“But there are so many agendas. The museum can’t buy everything it should.”

“You would like for them to acquire it.”

“Speaking selfishly, I’d like to have it around, to be able to study it whenever I wanted. We don’t have a lot of icons, none like this one.”

“There are none like it, I would guess. But will it go on a wall for all to see, or will it sit in a case in your wonderful temperature-controlled basement, for only scholars’ eyes?”

“That’s a concern, I confess.”

“I sensed as much. You’re a very conscientious boy. Now,” he took Matthew’s arm and began walking again, “tell me about the icon itself.”

Matthew described the work while they proceeded, past a lush slope of yellow daffodils and white narcissi, through a small field of fruit trees, fat with just-splitting buds. He attempted to keep his language technical, yet feared that too much of his emotional response to the image showed through. It seemed impossible to use the academic voice, to keep that professional distance when speaking or even thinking of this particular piece, and he had yet to address with himself what that might mean. The older man listened quietly, his face neutral, until they paused at the Seventy-second Street crosswalk.

“Marvelous. I would very much like to see it again one day.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged, wherever it ends up.”

Fotis looked at him with damp eyes, which may just have been from the wind.

“I knew you were the right one to look at that icon.”

“I should thank you for putting in a word with their lawyer. It was a nice coincidence that you knew him.”

“We are in the same club, but it’s nonsense to thank me. The museum would have sent you in any case.”

“Maybe the family wouldn’t have thought of the museum if you hadn’t mentioned it. Whatever happens now, I’ve been able to see it, so I’m satisfied.”

“I am told that you made a very favorable impression upon Ms. Kessler.”

“The lawyer told you that?”

“Why should it be a secret? In fact, she may want you to come back and do a second examination. For herself this time.”

Matthew shrugged uncomfortably.

“That really wouldn’t be kosher while the museum is considering.”

They crossed the road and started down the steep, looping path to the boat pond.

“Unless I am mistaken, it is she and not the museum who will decide the work’s fate.”

“Of course.”

“And she will need help with that decision. She trusts you already.”

“It’s awkward.”

“You are assuming that you will be placed in a position contrary to your conscience. There is another way to look at the matter. Ms. Kessler may need to be told what to do.”

“I don’t know that I understand you.”

“You do not, yet.”

They said no more before they reached the bottom of the path. Fotis gripped his arm more tightly, and Matthew realized that his godfather had a pained look on his face, physical pain, possibly quite acute. The jaw clenched and the eyes closed, and Fotis swayed a moment, breathing deeply through his nose.

“Theio, are you OK?”

Equanimity returned to the old man’s face after several moments.

“The air is lovely today, is it not, my boy?”

“Do you want to sit?”

“A few minutes, perhaps.”

They shuffled to a bench set back from the water’s edge, a little past where the hawk watchers huddled about their telescopes. Fotis sat heavily. Concerned as he was, Matthew said nothing more. This was not the first time he’d seen these symptoms, and questions would only make the old man retreat. His pain was his own, as jealously guarded as his other secrets. The pond’s surface was a dark glass, reflecting a shadowland version of the brick boathouse across the way. Behind that, tall trees, just touched with lime green, soared up well past the level of the street behind them, and above the trees the square stone towers of Fifth Avenue were bathed in yellow-white light.

“Can I get you anything?” Matthew asked, but Fotis waved him off.

“Fate is a peculiar thing. We believe that we command our own lives, but events will occur, again and again, which lead us in a certain direction. Do you not find this to be true? We can resist. We can go along, pretending we are still in control. Or, we can try to determine what fate wants of us, and help to make it happen.”

“I’m not much of a believer in fate.”

“That is because you are young. One must believe in one’s own power at your age. In another time, however, the young sought advice from the old. The old were understood to hold wisdom from experience. This is no longer the way.”

Matthew took the hint and shut up.

“You have said some interesting things today,” Fotis went on. “It is possible that your unconscious already perceives a dilemma which your conscious mind has not grasped, because a choice has not yet been put before you. So. I was contacted a few days ago by a highly placed official of the Greek church. Regarding the icon. They are very much determined to acquire the work, and they want help from me in the matter.”

A rush of anxiety coursed through the younger man. He sat forward on the bench, both disbelieving and struck by a strange sense that he had expected something very like this.

“Why would the church contact you? How do they even know about the icon?”

“The church has many resources, and I have many friends within the church. They place a high value upon recovering stolen art treasures, especially those of great religious significance and power. Kessler’s ownership of the icon was not a secret.”

“You only conjecture that it’s stolen.”

“No,” the old man countered instantly, then seemed to restrain himself. “You must have seen documents from the lawyer. What do they say of its provenance?”

“It’s more or less in line with the work you and I have discussed.”

“The Holy Mother of Katarini.”

“They don’t use that name, but it’s an obvious match. Preiconoclastic, original source unknown. The last few centuries in a church in Epiros.”

“And how did it come to be in Kessler’s possession?”

“He claimed to have purchased it from a fellow Swiss businessman.”

“So that fellow is the thief. Or the one before him. What does it matter? Somewhere along the line it was stolen. What Greek would have willingly parted with it?”

“Maybe one who needed money after the war.”

“It was taken during the war, I tell you. The Germans took it with them when they left.”

Now we’ve arrived at it, Matthew thought. His godfather had been hinting about something for weeks.

“How do you know that?”

Fotis sighed, smoothing his hands out across his gray pleated pants.

“Very well. Very well, I told you I had seen the work before.”

“Yes. That’s how we got talking about it in the first place.”

“I didn’t tell you everything. It was during the war that I saw it, in that church in your grandfather’s village. It was your Papou, in fact, who arranged for me to see it. I have never forgotten that time. Less than an hour, but I was completely possessed by its beauty, by the power emanating from within it. You know I was with the guerrillas. I was in charge of the resistance in that area, and I sent a man to get the icon from that church. Before the Germans took it, or burned the place without knowing what it was. They burned so many villages, churches and all.”

The old man paused, lost in a vision of houses aflame. Matthew watched the men who watched the birds. He sensed that this story would end up troubling him, and not just because the museum would never touch stolen work. The information, which he was hungry to learn, would come at the price of his neutrality. Every word got him deeper into whatever it was his godfather had planned. Yet how could he resist? These old guys gave up their secrets so infrequently.

“What happened?”