“We never spoke of this before.”

“Come on, Andy,” laughed the government man, “it was your obsession. It’s all in your file. But the guy is supposed to be dead.”

“They showed me a grave. A wooden cross and some turned earth behind the last house he owned. I never saw a body.”

“This was Argentinean intelligence?”

“The grave was fresh. No more than a day or two old. They could have dug it an hour before I came up the hill.”

“People do just die, my friend. A lot of those old Nazis managed to die a natural death.”

“It was too convenient. They were protecting him. They still are, I’m sure. Maybe you are, too.”

“Me?” Morrison smiled innocently.

“The fine organization you work for. It’s interesting that my hunt for Müller is so detailed in my file, when I could get no help from you people at the time.”

“Resources were thin. He was small-time, a major or a colonel, I think. Not even a general, let alone some architect of the Reich. You needed the Israelis.”

“He was small-time for them, also. They did give me a few leads in the end. That was how I found the house.”

“But the Argentineans intercepted you.”

“As soon as I stepped off the bus in a nearby village. They knew exactly who I was. They were polite, said that there had been a development which would please me. Took me up the hill to the house. Showed me the grave.”

“It does sound awfully tidy.”

“Will you help me, Robert?”

Morrison stuck a fork into the hefty pile of eggs just placed before him. Then paused, looking perplexed, or perhaps nauseated.

“It’s sticky.”

“Send it back.”

“The situation is sticky. If there was some reason we didn’t help you back then, I don’t know what it was, and I don’t feel like blundering into it now.”

“All these years later, what can it matter? Indulge an old man.”

“There’s no upside to this. If he’s dead, I’ve wasted my time. If he’s alive, and I put you on to him, things could get ugly. I can’t have you terminating this guy on American soil.”

“Who said anything about that?”

“Isn’t that what you were aiming for back then? Why else do you want to find him?”

“I have questions. More important, I must keep an eye on him to protect others.”

“You think he means to try something? I’ve got to know about that if you do.”

“I have no idea what he intends. Understand, Robert,” and Andreas leaned across the chipped Formica, fixing the other man in his unblinking gaze, “all you can tell me is that he entered the country. I will still have to find him, which will likely prove impossible, but at least I will be on my guard. You will be protecting me with this information. Do you see?”

“I see that you’re a smooth-talking old bastard.”

“Have me watched.”

“Can’t afford that.”

Andreas reached into his coat and removed a slip of paper, which he placed on the table. Morrison studied it a moment, chewing his toast.

“The aliases?”

“As many as I know of.”

“He could have come up with twenty more in the last thirty years.”

“True. But without someone hunting him, I doubt he would bother. It’s troublesome work, creating identities. Anyway, at least one of these was used within the last ten years, in eastern Europe. I’ve marked it. Of course, it may not have been him.”

This was becoming too much information for the agency man, who had come to the great metropolis with other priorities and now shifted restlessly in his seat. Andreas was content. It was best that the tired bureaucrat remember as little of this conversation as possible.

“If I pick this up,” said Morrison, nodding at the paper, “it doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything. I may do the search and still decide to do nothing. You might not hear from me.”

“I understand.”

The younger man sighed and slipped his wallet from his suit jacket, sliding out a twenty as he slid the white scrap of paper in.

“Unless this guy is on a watch list, it’s very unlikely I’ll find him. Don’t call me about this. I’ll call your hotel if I have anything to report.”

“You never let me pay.”

“It’s my country. You can buy me dinner in Athens.”

“You always say that, but you never come.”

“One of these days.”

5

Fotis was on his usual bench, turned three-quarters from the sun, gray overcoat and fedora, white mustache like a beacon. Bright pink patches stood out on his prominent cheekbones, and he stared distractedly into space while feeding bits of soft pretzel to a flock of pigeons at his feet. Fotis occupied such a powerful place in his imagination that Matthew was constantly surprised to see what an old and delicate-looking man his godfather had become. And why not? He was pushing ninety. Yet there was more than age at work, some deeper change was under way that came clear only from weekly contact. Fotis was ill. The old charmer-or schemer, as Alekos always called him-would never let on, but he was not well, and his illness was bound to add a sense of urgency to all his latest efforts. Matthew sat.

“Kaliméra, Theio.”

Fotis turned slowly and smiled at him.

“It is a good morning. I can feel the sun. I think we have survived another winter.”

“Winter was over weeks ago.”

“You can never be certain. March is the worst month. It tempts you with warmth and flowers, then buries you in snow. April is better; I think we are safe now. How is your father?”

“Improved. They may send him home.”

“Excellent. And how was it between him and your grandfather?”

“Not bad. A little tense. They sent me out of the room at one point, so I don’t know everything that happened, but they seemed to be communicating when I got back.”

Fotis shook his head. “Poor man.”

“How are you?”

“The same, always the same.” He patted his godson’s knee. “That is my secret. Let us walk.”

They went north, the sun at their backs. The wide path through the zoo grounds was full of shrieking children, and Matthew gripped his godfather’s arm protectively. Fotis smiled benevolently at the zigzagging horde, taking an old man’s delight in their youthful energy, even when a small boy collided with him. They watched the seals on their rock island, and caught a glimpse of the polar bear doing lazy laps in his pool.

“Has the deal gone through on the house?” Matthew asked. Fotis had described a place in Armonk he was going to buy, and on a lark Matthew and Robin, who had grown up there, drove around the town until they found it. Just a few weeks back, days before she ended things.

“The house.” Fotis seemed surprised. “I did not remember mentioning the house to you. No, I have decided not to purchase it after all. Too great an indulgence.”

This was curious. His godfather had seemed extremely excited about the house when they last discussed it, and Matthew had the impression the deal was virtually done. Another of the old man’s little mysteries. Meanwhile, he realized it was up to him to raise the subject that was on both their minds.

“I saw the Kessler icon yesterday.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s wonderful. I mean, it’s suffered a lot of wear, but there is something very powerful about it. Very moving.”

“So, you would say its value is more spiritual than artistic?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, value to whom?”

“Precisely.” The older man paused before taking on a long, sloping incline in the path. “Will you recommend purchasing the work to your superiors?”

“My department chief needs to see it, probably the director. The decision will get made at a higher level.”

“Come now, you have no influence at all?”

“I am the Byzantine specialist, I’m sure they’ll give me a voice. For its age alone we should buy it, and it’s also a great work of art. It could be the crown jewel of the new galleries.”

“Certainly.”