioning would have broken him.

The out-of-work actor who had been checking in around Manhattan as Peter Miller knew nothing, not even the name of the man who had hired him. Fotis’ file on Müller was thin. The man had ceased to be of interest as soon as it became clear that he’d sold the icon to Kessler. When Fotis had learned Andreas was coming to New York, however, he’d needed a ploy to distract him from the gambit being played with Matthew and the church. Something strong enough to skew the thinking of his keen-minded protégé. Only Müller would do, but the clues must be subtle, hard to find, or he would sense the ruse. By now Andreas had surely figured out the charade, but would he have shared it with his grandson?

“Kalimera,” Matthew said without warmth, looking for a place to put the breakfast tray. Fotis nodded at the large footrest before him. Taki had wrapped him in his old blue robe and helped him to the chair by the bed before disappearing downstairs again.

“Bless you, my boy,” he responded in English. “I don’t know if I can eat, but Taki will have me try.” Fotis took a drink of the bitter coffee before speaking again. “You’ve come a long way just to see me. Did you think I would die without consulting you?”

“I’m sorry to find you so unwell.”

Surprised was more like it. No one was more surprised than Fotis himself when a feigned illness became a real one, but that was God again, still teaching him lessons after eighty-nine years. The pain in the bones he’d come to expect, but this fatigue and congestion were something new. He’d started to feel it right after Matthew and Alex left that day-a week ago, less? He had not expected Alex to know the icon; that had been the first shock. Perhaps Andreas had broken the pledge and said something, even years before. Who could say how much Alex knew or what he might say to Matthew? The fear of that, plus the news that this del Carros was speaking to the Russians, had been sufficient for Fotis to move up his plans a few days. And then, the figure. Even now he could not think of it without terror, like something from his dream, a strange, ghostly presence there in the doorway just as Alekos’ hand touched the icon. For a moment he had thought it was that boy, Kosta. Then nothing, no one. The first signs of a fever, clearly, this present sickness, which would carry him off if he was not careful, or strong. At his age, life or death could be simple choices. Give in to the darkness, or fight it.

“Not so unwell. A slight cold, I think.” The boy should have expected to find him ill, yet had not, which meant that he had worked things out. “Maybe something I picked up on the flight. Maybe just the emotions from this peculiar Holy Week.”

“You look terrible; you shouldn’t be up.”

“I was told my godson must see me instantly.” He smiled, but edged the words.

“I could have sat by the bed.”

“That is not how I meet guests, or family. Anyway, you are here, and you are troubled.”

“The icon is gone. Nicholas is in the hospital with a bullet in his back. The police think I’m keeping things from them. Nobody has been able to speak to you. It’s a troubling situation, don’t you think?”

“Indeed. How is your girl?”

“She’s not my girl.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Theio, I want to know what the hell is going on.”

“We would all like to know that. You think I have some special information?”

“You don’t seem very upset about any of this.”

“That is the sickness. I have only strength for the tasks I must perform, an old man’s wisdom. I grieve for the icon’s loss, and I have prayed every morning and evening for Nikos. There is nothing else I can do until I am well enough to return.”

“Anton has vanished.”

“The police told me.”

“You’ve spoken to them.”

“I accepted a telephone call. You see, I am trying to help.”

“It doesn’t look good, his disappearing like that.”

“I agree.”

“You think he was involved in the theft?”

“I fear we must assume it.” Fotis sighed, expressing the effort this was costing him. “Of course, he might have other reasons. Some of these Russians have only a tenuous legal status in America.”

“Anton’s an illegal?”

“I do not say it is so, only that it might be. Yet in such a case, I would still expect him to contact me, which he has failed to do.”

“He always struck me as very loyal,” Matthew prodded, his steady gaze fixed on the old man’s face. “And not very inventive.”

“Ah, there is more to that one than meets the eye. He hides it well. But if he was involved, I doubt that it was his idea.”

“Agreed. Whose, then?”

Fotis shrugged and reached for the heavy slab of bread.

“That’s it,” Matthew shot back. “A shrug? You have no theories?”

“What would you have me say?”

“You expect me to believe that you have no idea at all-”

“Spit it out, you pup.” The old man dropped the bread, working himself up to a good, regal rage. “I won’t be interrogated like this in my own home. You think I don’t know about interrogations? I’ve conducted hundreds. You think I’m behind this.”

There was a small flinch, far less than Fotis had anticipated.

“I do not say it is so,” the boy mocked him quietly, “only that it might be.”

Bravo. This was trouble, but Fotis could not help admiring the young man’s cool. He was growing. He might prove good at this business, after all. The old man tacked again.

“Andreas.”

“What about him?”

“Forgive me, it’s only that I’m tired. I did not hear him speaking through you at first.”

“You know, it’s funny.” Matthew picked the bread up off the footrest and put it back on the tray. “Whenever one of you gets into a tight spot, you always invoke the other. As if you’re each other’s evil twin. Nothing’s ever your fault, nothing’s ever his fault. It’s always the other guy.”

“Perhaps we’ve forgotten which of us is which.”

“You’ve certainly forgotten which of you did what. Eat that bread, I don’t want Taki angry with me.”

The old man bent to obey, glad of the excuse to stay silent.

“These are my own questions,” Matthew continued. “My grandfather has fed me a lot of stories, but no more than you. Maybe you both believe your own versions, I can’t say. Right now, I don’t trust either one of you.”

Good, Fotis thought. He would accept even odds. The bread was soft and pleasant on his tongue. He placed it back on the dish, swallowing carefully.

“I do not know where Anton is, or what he is doing.” That was more or less true. “With him missing, and with Nicholas in the hospital, I have no resources of the kind I can trust. I will have to see to it myself when I am more fully recovered.”

“It doesn’t sound like you could trust the resources you had. You’re so damn careful, how could you hire a man so capable of betraying you?”

“Better to ask, how could I not? Men who will always be loyal are men who will never think for themselves. They are useful only up to a point.” He took another sip of the cooling coffee.

“Now, men who will expand upon your instructions, take risks, trust their own judgment, these are the truly useful men. And they are also, always, men of ambition, who will one day look out for themselves. This is natural.”

“So how can you control them?”

“Limit their opportunities for mischief. Have other, less inventive men watch over them. Dismiss them, eventually. I was not careful enough with Anton. Too slow.”

“You expected trouble.”

“In time, my boy, I expect trouble from every man.”

“Which kind of man is my Papou?”

“Andreas. The best. The best and the most rare, both loyal and ruthless, and more clever than the devil. Of course, even he proved untrustworthy in the end.”

“Why did you tell me he was called the Snake?”

Fotis put his lips to the cup again, but there were only the muddy grounds remaining. No sense in denial, the boy knew too much. It only remained to learn just how much.

“That was unkind. Perhaps I was trying to punish him for giving that name to me.”

“Maybe you didn’t want to admit that it was your idea to trade the icon to the Germans.”

“My idea? No, it was Müller’s. A German officer. They were all thieves by the end, worse than the Italians. Müller’s particular obsession was religious art, and he had somehow learned about the icon. Maybe he knew about it all along. The Nazis had a great fascination with the mystical, as I’m sure you know.”

“Go on,” Matthew said, impatient.

“I confess we had an open channel of communication with the Germans, even as we fought them. Müller approached me, suggested a trade. I was appalled, but we needed weapons, so I shared the idea with Andreas, my most trusted man. He convinced me we should do it. He came up with the plan. Can you imagine me burning a church, paidemou?”

Matthew said nothing, uncertainty clouding his expression. Fotis pressed on.

“No, it required an atheist to execute such a design. His brother died in that fire.”

“That’s not the same thing as his killing him.”

“He let him run into a burning building, maybe even encouraged him. You know, they were only half brothers, they never liked each other.”

“He grieves for that brother.”

“The priest may have been collaborating with the Germans, and your grandfather was not a forgiving man. Not a man for half-measures, either.”

“It doesn’t wash, Fotis.”

“I grow weary. Perhaps we can end the interrogation for today and let the prisoner rest.”

“All your restitching now can’t make truth out of the story you told me in New York,” the boy insisted, real anger in his voice now. “It was an ugly story, and ten times uglier a lie.”

“Not a lie, an exaggeration. A manipulation, I confess, but rooted in truth. You must see it. How could it have been my plan, to burn a church, to sell an object of such holy love and beauty to the enemy? That is not me. You do see it, I know that you do. The icon belonged back in Greece. You had the ability to influence that decision, but you needed a push. I gave it to you. In the process I oversimplified. I did wrong, but not the kind of wrong you accuse me of.”

He sat back, exhausted by the volley of words. The boy was not convinced, he could see, but perhaps he had reintroduced some doubt.

“And I suppose,” Matthew said slowly, “that the scheme with Father Tomas wasn’t your idea either.”

“Tomas is…a complicated fellow. But he has, in fact, represented the Greek church many times. I had no reason to doubt him.”

“He didn’t cough up nine hundred grand. That was your money.”

“The church was to refund me.”

“And you accepted that?”

“It’s common practice. Their bureaucracy moves slowly; it requires committed souls to force the issue. Tomas clearly over-stepped his authority, but the church would have made good on most of the cost. The rest would be my gift to them. It was a risk, but I was comfortable with it.”

The words rolled smoothly off his tongue, bits of truth spread out to cover the lies. In fact, the Snake had half convinced himself, before it all fell out, that he did mean to give the icon to the church. Eventually, when he had derived whatever good from it there was to get. He’d had the fake theft in the back of his mind even then, but it was not until Nicholas-loyal boy-had told him about this collector del Carros that Fotis realized he must move. Del Carros was planning some action with Nicholas and Anton’s former boss, a Russian named Karov. Anton and maybe Nicholas, too, were still in Karov’s pocket, and if del Carros had enough money, the Russians would betray him. Fotis used their greed against them. He paid them to steal the icon from him before they did it anyway for the South American, adding a hidden twist or two of his own. Dangerous, but it had worked, all except the wound to poor Nicholas, whom Fotis had not quite trusted enough to let in on the plan. Anton and the others Karov supplied were supposed to be out of the house well before Nicholas returned from dropping Fotis at the airport, but they must have been slow, and the dear, stupid boy had obviously tried to stop them.

“That all sounds convincing,” Matthew finally responded, pulling Fotis back to the present moment, “until Tomas and the icon vanish.”

“Tomas was stealing funds. It’s an unrelated matter.” Strange that the truth should sound so suspect.

“Well, then I guess that leaves just you.”

“You are forgetting Anton.”

“Do you deny that you’ve wanted the icon for sixty years? Since my Papou showed it to you during the war, before his brother hid it away? An hour, a few minutes, is all it took, am I right? And you were hooked for life. You had to have it.”

“Are you speaking of me,” Fotis replied, the insight striking him at once, “or yourself?”

“Yes,” Matthew nodded, undeterred, “I’ve felt it. That’s how I know.”

What was this? Was the boy a rival? Was this more serious than he had imagined, and could some use be made of it? But no, he mustn’t think that way; this was Matthew.

“I am tired now. We should speak again tomorrow.”

“What happened that night the church burned? Where were you? Why weren’t you with the men Andreas sent to retrieve the weapons?”

“So he has finally spoken of it.”

“Did you know Kosta would tell Stamatis where the icon was hidden, and that he would try to get it? Were you waiting for him to come out? Am I close?” Too damn close. The boy was relentless, never taking his eyes off Fotis. “Or maybe you sent Stamatis in yourself, and then he decided to double-cross you. Is that it?”

“You are growing disturbed, my child. You are creating fantasies. This business has become too much for you. It’s time to let it go.”

“Let it go?” With sudden, furious energy, Matthew swept the breakfast tray to the ground and leaned right over the other man.

“Let it go? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I’m up to my neck it in, and you led me there. You owe me these answers, you old bastard.”

Fotis became frightened; not of the boy, but of something, the broken fragments of truth beginning to reassemble. For a moment, he thought it was Andreas standing there above him.

“You all betrayed me,” he whispered, “all of you.”

“Who betrayed you? How?”

“One is going to trade it, the other sell it. Guns, money. Only I loved it for what it was, only I could keep it safe. You fool, don’t you see?” He grabbed Matthew’s shirt, and his face broke; the tears came. “Don’t you see, paidemou? Only I can keep it safe. Won’t you help me?”

The large silhouette of Taki appeared in the door, making them both turn, breaking the spell. Fotis shoved Matthew away weakly.

“I heard the noise,” said Taki, both fierce and bashful, looking at the scattered plates and cup on the floor.

“He was just leaving,” Fotis said hoarsely. “Show him out.”

Matthew sized up the larger man for a moment, then relaxed. There would be no struggle. He gave Fotis a long look-was it confusion, compassion, or something else entirely?-and then started for the door.

“My boy, wait,” said the Snake. The younger man stopped, Taki’s hand on his shoulder, but he did not turn back to look.

“Saturday night. The services at Saint Demetrios. You will accompany me? Please?”

Matthew glanced back at him briefly. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

“We will speak further about all this.”

But Matthew was already headed down the stairs.

15

The rain-dampened woods around the house produced a fine mist as the day warmed. The effect evoked a sense memory in Andreas that he could not quite grasp: a cove by the sea, a pale morning fog, and the desire to stay there upon that warm, wet ground where he’d slept-not pick up the rifle by his side, not rejoin his fellow soldiers, but simply stay there, disappear in the mist. When had it been, what had happened next? He could not say. Half a lifetime ago and more, before his brother died, before he’d met Maria, years before the son and grandson who so troubled him now had ever drawn their first breaths.

He had abandoned the heavy coat and hat and felt somehow exposed, even in the safety of his son’s backyard. Alex leaned upon the fence beside him, shaky, but under his own power, and stared out at the shadowy trunks.

“You couldn’t stop him from going?”

“I didn’t know,” Andreas answered. “He didn’t tell me.”

“The police will believe he’s involved now.”

“He is involved.”

“You know what I mean. That he and Fotis dreamed it up together. Everything. The theft also.”

“Let us hope they are wiser. His actions that day make no sense if he was an accomplice.”

“Why haven’t you gone after him?”

“He does not want my assistance.”

“You’re going to make him face the schemer alone?”

“He does not trust me, Aleko. You and Fotis have seen to that.” The younger man looked as if he would protest, but held his peace. “I too am responsible, of course,” Andreas amended.

“Did you speak to him?”

“About the icon, you mean? Yes. Too late, but we spoke.”

“It should have perished in that church. It would have saved everyone a lot of pain.”

“I have thought that before now.”

Alex turned slightly to look at him.

“Does it trouble you? That you gave it to the Germans? Does that ever keep you awake at night?”

Andreas shook his head. He would be answering the question the rest of his life.

“I once watched Fotis cut the fingers off a German prisoner. A young man. He did not know the answers to Fotis’ questions, but it didn’t matter. Later, he cut the boy’s throat.” He moved some damp earth with his shoe. “Another time, I shot a communist guerrilla in the hills above Tsotili. I executed him. For spreading lies, and for being a communist. A good reason to kill a man, don’t you think? Have you heard these things already?”

“Not from you.”

“I saw an American reporter fished out of the harbor in Thessaloniki, hands tied, skull shot through, because he spoke to the wrong people. I watched dozens of men, young and old, beaten until they confessed to things they had not done. Once I even saw them take a woman-”

“Why are you telling me this now? I asked you questions for years and you never said a word, not a word.”

“Why do you imagine I’m telling you?”

“I don’t know. So I’ll say it’s all right, that I understand?”

“Your forgiveness,” the old man spat bitterly, and Alex looked away. “Do you imagine your forgiveness could matter? You who have lived his whole adult life in this soft, fat country? There are things for which I would have your forgiveness, Aleko, many things, but not these. No one can pardon me, and I seek no pardon. But can you think, in the face of what I’ve seen, that a damned painting could mean anything? Do you really believe that is what keeps me awake?”

“All right, then. But here it is, back with us again. And it has its talons in my son now.”

“I did not cause that.”

“And you did not prevent it, either.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Find it.”

“Find it. Then what?”

“Burn it, bury it, give it back to the church, I don’t care. Get it out of his life. It is a danger to him, missing or found.”

“Finding it will not be so easy.”

“Of course not. If it were easy, I would do it myself. It will take someone of your skills.”

“Which skills? Killing, lying, planting tomatoes?”

“Hunting.”

“I hunted men, not paintings.”

“Hunt the men who have it.”

“That is beyond what I can do. There are too many possibilities.”

“Use your friends.”

“You are as bad as Fotis, imagining I still have useful connections. My friends are few, and do not take instruction from an old man like me. The police investigation will be well ahead of us, and I have no influence there.”

“So you’ll do nothing.”

“I did not say that.”

Alex rocked on his heels impatiently, looking back toward the house.

“What then?”

“Matthew needs to stay clear of anyone who might believe he knows the icon’s location. He may be safer in Greece than he would be here. In any case, I have asked someone to look after him over there.”

“One of these friends you don’t have.”

“This is a retired fellow, like myself, and Matthew may make it hard on him. But it’s something.”

Alex turned back to the woods again, squeezing the worn fencepost with one hand while he clenched and unclenched the other. “Thank you. Thank you for doing that.”

“He’s my grandchild. When he returns here, I will try to take him in hand, but it won’t be easy. He is mistrustful and stubborn.”

“Like his mother,” Alex concurred.

“And his blood is up now. Hopefully, the matter will sort itself out swiftly.”

“You don’t care which way it goes? Whether Fotis is tied up in it, whether the icon ever appears again?”

“Stolen art is seldom recovered. I only want Matthew safe, and released from blame. I have business with Fotis, but I don’t know that we shall ever resolve it.”

“I’ll kill that old bastard if I ever see him again.”

“Yes, well, many have tried.”

“He’s like a disease. I’m surprised you didn’t kill him years ago.”

Andreas looked over at his son in some dismay, then nodded slowly.

“I was his creature. He looked after me long past the time he needed to. He was supposed to arrest me, you know, when the colonels were in power. Papadopoulis ordered it. Instead, he sent me out of the country.”

“Very loyal of him.”

“It was. And dangerous. There was no gain in it for him.”

“He was banking your goodwill against the day that he was out and you were in.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps that’s what he told himself.”

“You think he cares about you at all?”

“It’s possible. Against his own will and understanding. Anyway, he’s not a simple man, he keeps us all guessing.”

“That’s how he keeps control.” Alex cleared his throat, working up his courage, Andreas could tell. “Why did you tell me those things just now? All those terrible things. It wasn’t about the icon.”

“I don’t know. Maybe just to say them, to someone.”

“Have you never spoken about them?”

“To your mother, a little. Only a little. Why should I burden someone else?”

“To ease your own burden.”

“There is no ease in telling.”

“How would you know?”

“These things have no meaning outside of the times and places where they happen, whatever the judges and moralists say. Much of the work, even the bad work, was necessary. No one can understand but the others who went through it, and we are too troubled to help one another. And now, too few.”

“It’s not my fault if I don’t understand. You sent me here.”

“I did not expect you to stay, to marry Irini-I thought you would come back to Greece. But it is much better that you did not. Much better.”

“I probably would have become a communist, just to spite you. What are you smiling about, old man?”

“The idea of you taking any interest in politics at all.”

“You don’t make it sound like I’ve missed much.”

“No, you were wise. It’s a fool’s game.”

“It’s good that you came here,” the younger man said softly.

“It’s good that we’ve spoken.”

Andreas breathed in the damp air, exhaled slowly. Such declarations from his son were the best he could hope for, and he tried to be grateful for them, grateful for this moment. Glancing over, he noticed that Alex no longer leaned upon the fence but merely touched it with one hand, swaying slightly, but standing on his own feet.

“You look good, Aleko,” he said, against the dictates of ancient superstition. “You look strong.”

Alex stared hard into the woods, searching, perplexed.

“Yes. I feel strong.”

Sotir Plastiris lived in one of the many concrete apartment buildings that had come to deface the city of Salonika. Like most residents, he had filled his terrace with plants and bright flowers, and the collective effect of all that living color somewhat ameliorated the gray, slapdash look of the buildings themselves. The interior was furnished in the traditional bourgeois fashion: white walls, dark wood, a hammered copperplate with Alexander’s profile hanging in the living room, a figurine in gaudy peasant dress in a glass cabinet. To the man’s credit, there was no cheap icon in the corner with a votive candle before it; this meant only that Sotir had no wife to attend to such matters. Matthew might have looked down upon the whole arrangement, but in truth the apartment wasn’t so different from his grandfather’s in Athens, and he felt comfortable in it.

“Yiasou,” said Sotir, handing Matthew a small glass of cognac, then raising his own as he sat down in an easy chair opposite. He turned his round face to the window, his expression slack, his mind seemingly at rest, but his companion suspected otherwise.

“By plane, it would be difficult,” Sotir said after a time, his English precise, but heavily accented. All his grandfather’s cronies insisted on speaking English to him, Matthew mused. Some matter of professional pride, no doubt. “They are careful at the airports now. A ship would be easier. More private owners, more space. You could hide a small piece within a large container. Customs at the ports are overmatched by the volume, and also corrupt. Mostly, they are afraid of what is being taken out, not what is coming in.”

“ Piraeus, or here?”

“ Piraeus would make more sense. More activity.”

“It wouldn’t have arrived yet.”

“In a few days. It’s more than a week from New York, depending on the stops.”

Matthew nodded, sipped the cognac.

“Of course, it could be a plane. An isolated airstrip.”

“Yes, and it may be coming by train from Paris.” Plastiris smiled with gray teeth. “It may not be coming at all. We are speaking only about what is probable. It would be unwise to tire yourself with every possibility.”

Instead of trying to duck his grandfather’s watchdog, which would likely have been impossible in any case, Matthew decided to make use of him, and had to confess that he liked Plastiris’ easy, Old World style. He also had to keep reminding himself that the man was one of the gang, an ex-freedom fighter, spy, assassin-who knew what?

“The main thing,” Sotir continued, “is to keep your eye on Dragoumis, see what he does, who comes and goes. Which is difficult, since the house is on a hill and surrounded by trees.”

“How was he able to buy that property? He was supposed to be in exile.”

“Your grandfather opened the way. It was intended as a small favor. Visits, for Holy Week each year. He surely did not expect that Fotis would be allowed to build a fortress, or engage in his old activities.”

“Why was he?”

“It’s the way things are done. He was distrusted until the moment Andreas persuaded them to make a concession. Once they did, his file was downgraded, and they forgot all about him. Things must be black and white for bureaucrats. If he’s allowed back in, well then, he must not be a real threat. Besides, he’s old. It’s all young men in there now. They don’t remember the colonels. They don’t remember anything.”

“Do you have the means to watch the house? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

“Dragoumis is not my concern.”

“No, apparently I am.” He waited, but Plastiris gave nothing away. “And Fotis is my concern, so it all goes together.”

“I am sorry, Matthew. I am retired. My nephews do favors for me sometimes, but I do not want them getting near your godfather. He is too unpredictable.”

“Then I guess I’m on my own.”

“Will you attempt to see him again?”

“We’re supposed to meet tomorrow night. The Easter services at Saint Demetrios.”

“Is he well enough?”

“If he decides he is, not much will stop him.”

“Of course. And you will try to learn more of his plans.”

Matthew massaged his temples with both hands.

“‘Try’ is the word. I pushed him pretty hard yesterday. Dredged up some stuff from the war, but nothing about what he’s up to now.”

“I think it unlikely he will tell you anything useful.”

“I’ll just have to stay nearby, look for him to make a mistake.”

“You hope to catch him receiving the icon.”

“That would be convenient.”

“Why do you believe it will come at all? He does not live here. The chance of discovery and seizure is great. There is no logic to it.”

“You’re probably right, I don’t know that it’s coming. But the longer he stays, the more I think it must be for some reason.”

“He is ill.”

“Yes, but I wonder if that alone would stop him if he needed to be elsewhere. If the icon is in the possession of others in New York, even if they’re in business with him, he’s taking a big chance by being away for a week. They may get ideas. He’s not that trusting.”

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

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

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

“He would never sell it.”

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

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

“Yet he was willing to trade it once.”

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

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

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

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

“The German?”

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

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

Plastiris shook his head and smiled grimly.

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

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

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

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

“What signs?”

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

“He would be almost ninety.”

“Well, so is Fotis.”

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

“Some of these Nazis have.”

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

“Thanks for your help.”

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

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You have candles? For the service?”

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

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

16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dealer laughed too loudly.

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

“I have no doubt you do.”

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

“I did read about an investigation.”

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

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

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

A nervous smile appeared. “Excuse me?”

“Christie’s, Sotheby’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She maintained the eye contact.

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

“Alas, not generous enough, it appears.”

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

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

“Maybe we should talk in my office.”

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

“If you would be more comfortable.”

“I think we both would.”

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

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

“I hope you were paid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

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

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

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

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

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

“You feel screwed.”

“Precisely.”

That sympathetic shake of the head again.

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

“That seems apparent now.”

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

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

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

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

“Please call me Ana.”

“Gladly. And you must call me Emil.”

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosenthal smiled and clapped his hands together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ana tried not to reveal her disappointment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosenthal leaned back and smiled once more.

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

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

“Take the cloth off, let’s see it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bad planning, I would say.”

Karov shrugged.

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

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

“The expense is due to your own mistake.”

“The price is too low,” Karov insisted, losing his smile. No sparring, no shift in reasoning. Advance one argument until it failed, then move to another. Open, simple, crude. The Russian style.

“Then why did you agree to it?”

“Because I didn’t know that you had offered three times as much to the Kessler woman.”

Del Carros sighed and looked to his slouched blond companion. Jan Van Meer was silent. In contrast to Karov’s two fidgety associates, del Carros’ supposed artistic consultant-slender, bespectacled, utterly innocuous-seemed painfully at ease, bored even. The old collector appreciated Jan’s performance but wondered now if a more obvious show of strength wouldn’t have been a wiser decision.

“A million five,” Karov continued. “That was the price. I am sorry to learn that your opinion of its worth has fallen so far since then.”

This is what came of dealing with men like Rosenthal.

“That would have been a legal purchase, Mr. Karov. Without complications. Now, I too may be beset with the sort of expenses you have incurred. There are those who will pursue this work relentlessly. I will have to take precautionary measures, possibly expensive.”

Van Meer had already informed him that removing Dragoumis would cost 250,000 euros. A bargain, he assured del Carros, because they were friends.

“We discussed this problem before, you will remember,” said Karov. “You will be happy to know that I have already taken measures myself.”

Indeed, this was nearly the last thing del Carros wanted to hear.

“When?”

Karov consulted the huge silver Rolex on his beefy wrist.

“Now, more or less.”

“While he is still in Greece?”

“Much better in Greece,” the Russian insisted. “He has a hundred enemies there. It will seem the most natural thing in the world.” Which was true, but if they bungled it, and Dragoumis went underground…Nothing to be done about it now. The main thing was the icon.

“So,” Karov picked up again, “you can simply add whatever sum you had set aside for that business onto the price previously discussed. I ask you, is this not reasonable? After the trouble I have taken on your behalf?”

“It would be rash to assume success before hearing from your people in Greece. He has survived several such attempts in the past. Indeed, I think the whole undertaking was rash. You were to leave that part to me.”

“You were unclear on whether you intended to act or not.”

“I was being considerate.” You ass. “The less you knew, the better.”

“I am not such a subtle man,” Karov sneered. “I like to be certain of important matters. The Greek is old, but he is still a viper. He knows by now that I crossed him. He will hurt me if he can. I did not hesitate to protect myself, and I offer no apology.”

“Very well.” Del Carros cleared his dry throat, sorry now that he had refused the water offered him, but he did not trust Russian hospitality. “Let us conclude this.”

“Excellent. I despise drawn-out negotiations. So, in light of the losses I have suffered, and the efforts taken for our mutual protection, the price is now one million dollars.”

Which meant he would take less.

“Jan, what do you think?”

Van Meer sat up abruptly, like a student caught daydreaming.

“I don’t pretend to understand this action you are discussing,” he mumbled in his vague Dutch accent, playing the willfully ignorant art expert to perfection, “but it’s quite clear, Mr. Karov, that you have undertaken it for your own purposes, and against my client’s wishes. There can be no reason to expect an increase in the price on these grounds. Half a million U.S. dollars was the figure agreed upon, and I must say it is generous.”

The Russian looked as if he would snap the little Dutchman in half.

“I tell you it’s not enough.”

“More than enough,” Van Meer prodded. “Too much.”

“Listen to me,” del Carros said, in a soft voice that quieted the room. “You need to understand, Mr. Karov, that market value is not driving this sale. Personal reasons, which are not transferable, support my interest. If I fail to purchase this work, you will have to sell it at a fraction of the price we are discussing. Given your means of acquiring it, you may not be able to sell it at all.”

“My means of acquiring it! Listen to you. You are the cause of my acquiring it. I stole it for you; you cannot back out of this arrangement.”

“You stole it at Dragoumis’ instruction.”

“And crossed him to sell it to you. We have a deal.”

“Which you are attempting to breach by raising the price. I understand, you are a businessman. Very well. In this briefcase there is exactly six hundred thousand dollars. One hundred thousand more than the agreed price. Jan will object, but I am willing to go this far to meet your concerns. This far and no further. If I leave this room without the icon you will not see me again. My final word, Mr. Karov.”

The Russian looked as if he would speak several times, but quieted himself, his black leather coat creaking about him as he shifted restlessly in his chair. Calculating. No doubt he felt he could simply take the case and keep the icon. Two bodies to dispose of, no big deal. Del Carros knew well that if he tried it there would be three bodies, and they would be the Russians, but Karov did not comprehend how dangerous Van Meer was. However, del Carros had previously hinted at future transactions, a new market in South America, drugs, emeralds, Incan artifacts. All smoke, but that was another thing Karov didn’t know, and he clearly preferred the role of businessman to that of thug. At last his big, watery eyes focused on the briefcase and a thin smile returned.

“Who will say that Vasili Karov is not a reasonable man? I accept your offer. You,” he snapped at Van Meer, “take a lesson from your employer. This is how reasonable men do business. Compromise. Anton, get the brandy.”

“The icon,” Jan interrupted, enjoying his role as spoiler. Was he disappointed that the deal was working itself out, that he would not be allowed to use his special talents? Surely he was too smart for that. “We have not seen the icon.”

“Anton.” Karov waved his arm and the blackbeard changed direction midway to the liquor cabinet, went to the easel, and unceremoniously dragged off the drop cloth.

Gold leaf, faded yet still brilliant. The graceful, oval curve of the Virgin’s half-turned head. Large, expressive eyes, underlined with dark patches, a downturned mouth. A sad Mary. The deep blue of her robes was almost black, tinged green here and there by age or damage. The fingers were unnaturally long, pressed together in prayer, yet also pointing outside the frame to where the inevitable accompanying Christ would have hung. The traditional Hagiasoritissa. Skilled work, not masterful perhaps, but painted with feeling. And in remarkably good condition. The room was silent for many moments.

“Beautiful,” breathed Karov.

“Yes,” del Carros agreed, disappointment crushing the anger out of his voice. “It’s the wrong work.”

The Russian did not appear to understand him at first.

“What are you talking about?”

“You must call off the action on Dragoumis.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look at it,” del Carros insisted, but that was pointless, like asking a dog to look at it. An icon was an icon to this fool. The Greek had chosen his mark well. “It’s all wrong. The style is wrong. It’s late work, fifteenth or sixteenth century, probably Russian. The icon we’re seeking is eighth century or older, and damaged. I specified that it was damaged.”

“You prefer it to be damaged?”

It was intolerable. He would kill the idiot, he would strangle the life out of that fat, baffled face.

“I prefer it to be the right one, the only one I am looking for. This is not it.”

“This was the one on his easel,” Anton now spoke. “He was showing it to his godson the day before. It was right where he told me to find it.”

“Then he switched it for another. Did you ever actually see it before you took it?”

“No. It stayed locked in his study.”

“Why would he switch it?” Karov demanded.

“Because he knew you would betray him,” del Carros replied, the matter becoming clear. Dragoumis knew that stealing the icon from himself would not be sufficient. The Russians would know he had it, and others would guess, so he needed a second feint. Give the Russians the wrong painting to steal. If Karov keeps the replacement, he has no idea what he possesses. If he sells it, the buyer will probably not have seen the original, and del Carros knew that most people-even collectors-could not easily place the age and origin of Orthodox icons. Either way, the replacement vanishes, and who can say that it was not the original? It was a clever plan, if flawed, one flaw being that the Greek had not anticipated a buyer who knew the real work very well. Still, he had bought himself time, and who knew where the icon was now? “You must call off the action.”

“Why? Goddamn that Greek to hell, I’ll hang him by his balls.”

“If you kill him before we determine the location of the real icon, we may never find it.”

“What do I care about that? Shit on your icon. If you are telling the truth, I want the bastard dead. Besides, it’s too late.”

The old man felt his eighty-six years like a weight on his shoulders, pressing down upon him. He had been young and strong when this chase began, but it had dragged on far too long, and he was tired. With all his other successes, why did he continue with this losing struggle? Because his spirit knew nothing else at this point. Once possessed, the icon lived within him, and he felt as though a part of his body were missing. More than fifty years now. There was really no choice. The tiredness was good, he decided. It hid his desperation.

“What must I do to convince you?”

Karov gazed at him carefully, trying to determine if this was a threat or opportunity. Van Meer was paying close attention also. They were beyond the possibilities they had mapped before the meeting, into tangled, dangerous territory. The Dutchman was freshly energized.

“You could give me that briefcase,” the Russian answered after a long pause. Jan had a good laugh at that.

“I think not,” del Carros responded.

“You owe me something for my trouble, damn it.”

“I owe you nothing. Dragoumis was toying with you. You were never in a position to deliver what I wanted, but I am willing to make some effort to maintain our cooperation.”

“What do you suggest?”

The Russian was an ass, but he would have to be given something or this would end badly. And he must be persuaded to call off the action.

“This isn’t the icon I wanted,” the old man mused, “but it is good work, and I am feeling generous. I’ll give you a hundred thousand for it.”

“That doesn’t even cover my expenses.”

“And fifty more when I know that Dragoumis is safe. A hundred more if you can deliver him to me, alive.”

Karov’s agitation had settled somewhat. He kept eye contact with del Carros as he slipped a bulky international cell phone from his jacket.

“If I can take him alive, we’ll talk then about what he’s worth. Let’s see your money.”

“Make the call. Time is precious.”

17

Matthew had been awake most of the night, and the few hours of sleep he’d stolen before dawn were troubled.

Shreds of dreams still floated past his mind’s eye: a darkened city, that other New York of his sleep, full of narrow, poorly lit streets, twisting unexpectedly, a dangerous encounter around every corner. He knew the place, had visited its docks, parks, and alleys across a hundred nights, always pursued, always seeking the safe corridor, the straight way home. This night he had been the pursuer, chasing the Holy Mother down dark passages, around treacherous corners, without hesitation or fear, fearing only the loss of it. Logic dictated that someone carried the icon, but he saw just the image itself, a face more like the Mona Lisa than a Greek saint, smiling at his desperation as it vanished through doorways, up staircases, into shadow. In the end, the black eyes alone bore through the total darkness around him, close enough to touch, but he could not grasp her, never would.

Half a day later, an unsettled feeling still enveloped him. He wandered through the great church of Saint Demetrios like a ghost, cut off from the other souls around him, mourning the Mother while they mourned the Son and looked forward to his resurrection. Huge chandeliers illuminated the place. The gold base painting of the rear wall and domed ceiling of the sanctuary, richly spotted with saints and angels, dazzled the eye, contrasting with the cool gray-white stone and marble of the interior colon-nades. Matthew visited Ephthimious’ chapel, with its red-haloed saints and ghostly, hooded figures. Time had not been kind to the frescoes, but their washed-out quality lent an air of mystery that appealed to him at the moment. He lingered, the cold leaching out sleepiness, forcing his blood and muscle to motion, his mind to consciousness. He had an hour or so before Fotis was to meet him, but he intended to be on watch before that. Who knew what surprises the old man had in mind tonight?

A service-the latest in an endless procession this Holy Week-had begun in the main body of the church, so Matthew took the side aisles around to the saint’s tomb, a tomb only in name. The body was supposed to have been stolen by the Crusaders. Something had been returned from Italy twenty years before and now resided in a silver reliquary in the nave. The so-called tomb was merely an empty marble coffin with an icon placed on top. He didn’t know why he always came here, except that the room was peaceful and contemplative. The fact that it was older than the earliest Christian construction, part of the Roman baths, and that the saint’s remains had rested here for 900 years gave the chamber a gravity missing from the rest of the church, reconstructed in the 1920s after a great fire. Matthew didn’t think that Demetrios would like his new digs; surely he would prefer to be back in this quiet place.

He crouched down next to the marble box, unwilling to place his knees on the cold floor, to assume the position of supplication. Prayer, for him, could never be so intentional or so self-surrendering. He closed his eyes and remembered the basilica from a child’s perspective, remembered the seeming vastness of it, and the grand old man, his Papou, tall as a god, showing him everything. The tale of each saint was recounted with a skeptical smile. Andreas had no use for religion, but he wanted Matthew to understand the culture from which he sprang, and his admiration for and explanation of the extraordinary, painstaking work of inserting thousands of tesserae to create a mosaic, of how certain pigments in the frescoes were achieved, even of the warped perspective necessary to make a curved dome painting look natural, was mesmerizing for a child. It would take years for Matthew to understand half of what he’d been told, but the seed was planted in early youth, and he had never escaped the intense fascination of this art.

Yet it was not the same. His memory of standing before these images twenty years earlier carried more emotional power than actually standing before them now. Something had changed within him. Why, and when? It could have been his father’s illness; so much had gone astray since then, his interest in his work, his relationship with Robin, his faith in the old men who had taught him so much. But blaming the illness seemed a poor excuse, and not even convincing, because two strong passions had come upon him in the meantime: Ana, and the damn icon. Crouching in the cold, Matthew felt it more likely that those new passions had blotted out the old, had become everything to him, and this sickness of the soul came from being separated from both. He did not know where the icon was; he could not go back to Ana without finding it. Yet the odds of that were very remote. Opening his eyes to make sure he was alone, Matthew began to quietly recite some words of Greek, a prayer perhaps, to the saint, the Son, the Mother, whoever was on duty at the moment. Let the icon be found. Let it be returned to its rightful place, wherever that was. Let troubled spirits, including his own, be at rest. The Greek served him as he imagined Latin did others, giving the words mystery and power, and creating a sense of ritual that removed the individual from the process. Using such words, one stepped into the ever-running river of the holy, and was submerged.

After some minutes he rose, went up the worn marble steps through heavy red draperies to the narthex and out into the cool dusk. The church’s facade stood in shadow, but sunset touched the square tower with orange light, bringing out the red of the roof tiles and making the tall cross glow. The chanting of the priest and psáltees within was audible. The congregants were few in number so far, exhausted no doubt from the emotional exertions of the last two nights. On Thursday, the plaster Christ nailed to the cross. On Friday, taken down, draped in cloth, and carried about the church three times under a hail of carnations and the weeping of the old women. Tonight, they would stagger in by twos and threes until midnight, when a vast horde would be gathered on the broad plaza before the church. Come, receive the light, and candles would ignite in every hand. Christos Anesti, the priest would call, Christ is risen, and the crowd would echo it back. Stirring stuff. The mass hysteria of the Easter service was not Matthew’s preferred time of worship, but when participating it was easy to get sucked in, to feel one with the blind, passionate spiritual community. Reason was chased off for a few hours; faith and brotherhood ruled.

Of course, the congregants then rushed home or to some restaurant to gorge themselves. But that was natural enough as well: celebrating after grief; food and drink as physical symbols of rebirth. Back in New York, he rarely partook of the whole ritual, but tonight Matthew wished he could feel part of it, wished that some table of food and candlelight and friends awaited him, wanted it in a way that only one certain of his alienation from the human tribe could want such a thing. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and patrolled the church doors like a sentry, ready to bring down a curse on his whole clan, damning their treachery and arrogance, their rationalism and cold, analytical worldview. Damning himself for being a product of his lineage and not his own man, not the engaged, spontaneous, alive creature he wished to be. The curse died on his tongue. Actions, not words, were required. He needed to remember why he was here.

The figure in the long coat with the quick, confident stride did not fit naturally with this crowd, Matthew noticed, well before the man reached him. Graying hair, a square, strong face, and a smile of the kind normally reserved for an old friend.

“Matthew. You are Matthew, yes?”

“Who are you?”

“Your godfather sent me.” The man held out his hand. “You can call me Risto.”

“Sent you to do what?”

He did not take the offered hand, and Risto withdrew it slowly, his smile wavering.

“To take you back to his house. He is too ill for the ceremony, but he very much wants your company tonight.”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

“He had hoped until the last moment to attend, but it has proved too much. You cannot be surprised at that if you have seen him recently.”

“What’s your connection?”

“Just a friend.”

“I see. Why don’t we call Fotis and discuss this?”

“He may not be well enough to do so.”

“He’s too ill to speak on the telephone?”

“We can try, of course.” Risto turned and looked out across the plaza with some consternation, and Matthew followed his gaze. Then the man’s strong arm was around Matthew’s shoulder and something dug hard into his ribs. “No trouble, please. The car is just this way.”

“What the fuck,” Matthew spat in English.

“Walk. You are quite safe, but you must come along.”

In fact they were already moving, Risto’s power propelling both of them toward the broad staircase down to the street. Matthew fell into step so as not to tumble down the stairs and breathed deeply to calm himself. Things were moving too fast once more. He needed to think clearly and act quickly, and he must by no means allow himself to be put into a car. As Risto looked up and down the avenue, Matthew dared a glance downward, and realized that it was a fair-sized candle being stuck into his rib cage.

They reached the sidewalk and moved toward the curb, where a small blue compact sat idling, a man at the wheel. Matthew pretended to stumble, and as he was pulled upright again, drove his elbow backward at Risto’s solar plexus. The hard resistance of bone on bone told him he had missed the target, but the bigger man grunted and his grip relaxed briefly.

Matthew broke free and wheeled about, swinging wildly, his fist catching the side of Risto’s head. He turned to move away, figures scattering on the sidewalk before him, but felt a hand on his jacket collar, then a fierce blow to his lower back, stunning his spine and kidneys. He began to slide to his knees, but in a moment Risto had him firmly around the shoulders again, forcing him painfully into the car’s backseat.

Face mashed against vinyl, Matthew could make no sense of the shouting that followed, nor of Risto’s sudden weight on top of him, driving the air from his lungs. A new voice gave sharp, clipped commands, the car lurched into motion. Then there was silence, except for some heavy breathing. As the weight shifted off him, Matthew squirmed up into a sitting position, flushed and disoriented, blood roaring in his ears. Risto was pushed up against him, leaning forward with his head on the back of the driver’s seat. Sotir Plastiris sat on the other side of him with a small pistol against Risto’s right temple. In front, a younger man in the passenger seat had a larger pistol up against the driver’s head, and the car raced and wove through the thin traffic on the avenue.

“Matthew, you are well?” Sotir asked with that odd mix of genuine concern and fierce insistence so peculiar to the native Greek.

“Yes.” His tight throat barely released the word, and he did not trust himself to say more without his voice cracking.

“Here,” Sotir said to the front seat, and his companion communicated a left turn to the driver, who obeyed. The car bottomed out on a narrow, cobbled lane and immediately reduced speed. They were in a rabbit’s warren of small streets and after several turns stopped dead in a short alley. The silence was even more intense with the engine off. Matthew’s senses, emerging from a thick gauze of fear, now seemed suddenly sharp, almost unbearable. He was aware of each man’s scent, every movement in the car, throats clearing, mouths exhaling short breaths. The driver was young and very frightened, sweat staining his collar. The passenger with the large pistol was young also, slightly bored-looking, with curly black hair and handsome features not unlike Sotir’s. One of the nephews, presumably, and they had been watching Matthew without his knowing it, probably the entire day. Andreas’ hand was in this, but Matthew could not bring himself to be offended.

Sotir reached inside Risto’s coat and after some fumbling around removed a small pistol, placing it inside his own jacket.

“Who?” he asked quietly. When there was no answer after several seconds, he struck Risto sharply on the head with his pistol, drawing blood, and Matthew reflexively looked away.

“Who?” Plastiris demanded a second time.

“Livanos,” Risto said.

“Taki Livanos?” Matthew asked, suddenly finding his voice.

“Yes.”

“Fotis’ nephew,” he explained to Sotir, who nodded.

“And what do you want with the boy here?”

“Just to bring him to the house,” Risto answered.

“You need a gun for that?”

“I always carry it.”

“You need to hit him and push him just to bring him to the house?”

“They said he would be suspicious, but I must get him there anyway.”

“Why?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Sotir struck him again, and Matthew bit down on his protest.

“Where is Livanos?”

“Gone. Into the mountains, I think, with the old man.”

“So what happens at the house?”

“We keep him there for a day or two. I don’t know why, they didn’t tell me.” Risto braced for another blow.

“That’s all?” Matthew asked. “And then you just let me go?”

“Yes,” Risto insisted, and Matthew believed him. Fotis merely wanted enough time to disappear. Evidently Sotir believed it too, because he did not strike the man again.

“The boy is protected. Don’t come near him. Tell Livanos.”

“I don’t intend to speak to that bastard again,” Risto sighed.

Matthew, Sotir, and his nephew got out of the car slowly and carefully, but the bewildered occupants clearly intended no more trouble. The nephew snapped open a ridiculously large knife and methodically punctured a tire, just to be on the safe side. Then the three of them made their way through the narrow lanes to Plastiris’ own vehicle. Matthew’s legs struggled to hold him up. Two knuckles were swollen on his right hand, and his lower back ached badly. The taste of fear would be in his mouth for days, yet he felt grateful to have escaped with so little harm, and stupid for not realizing how far above his abilities this game was being played. The nephew smiled at him with condescending sympathy.

“That was good, pretending to fall. But next time, hit him in the balls, not the chest.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“We’ll call your grandfather now,” Sotir said. “He will be worried.”

“Thank you. For looking after me like that.”

Plastiris waved the comment off.

“We were slow, but it is good we were there. Do you know where your godfather is?”

“No. Not at the moment, anyway. But I have a fair guess where he’s going.”

On the switchback road that climbed to Veria, Fotis was sure they were being followed. Taki laughed. This isn’t America, Uncle, there is only one road. Which was true, more or less; only one major road-narrow and winding-penetrated the mountainous heart of Macedonia. Yet something about the white Peugeot troubled the old man, the half-obscured license plate, the way it kept a perfect distance, even when Fotis made Taki slow down. Greeks did not drive so carefully.

He had Taki pull the black Mercury over at his favorite chapel, first making sure that two other cars were parked by the food stand across the long bend of road, beyond which the ground fell away to a landscape of beige hills spotted with dark vegetation. Hot and barren as Lebanon; not like the green hills of Epiros. From its little rise, creamy white in the dying sun, the chapel looked out over everything, a rocky cliff rising steeply behind it. The Peugeot stopped also. The driver bought a stick of souvlaki and a beer for himself, but nothing for the older man with him. The driver ate slowly, wandering back and forth from the cliff edge to the car, never once looking in Fotis’ direction, yet tarrying.

The Snake seemed not to be looking either, but saw all in his usual sidelong fashion. He spent a full ten minutes examining the small church, shut up at the moment, standing inside the tiny vestibule, out of the sun, while Taki paced like a panther and checked his watch. The road could be dangerous after dark, but Fotis had his mind on other dangers. At length, the young driver got back into the white car and sped quickly out of sight. Perhaps a coincidence after all, Fotis thought, but he made Taki wait another ten minutes before proceeding.

In the backseat, feet set widely to brace himself against the endless turns, Fotis reviewed his documents. Three passports, Greek, Turkish, American. He had not traveled under a false passport in many years and probably did not need to now. He could have been out of the country hours ago on a commercial flight from Athens or Salonika, instead of getting carsick in these wretched hills. Yet there was too great a chance of being picked up by impatient American investigators in New York, or by their counterparts here. The fake ID might get him through, but his face was on file with every security bureau on both sides of the water, and if he was caught with a bad passport, his troubles would increase immeasurably. The Greeks especially would welcome a reason to prosecute him. Fotis sighed, then shook his head at the image of such an unlikely security net waiting to catch this tired old thief. The Greeks were too sloppy, and the Americans far too preoccupied with larger threats. Nevertheless, his caution had saved him more than once, and he did not see abandoning it this late in life.

The sun was low, and he regretted the delay, which would force Taki to navigate the winding road into the Kozani valley in twilight. Fotis would take a small plane from the airstrip outside Kozani, to Montenegro, or direct to Brindisi in Italy, whichever Taki’s friend Captain Herakles thought best. Then a commercial flight from Rome, on some unlikely airline, under the guise of a Turkish businessman. That should do the trick. It was about getting to Rome. He would have to trust the brave Captain Herakles, who probably had never been more than a sergeant. Herakles, how sweet. These poor fellows, in their forties or fifties now, with their secret codes and brotherhoods and their heroic noms de guerre, they longed for the old days. The days when their brig-andage might have had a patriotic justification, fighting Turkish overlords or the German occupation or even the communists. Instead they had the black market, smuggling goods and people, bribing officials, stockpiling weapons-for what? The closest to war they had come was Cyprus, when the idiot colonels had utterly failed to act. How Fotis could have fallen in with that group he no longer understood, and it had cost him his home-land. Andreas had been wiser than he on that matter.

He was drawn out of his reverie by the Mercury’s steady acceleration, dangerous in these turns, and he noted Taki’s tense hands on the wheel, his eyes shifting constantly to the rearview mirror.

“What?” Fotis demanded, twisting about in his seat.

“Motorcycle. Coming up quick.”

The old man heard the engine now-a deep, shifting growl-and just caught sight of a vehicle disappearing into the car’s blind spot. Then the road uncurled into a rare straightaway and they were suddenly there, right outside Fotis’ window, two helmeted figures pressed together on a large motorbike, the one in back pointing something.

The doors of the Mercury were steel-plated, thanks to Taki’s diligence. Bulletproof glass was harder to come by, and tinted glass only drew attention, so they were quite exposed. Instinct said to dive away from the window, but even across the seat he could be seen. Instead, Fotis moved the opposite way, sliding half into the footwell and pressing himself against the door, fedora knocked astray.

Both rear windows exploded together, the shot passing straight through, and the car lurched wildly as Taki ducked behind the wheel. A rain of glass fell on Fotis’ hat and coat. Large caliber,.45 maybe. Motorcycle. Was it November 17, a political assassination? It fit their style precisely, but they were a long way from Athens.

The motorcycle roared ahead to avoid getting squeezed in a turn, and Fotis could see no more, but imagined the passenger twisting about on the seat, trying to get off another shot. He heard Taki fumbling with the glove box, swearing under his breath. Wind whipped through the car. Fotis was calm. Later, if he lived, he would be frightened, but he was calm now.

“Taki,” he tried to shout, his lungs compressed by his contorted position. “Pull over, make them come back at us.” His nephew would have a clear shot from a stationary position then, and the steel door for cover. If the idiot could get the damn glove box open.

The wind swept his words away, and Taki accelerated. Trying to run them down, which would not work. Fotis struggled to get back up in the seat, while the muffled ring of shots sounded ahead of them. One, two, three. There was the punching crack of safety glass as the windshield turned white, and Taki’s head snapped back, spraying the roof with blood.

Fotis grabbed the headrest before him as the car decelerated rapidly, and used the sudden shift in momentum to launch himself between the front seats. He could see nothing, but pulled the wheel right, away from the hundred-foot drop to boulders and the rusted remains of carelessly piloted vehicles, and toward the upward slope of the hill. The lesser of two evils. A slight uphill grade slowed the car’s motion further before it left the road, banging hard into a shallow culvert and coming up immediately against the slope. Loose dirt and rocks rattled down over the hood and roof. The engine died.

Fotis found himself looking up at the blood-spattered roof, his torso crammed beneath the dashboard, feet sprawled across the passenger seat, with no memory of how he had arrived there. The left side of his face stung, and there was a ringing in his ear, as if he had been slapped hard. He could not feel his left arm. The right one seemed to be working. His feet moved, but there was pain somewhere in his legs, or-God forbid it-his hip. None of it mattered greatly, as he was sure to be shot where he lay. He could make out Taki’s still form draped over the steering wheel, could smell blood and the sharp stink of frightened men.

Strangely, nothing happened at once. It was a full minute before he heard a car engine, and dared to hope that a passerby might have run off the assassins. Generally, these fellows were not well paid enough to make it worth killing bystanders. Then he remembered the Peugeot. Voices approached, loud and nervous. Fotis felt their anxiety in his fingertips. Despite the late hour, another car might come by at any moment. It had been unsporting of him not to go over the cliff, to make their job harder like this. They half-circled the Mercury as if it might bite them, unable to get at the passenger door because of the slope, unable to see through the splintered windows. On impulse, Fotis reached up and popped the glove compartment. The nine-millimeter tumbled out and struck him in the head. He cursed, but gripped the pistol firmly and felt the annoying adrenal rush of returning hope. He had been ready to give it all up a few moments before. What was wrong with that? Why must he fight so hard to keep hold of this miserable, threadbare life? It was not a question for the moment. Without his left hand free, he could not make sure that the first round was chambered, so he would have to go on faith.

Someone pulled at the driver’s door, finally wrenching it open a few feet. Fotis could not see clearly, but could sense whoever it was checking on Taki, noting the upside-down form in the passenger seat.

“Dead?” a voice asked from several meters away.

“Very close,” returned a younger voice, halfway inside the car. Tight, barely controlled, had never seen a head wound before, no doubt. “Now what the hell are we going to tell them?”

“What about the other one?”

“I can’t see, he’s on the floor. There’s blood everywhere. Holy Mother, what a mess.”

“Pull the driver out.” The older voice was close at hand now.

“He’s wedged in pretty tight.”

“Get out of the way, I’ll do it. Go in the back, and over the seat.”

Now the older one was wrestling with Taki’s bulky frame while the younger one fought with the rear door. Fotis shifted his torso and realized that some feeling had come back into the left arm. With great discomfort, he pulled himself partway back onto the passenger seat, just as Taki was dragged out into the road, and as the younger one freed the back door. The Peugeot driver, definitely. He saw Fotis now, oddly arranged across both seats, bent over the gun as if he were holding his ribs. The Snake let out a pitiful moan, only half faked.

“He’s alive,” the young one shouted, leaning forward between the seats.

Closer. There. Fotis swung the pistol up as fast and hard as he could manage, catching the young man beneath the chin with a tooth-snapping blow, sending him reeling onto the backseat. Then he shifted his attention to the open driver’s door.

The older man, a hollow-eyed, mustachioed brute in a dark suit, dropped Taki’s body and reached inside his jacket.

“Do not,” Fotis commanded, the nine-millimeter leveled at him. He would have shot both of them without warning but for the fact that they had not tried to kill him at once. They might be government, Andreas’ men, anyone. Too slowly, the big oaf pulled a blocky.45 from his shoulder holster and took aim. Fotis fired twice, then a third time as the man fell, every shot hitting. The sound was less deafening than he expected. Nice weapon; easy trigger, very little recoil. He had not used a gun in years, had thought himself beyond that place in his life. Mustache rolled heavily into the culvert and was still. The smell of cordite filled the car.

Fotis returned his attention to the driver. He was sitting up in the backseat, holding his bloody chin, his free hand extended like a shield. He spoke quickly.

“Wait, it’s a mistake. We tried to call them off.”

“Who sent you?”

“I work for him.” He gestured toward the dead man in the culvert.

Fotis leaned into the soft leather, reached his right hand between the seats, and placed the gun muzzle against the driver’s knee. The young man flinched and moved his leg.

“Be still,” Fotis said, gently. “First one knee, then the other, then I kill you. I won’t even ask you any more questions, so answer this one. Who sent you?”

“I don’t know.” The driver was shaking, from shock or fear, Fotis didn’t care which. He took none of the satisfaction in this he once might have. “I only overheard a few things. Someone in New York, some Russian. I don’t know his name. I don’t even know your name.”

“You don’t know anything, do you boy?”

“That’s right.”

It might even be true. Anyway, the information was sufficient. Of course, he had known that Karov might come after him. He just hadn’t expected it so soon, or on Greek soil.

“Why do you say it was a mistake?”

“The Russian, or whoever it was. He called it off half an hour ago. We couldn’t contact the others in time.”

“The motorcycle men. Where are they?”

“They were supposed to make sure someone saw them. Some cars coming the other way. Then vanish.”

“So it would look like a November 17 assassination.”

“I didn’t know the reason. I guess that’s right. Yes, of course that’s it.”

Once, he would have devoted all his efforts to finding those men and punishing them. Now, it would have to wait, maybe forever. He did not even know if he had escaped this encounter yet. How badly was he hurt? How dangerous was the boy? Could he drive the Peugeot himself, or did he need the little bastard?

“Where is your weapon?”

“I don’t have one. I’m just the driver. All I was supposed to do is follow you.” The young man shook badly, teeth clattering, sure he was about to die. Fotis had seen older men expire from heart attacks in the same situation. A nice, clean death, especially useful in political executions. The boy’s heart was probably too strong for that. And too much fear would make him desperate.

“I should kill you. I will not hesitate to do so if you make trouble, but I require your assistance. I need you to deliver a message to the man who ordered this. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Stay there.”

It was impossible for Fotis not to expose himself to a swift blow as he crawled across the driver’s seat and out into the cool dusk, but the young man never stirred. The old man stood, slowly. Pain shot down his left leg, but it did not buckle. The left arm was largely numb. A sticky bulge arose just above his left eye, but his vision was only slightly impaired. One rib could be cracked. All in all, it was miraculous. He might be able to avoid a hospital completely. He let the cool mountain breeze wash him, and tried to keep from vomiting.

The sun had gone behind the hills; the sky was still bright in a shallow arc to the west and blue, deepening to indigo, in the east. Captain Herakles would not wait forever. They must be fast. Fotis had the driver try to start the battered Mercury, and the engine turned over on the fourth attempt, coughing and sputtering miserably. Shocks gone, tires flat, it hammered and scraped its way across the road in reverse until it sat idling by the far ledge. Then Fotis made the young man load the bodies in: Taki behind the wheel, Mustache in back. Grisly work, covering the driver’s hands and jacket with blood and road grit. He washed his hands with a water bottle and threw the jacket over the ledge.

Fotis leaned into the car and removed Mustache’s wallet, then placed his own bent fedora on the dead man’s head. Unwilling to part with a passport, he settled for tucking his box of Turkish cigarettes in the bloodied suit jacket. The gray mustache contributed nicely to the effect. Of course, the man was thirty years younger at least, but who knew, after the effects of a hundred-foot fall, it might fool someone, even briefly. He would take any small advantage he could get. Simple confusion would suffice.

A moment’s hesitation as full dark took hold. Taki had not been quite dead when the driver checked on him before. What if he lived yet? His troubled sister’s only child. Fotis had never really liked the boy, but he had been loyal, and now the old man was gripped by a deep and unfamiliar sorrow. Something like loneliness. He knew that this feeling, like the fear, would thicken with time, but he had no energy for either emotion right now. There was just enough to do what must be done. If Taki was not dead he would be an empty husk, no good to anyone. Probably he was dead. Let it be so. Fotis signaled the driver.

The young man grabbed the open door for balance, reached in, put the car in drive, hit the gas pedal with his right foot, and pivoted away on his left. The Mercury lurched, rolled, then teetered on the worn, dusty ledge, before tipping like a toy car. Then it was gone in a cloud of loose soil. They heard a thump, followed by a more decisive crunch far below. Fotis shuffled to the ledge and peered down into darkness. He could barely make out the car’s scraped, oily underside, like an exposed insect. There was no smoke and the gas tank had not ignited. Only at that moment did he see lights approaching from the west.

He waved the driver into the Peugeot and got into the back himself.

“Pull into that little lay-by ahead. No lights.”

The car from the west passed a few moments later, slowed somewhat where the Mercury had gone over, but then continued on. Fotis waited, and the wait nearly undid him. His aches reached him all at once, taking his breath away. Fatigue stunned his brain, he could think of nothing. He almost believed that none of it had happened, that the shaggy head before him was his nephew, and the Snake had merely been sleeping. A terrible, terrible dream. His hands shook, dampness was on his cheeks.

“What now?” asked the young man quietly.

The old man drew a wet, heavy breath.

“You’re the driver. So drive.”