The Icon (32 page)

“She holds you still,” Fotis whispered.

“No,” Matthew answered, but it was not completely true. She held him differently now.

“Understand me, my child. I cannot live much longer. When I am gone she will be yours, but I need her with me if I am to die well. I have no other hope. If you had seen the things I have seen, you would not try to deny me.”

“The things you’ve seen? Or the things you’ve done?”

“Who else knows you’ve come here?”

He would not follow the old man’s lead. That was a tired routine.

“They have Andreas.”

“Who has him?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s this del Carros. He tried to grab Ana Kessler a few days ago. I’m pretty certain he had a deal with your Russians to get the icon.”

Fotis nodded. “You are sure they have him?”

“I spoke to him.”

“What did he say? Precisely.”

“Not much. I think he was drugged. He told me to do nothing, and he referred to ‘both’ of them, so I assume it’s only two men who have him.”

“Good. That’s all?”

“He called them ‘princes.’ I figured he was being sarcastic.” Fotis’ stare bored into the younger man for many long moments. Matthew knew he was being read, but he remained calm, in the knowledge that he was not hiding anything. “They’re going to call me soon,” he pressed. “They expect information on the icon’s location.”

“Did it not occur to you this could be a trick by your grandfather?”

“What, you think he’s faking being held?”

Fotis nodded, still looking him hard in the face. It was a sure sign of how deeply the paranoia of the last few weeks had penetrated that Matthew seriously weighed the idea in his mind.

“No. You have no idea how badly he wants me out of all this. He would not invent some scheme that sent me after you alone. You must know that.”

“Maybe you’re in it together.”

“That doesn’t make sense, for the same reason. You’re thinking out loud, you don’t even believe what you’re saying.”

“Perhaps.”

“We have to help him.”

“Of course we do.” But there was no heart behind the words. Fotis stared, unblinking, no longer seeing Matthew, but scheming again, stalling for time.

“So what does ‘princes’ mean?”

“The Prince,” Fotis began slowly, “was what your grandfather and I called the German officer I told you about. Or sometimes the Pasha, because he liked to live well, and surround himself with stolen treasures. He is the man Andreas made the deal with, sending the Holy Mother into exile.”

“Müller. The Nazi he was hunting all those years.”

“The same.”

“Del Carros is Müller.”

“It may be so.”

“What did he intend by telling me that?”

“Only that we should know. Or as a warning, perhaps, that we are dealing with someone far more dangerous than I had guessed. He is still a loyal fellow, your grandfather.”

“Yeah, and how will you repay that loyalty?”

“I have not the means to help him. I can barely protect myself.”

“You have the icon. It’s not worth Andreas’ life.”

“His life is forfeit already. You did not tell him, or them, of this place?”

“Of course not.”

“Then there is nothing they can get from him. Do you see? He has used his last opportunity to warn us. If you give them the information now, he still dies, and very likely you and I also. And they take our Lady. He would become the instrument of our deaths. Do you think he wants that? Do you think he wants Müller to have the chance to betray him again? For shame. They only win if they get the icon. We can prevent that. You must assist me.”

“I know someone who can help us. He’s ex-Mossad, a friend of Andreas. We can’t give up on him, we have to try something.”

“You understand
nothing.”

Fury shook his godfather’s ill frame, and the hand gripping the pistol bounced on his leg. A dull trilling drew both sets of eyes to the desk, where a red light flashed on the console. Fotis jumped up and shuffled over to it.

“The priest has gotten curious, perhaps? No. Not the front door, the back, the back…”

He wheeled about and pointed the gun at Matthew’s head. The body language was so threatening that Matthew found himself throwing his hands up and recoiling two steps.

“Theio!”

“Who have you led here? Speak the truth.”

“No one. Just the priest.”

Fotis dropped the gun to his side again, speaking more quietly as he marched past Matthew.

“No, you have brought them. Maybe unawares, but they followed you.”

Recovering himself somewhat, Matthew followed the old man out of the room on shaky legs. Fotis turned once to put a finger to his lips, then started along the corridor, not the way they had come but in the opposite direction, turning once onto a shorter corridor. At the top of a steep, narrow staircase he gestured for Matthew to stay put, then started down. In moments, he had vanished around a turn and Matthew stood there, mute and helpless, staring at the place where he had gone. What should he do now? Who was down there? Should he go check on Ioannes? Indecision held him to the spot, and perhaps a minute later he heard a faint noise below. Then Fotis reappeared. The Snake struggled a bit on the ascent, but he gripped Matthew’s shoulder with a strong hand and placed his lips right at the younger man’s ear.

“I hear him but don’t see him. There’s another at the front door now. We’ll hold the second floor against them. Can you use this?”

Fotis held out a large pistol, grip-first. Matthew nodded hesitantly. His godfather slid the carriage back and forth as quietly as possible, chambering the first round, then placed the gun in Matthew’s hand.

“Squeeze the trigger hard. Stay right here and shoot anyone who comes up those stairs.”

He pressed Matthew against the wall, then slipped the Walther from his sweater and headed toward the front of the house. Fear of whatever was about to happen battled with the anger that events had overrun his intentions, but Matthew did not take his eyes from the stairs. He did not wish to distract himself with thinking, but thoughts came unbidden. If it was del Carros or his companion down there, he would need to act without hesitation, as Fotis had instructed. But what if it was someone else? The FBI, or Benny, or even Ioannes? If he waited to identify the person, would he get the chance to react? Could he look some stranger in the eye and pull the trigger?

Or was it all some game that Fotis was playing with him, yet again? He backed up ten feet to the turn in the corridor to make sure the old bastard wasn’t going down the front stairs with the icon. A faint noise from below made him quickly retrace his steps. Then all thought vanished as gunfire erupted from the front of the house.

J
an had not liked the plan one bit, but their options were few. They had drugged Spyridis, but he said little and clearly didn’t know where to find Dragoumis. The boy was their best chance. Seizing him would have been the surest course, but Müller gauged the young man’s tone and guessed that he did not precisely know his godfather’s whereabouts. Yet he might find him if given free rein. Jan’s trying to grab the boy and priest together could go terribly wrong, even leave Spear dead, and in any case three hostages would be a very clumsy business for two men. One was bad enough. The best plan was for Van Meer to trail the boy.

The Dutchman was annoyed, the closest he got to being angry. He’d been watching Spear’s apartment on and off for days, and was amazed the boy had been stupid enough to return. Let me take him, he urged Müller, he’s right here. Yet he had gone along in the end, and the trail had proved every bit as challenging as predicted. Müller drove the rental car while Jan followed on foot, and they had to scramble when they realized Spear was borrowing a friend’s car and about to disappear. Jan took the wheel and managed to maintain the tail all the way out of the city, up the Bronx River Parkway, and along the winding back roads of northern Westchester. Jan was good, and the boy was not experienced, but over so great a distance there was a chance he had noticed the pursuit. This meant they might be walking into an ambush.

Müller looked at Spyridis in the backseat, still unconscious from his last injection. He would get another one when the car stopped, and in all probability would not wake up again in this world. The Greek’s wrists were bound with a cord Jan carried for the purpose, and a blanket was thrown over his lap to hide them. Müller returned his eyes to the road, and realized he’d lost sight of Spear’s vehicle.

“Where is he?”

“He just pulled in there, the gate in the brick wall.”

“Then why are we driving past?”

Jan glanced over at him in mild disgust.

“We should go in behind him, you think? Invite ourselves in for drinks?”

They continued past the gate for a hundred yards but saw only trees and wall, then lost sight of the property. Jan turned around and doubled back, passing the gate again until he reached a wooded dell a few hundred yards on the far side, and parked among the weeds. He waved his cell phone, switched to walkie-talkie function, at Müller, then opened his door.

“Give me time to get in. Then you come in the front, as we planned.”

“Yes, yes.”

“About ten minutes should be sufficient. Remember that I may not be able to speak once I’m inside.”

“We’ve been over everything. Just go.”

“Don’t be impatient. We’re too close now.”

No answer was required, and then Jan was gone, melting into the thicket of young oak and maple like a ghost. Müller took a deep breath and slid over to the driver’s seat. He let five minutes elapse on his watch before he put the car in drive, looked for traffic on the empty road, pulled out slowly. Jan was correct—damn him, anyway—there was no need for haste, no need to panic. They were closing the noose. Now was not the time for stupid mistakes.

As he shaped the turn and started up the incline, the brick wall came into view once more, old and moss-covered, and within a hundred feet the stone pillars appeared, bracketing the drive. He pulled over onto the grassy shoulder of the road, slipped out his cell phone, and settled in to wait for Jan’s call, glancing once more at Spyridis. Had he moved, or was it simply the motion of the car? He checked the road, the trees, the wall itself. Then he noticed the tiny camera on the west pillar, pointing straight at him.

Damn it all, he should have seen it before; there must be cameras everywhere. On instinct, he put the car in gear again and pulled into the long gravel driveway. Why give Dragoumis any more time to think? With luck, only the old Greek would oppose them. The cell phone on the seat released a burst of static, indicating that Jan was inside but could not speak. Müller felt his heart beating dangerously and sucked hard at the stale air in the car. He parked at the most oblique angle possible from the windows of the house, then got out and rushed to the front door.

There was no one in Spear’s car, so both he and the priest must be inside. Müller ignored the inevitable camera by the door and tested the large brass knob. It was unlocked. Either Jan had worked swiftly or it was a much too obvious trap. He slipped the pistol from inside his coat and pushed the door open with his free hand. Nothing happened immediately. He could see a handsome blue-and-red oriental carpet at the base of a staircase, and wide arches opening to sunlit rooms on either side of a hall. Müller stepped in quickly and made for the stairs. The first bang startled him, but by the second he was on the ground, rolling to his right, instinct overcoming age. There was at least one distinctive thump of a round striking wood. He bumped into the heavy leg of something and pulled himself to his knees, knocking his head against the bottom of a large dinner table. Through blurred vision he could see that he was in the dining room—out of the line of fire, he guessed.

He checked himself for damage but did not seem to be hit. The shots had come from the top of the stairs. Dragoumis—if that’s who it was—had waited for him to get well inside before firing, but his aim was off badly. The German shook his head as his vision cleared. He had been lucky. Now he was on sore knees with a bruised skull and no way to get up those stairs. Never mind; at least he was inside the house. He glanced across the hall. There was a large, plush living room with light pouring in through French doors over a white sofa, glass table, and thick flokati rug. It reminded him of a room in a house he had once owned, a place where he had been almost content. Don’t think of that now. There was a door at the back of the dining room, next to a tall, glass-fronted hutch. There must be a back stairway in a house like this. He had to find it, and find Jan. Müller stood slowly, painfully, and moved toward the narrow door.

The kitchen was large and gloomy, despite the white walls and blue curtains, and there was a faint smell of gas in the air. A bowl and a mug sat in the sink. There were two doors, in addition to the one from which he had entered. The one on the left appeared more promising, but no sooner had he thought that than a loud boom came from that direction. A larger-caliber gun than the one in front, so there were two holding the upper floor. Where was Jan? If the Dutchman was down, then this business was finished, and he would be lucky to get out with his life. Lucky. Hardly the correct word. There was no escape but one for a man his age. He was not leaving without the icon, whatever the consequences. He willed himself to move toward the sound of the shot.

A short corridor led into a small room full of filing cabinets and black-and-white monitors. He saw the cars parked in front, several empty views of the grounds, the front steps, the priest wandering aimlessly around the side of the house. There were no interior views. A moment later he glanced up to see Van Meer standing beside him. Jan smiled.

“You’ve lost your hat.”

“Yes,” whispered Müller, repressing his shock at being so easily surprised. “I guess I have. What about that shot?”

“A poor one. Missed me by half a meter, but someone is up there.”

“In front also.”

Jan nodded. “This is an unfavorable position. Two on two and they have the high ground. Wisdom says we should withdraw.”

“Impossible. We’ll never have this opportunity again.”

Jan nodded once more, having expected this response. His eyes were directed over the German’s shoulder at the kitchen door, and as they spoke his head made small adjustments to catch any stray sound. There were moments when Van Meer seemed pure mechanics, pure calculation, but Müller could tell that the gamesman in him had been aroused. He would not leave now.

“I expect a large bonus,” Jan said.

“Done. The front stairs are long and straight. It’s no good.”

“There’s an angle in back. Maybe four meters from the landing to the shooter.”

“That’s the way, then.”

“Wait here.”

Müller despised the tone of command from inferiors, but he was getting used to it with this one, and he watched the entry to the stairwell as Jan ducked into the kitchen. The younger man returned a minute later with a bundle of dishcloths tied together, stinking of something. Cleaning fluid, perhaps. In his other hand he held a wet towel.

They moved carefully into the stairwell, then up the narrow steps together. Jan pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and sparked the bundle, nodding to Müller. The old man slid along the outer wall, aware of the fist-sized crater in the plaster an arm’s length away. Before he quite cleared the angle, he stuck out his shaking left hand and fired three quick bursts, the noise tremendous in that tight space, then withdrew. Jan stepped into the open spot and tossed his flaming bundle up the stairs.

The air smelled of acrid burning. Would they light up the whole house, Müller wondered, still shaking? Was it fear or anticipation? When had he become so nervous, so feeble? Jan stared at him with that damned serene expression. A scuffing noise came from above, a foot stomping the fiery bundle. Crouching, Jan slipped halfway around the angle, fired twice, and ducked back. There was a dull metal thud on the stairs above. The Dutchman leaned out once more, then darted up out of sight. Müller took a deep breath and followed, picking up the wet towel on his way.

Two steps from the top a black nine-millimeter lay on the stair, and there was a smudge of blood on the corner of the wall. Jan stood in the smoky corridor, looking left and right. Müller tossed the wet towel over the burning pile of rags, stamped on it several times. The floor was scorched, but nothing seemed to have caught. Bullet holes were everywhere.

“You hit him,” Müller whispered.

“In the hand,” Jan said. “Spear. He’s nearby.”

“But disarmed.”

Disarmed, wounded, surely terrified. The German mentally crossed the boy off. Now it was down to Dragoumis, and the odds were back in their favor. The icon was here, somewhere on the second floor, or the Greek would not have abandoned the first without a fight. The corridor they were in connected with another about four meters ahead, where a right turn would take them to the front of the house. Van Meer took a glance around the corner.

“Yes?” Müller prompted.

“Nothing. Lots of doors.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“Spear is here somewhere.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really think they followed him?”

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

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