Benny could be heard wandering back through the apartment, no longer trying to move quietly. Andreas went over and sat on the bed as the big man filled the door frame.

“No one.”

“So it would appear.”

“You were right,” Benny said in disgust, “he must have gone out again last night.”

“I think not. I believe that we actually saw him leave.”

Benny ignored the comment, went to the bureau, and began pulling drawers open.

“Have you checked this?”

“You will find nothing there. No coats in the closet. No toothbrush in the bathroom.”

His companion slammed closed the empty drawers, then wheeled on him.

“He’s gone, then?”

The older man’s mind had already begun to drift out over the city, across the East River into Queens. He’d had only Fotis’ word to go by on Müller. That, and his own desperation for it to be true, a desperation the schemer could smell on him all these years later. It was the most obvious ploy imaginable. What were you distracting me from, he wondered. Why am I always so many steps behind you? Nearly sixty years and still the student. Poor Andreou, indeed.

“No, Benny. He was never here.”

12

No activity was visible around his godfather’s house, and

Matthew climbed the steps with an awful sense of foreboding. Father Ioannes followed a step behind, glancing at the flower beds, while bald Jimmy waited in the car, an arrangement of which he had strongly disapproved. Matthew rapped hard on the door, reminding himself that he had the right of anger here. He had been deceived, or so it now appeared. There was no movement within. He knocked again, harder.

“Try the door,” the priest suggested.

It seemed to surprise neither man when it opened, but Matthew’s sense of dread became a black hole, swallowing all constructive thought. He stepped into the house. The parlor was empty but caught the day’s weak light through its windows. A recent history of the Byzantine Empire lay on a chair by the door, a bookmark at page ninety-one. A half-filled water glass was on the table. Through the gauzy curtains Matthew watched Jimmy quickstepping down the sidewalk, disappearing into the alley between house and warehouse. The situation was getting away from him. Where were Nicholas and Anton? Where was Fotis?

Back in the corridor, Father John stood by the stairs, and Matthew was tempted to try that way, but the study beckoned more insistently. He turned the knob and the heavy door opened. It was too dark to see much. Unsure where a light switch might be, Matthew shuffled toward the lamp on the big desk. His foot struck something soft and giving at the same moment a voice spoke, an old man’s voice, but not the one he was expecting.

“Stand still, my boy,” his grandfather said. Light instantly filled the room from a lamp near the far door, and there Andreas stood, raincoat, gloves, hat, piercing stare. Tall and still. “Watch your feet.”

Matthew looked down. The object he had kicked was a man. Nicholas, one of Fotis’ Russians, lay pale and seemingly lifeless at his feet. The eyes were closed, the mouth grimaced, and as Matthew’s vision continued to adjust, he could see that the oriental carpet was stained in a great, dark patch. A tangy, almost sweet odor hit his nose, and he stepped back instinctively, colliding with Father John.

“Merciful God,” the priest whispered, then began a scattered prayer in Greek.

“Do not touch anything,” Andreas instructed. Matthew ignored him and crouched down over Nicholas, steeling himself, feeling the cool neck, the lips. Was that breath he felt?

“I think he’s alive.”

The Russian’s right hand was clutched upon the side of his stomach, completely encased in blood, and holding a soaked-through handkerchief against where his wound must be. Andreas was suddenly standing over Matthew, pulling a fresh handkerchief from his own coat and beginning to wrap it about his hand.

“Give it to me,” said Matthew, possessive of the wounded man, determined to do one useful thing this day. Andreas handed him the handkerchief without debate.

“Yes, like that. You must hold it hard against the wound. I will try to find you a towel. Is it just the two of you?”

Matthew waited a fruitless moment for Ioannes to speak, then did so himself.

“There’s a guy in the warehouse. Jimmy, I think his name is. He has a gun.”

“I will call for an ambulance. Both of you stay here.”

The old man vanished so swiftly and silently that it was as if he had never been there.

“I hope they will not harm each other,” said the priest, kneeling now.

“Is your man dangerous?” Matthew tried not to look at his hand, to ignore the warm wetness beginning to cover it. The smell of blood was making him dizzy.

“He would like you to think so, but it is your Papou who is the dangerous one.”

“You know him?”

“Only a little, a long time ago. He will not remember me.”

Matthew looked around. The easel where the icon had sat twenty hours before was gone; the painting was nowhere to be seen. Some works had vanished from the walls as well. Which ones? Who else might have been hurt, killed? He should check the house, but he could not abandon his present task. Anyway, his grandfather would have done that already, unless he had just arrived. Or unless-

There was a noise in the kitchen and Jimmy appeared through the rear door, hands free of any weapon, Andreas a few steps behind. Both men seemed calm, if a bit flushed.

“Do we have everyone now?” Andreas asked.

“Where is Fotis?” Matthew shot back.

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“We will discuss it. Who are these men?”

“They’re from the church, in Greece. They say.”

“Mr. Spyridis,” said Ioannes evenly, “we must talk.”

“Yes?” Andreas eyed the priest keenly. “Perhaps, but this is not the time.”

“If not now, when?”

The wail of sirens filled the brief silence that followed. Far off, but getting closer.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“You do not think the police will have need of you tomorrow?” The priest stood to face him. “I should think they would find your being here, alone, suspicious.”

Matthew awaited some convincing denial from his grandfather, but Andreas only stared.

“We shall see, Father. Perhaps they will look at the matter differently.”

Andreas placed a hand on Matthew’s shoulder and all of them became quiet as the sirens grew louder. Then Jimmy sidled up to the old man, desperation trumping embarrassment.

“Can I have my gun back?”

They were alone on the sidewalk. The ambulance had already pulled away, and police officers were going into and out of the house. Matthew did not know where the priest and Jimmy had gone, did not know what to say or not to say to the police when they questioned him. His grandfather stood beside him, staring down the empty avenue, deep in thought.

“I am sorry you had to see this,” the old man spoke quietly.

“You have never seen a wounded man, I think.”

“Papou, do you know what’s going on?”

“You ask me that? I had hoped that you might tell me.”

“The only thing I know is that nobody has been telling me the truth.”

“That is all?” Andreas gave him a hard look. “So you played no part in helping Fotis get the icon?”

“I’m not sure what part I played anymore. Fotis was supposed to be the middleman. He was assisting some people from the Greek church.”

“These men?”

“No, another priest, who represented the synod in Athens. Except now it seems he didn’t.”

“Who was the other priest?”

“This Father Tomas Zacharios.”

Andreas nodded. “I see.”

“You know who he is, don’t you?” Matthew struggled to keep a handle on his emotions, failed. “All of you know each other somehow, and I don’t know a goddamn thing. You’re messing with me the way you messed with my father.”