“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m on the train. What is it?”

“I’ve found him.”

Andreas exhaled and closed his eyes.

“Are you certain?”

“Ninety-five percent. You’ll have to fill in the rest. When are you back?”

“Two hours.”

“Tonight isn’t good. Too much activity. Tomorrow, first thing, we’ll pay him a visit.”

11

It had been his intention to go back into Manhattan that same evening, but his mother had convinced Matthew to stay the night. Early Sunday morning he called his grandfather’s hotel but could get no answer in the room. Then he visited briefly with his father. Alex was too tired to rise, and Matthew settled for squeezing his hand, hoping that his expression would make the apology which his lips could not seem to issue. He took the train into Grand Central and walked to the hotel. It was Easter Sunday for the Western church, Palm Sunday for the Orthodox. Matthew had thought of going to services, but his mind would not be at ease while matters remained so confused, and he was certain that his grandfather would not be at church.

In the cramped lobby, the concierge took his name and telephoned the room.

“You can go ahead up.”

“He’s back?”

“He returned with another gentleman twenty minutes ago. Room 511. The elevators are to your right.”

Matthew had been ready to wait a good deal longer, and now he felt unprepared. It was difficult to maintain his anger, and his grandfather could use many means to deflect him. He must be firm, speak all that he knew, and demand answers.

A hard rap on the door brought footsteps and a muffled greeting.

“It’s Matthew.”

The door swung open, and a man stood there, tall, gray, and smiling.

“You are Andreas’ grandson?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes, yes, come in.”

The older man stepped aside, and Matthew entered. The room was not large. A double bed, television, desk, and two chairs, with a muted floral theme on the walls, cushions, and bedspread. Andreas was not to be seen, but there was someone clattering around in the bathroom.

“Sit,” said the man, placing himself in the chair closest to the door. Matthew remained standing, but wandered over to look down at the concrete courtyard below. He had learned not to ask questions of his grandfather’s business associates. The man’s presence was frustrating, as Matthew intended to press Andreas hard, but he was determined not to be run off. He would wait it out. The click of the bathroom light switch made him turn.

A short, thick, nearly bald man with deep-set eyes stood there, draped in a leather jacket two sizes too big for him. The light was off in the bathroom, and there was really nowhere else that Andreas might be. He was not here, and the two men were between Matthew and the door. Panic took the form of a blurry numbness, and he did not trust his voice to speak.

“Please sit,” said the older man again. “We should know each other.”

Matthew sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. The bald one remained standing, patting his pockets distractedly, an annoyed expression on his face.

“You came looking for your Papou,” said the gray-haired man.

“So did we. As you can see, he is not here.”

The man was about Andreas’ height and weight, and the face had the same rectangular shape. Even similar features. Add the dark suit and shirt buttoned to the collar, and Matthew could see how the concierge might be fooled at a glance. Yet the man was a good ten years younger than Andreas, and far more kindly in his expression.

“What are you doing in his room?”

“Waiting. We are waiting, like you.”

“I think you were doing more than waiting before I came in.”

“Yes, well, we did avail ourselves of his absence to look around. I assure you that we have taken nothing.”

“You shouldn’t be in here at all.”

“By law, you are correct. But extralegal imperatives are sometimes stronger. In any case, we did not break down the door. We were given the key.”

“Is there any point in asking what you were looking for?”

“We’re not precisely certain. Maybe something that would give us a clue to where the icon is now. Yes, the icon, paidemou, don’t look surprised. What did you think this was about?”

“He knows,” said the bald one, in an irritated voice. “He knows where it is. Don’t you?”

Matthew processed answers, true, false, and in between. Which would protect him? Which would endanger someone else? Fear paralyzed his thinking. Could he simply get up and leave?

“You are in no danger,” the older man said gently. “But we must learn where the icon is. It is terribly important.”

“Why?”

“A fair question, and the answer is complicated. I believe that several people involved with the icon’s sale, including perhaps yourself, are operating under a misunderstanding. Truly, a deliberate deception. Tell me, have you met a priest named Tomas?”

After pausing too long to deny it, Matthew nodded his head.

“And he put himself forward as a representative of the Greek church?”

“Yes,” Matthew said, concern for his safety giving way to a deeper fear. “He’s not?”

“He is, or was. He is a priest of the church in America, but Tomas has occasionally done business on our behalf. He was pursuing an opportunity to acquire the icon for us. In the last week or so, however, he allowed his own interests to overcome his spiritual obligation. I believe. Truly, we do not know where Tomas is right now, so we cannot say exactly what has happened. I am being very honest with you, more than I should be, perhaps. In any case, we do not believe he is in possession of the icon.”

Which question to ask first?

“I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“The apology should be mine. Ioannes is my name. Father John, if you prefer. Many of my American friends call me that.”

“I’m Greek.”

“Of course you are.”

“So you’re from the church in Greece?”

“Yes.”

“And you came here to check up on the deal?”

“Tomas’ actions bred suspicion. Unfortunately, his superiors did not oversee him carefully, and we did not follow up with them until it was too late. I am here to see what can be rescued. The icon is of enormous importance to us. The joy at its discovery when Tomas contacted us was great, I assure you.”

“Wait. You didn’t know about Kessler having the icon already?”

“There were rumors, Kessler’s ownership among them. Most people thought it was in a vault in Switzerland. I had assumed it was destroyed.”

“So Tomas came to you.”

“That’s right.”

“You never contacted anyone here to act on your behalf? Someone outside the church, I mean.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

Matthew’s thoughts lost their grounding. The entire business was beyond his grasp, and a sickening realization loomed. And yet, having been fooled so easily up to now, how could he simply accept what he was hearing? Should he abandon his faith in Fotis so quickly?

“You know, I have to say, Tomas was at least as credible as you guys. He went through all the proper motions. He put down a lot of money. Where did that come from?”

Baldy spoke sharply in Greek, something to the effect that they were wasting time. Father John answered him quietly: where were they going in such a hurry? Then the older man leaned forward and stared earnestly at Matthew.

“Obviously, Tomas had a backer. The person who was really after the work all along. Perhaps you know who that person is.”

Matthew shook his head, in resistance rather than denial.

“You have no reason to trust me,” the priest continued, “but I am asking you to do so. For the good of the church, for the good of others who have been deceived, and in memory of those who have died for the work, I ask your assistance. Please, tell me where the icon is.”

Matthew’s inclination to trust was enormous, but he was coming to see it as a character flaw.