“You know what happened. What do the details matter?”

“What part did Dragoumis play?”

“And how will that help my father? You would believe anything I told you now, me, a dying man. I could set the two of you against each other. To what end? What do I care?”

“The men follow me. I can protect your father.”

“They follow you, but they fear the Snake. They will not cross him. I do not think that you will cross him either.”

“You think I fear him?”

“No, my captain knows no fear. You are a slave to duty.” Kosta began to laugh, then flinched. “My God, it hurts. Why do you not shoot?”

“Tell me what I ask, damn you, or I will make it hurt worse.”

“The truth, yes, I will tell you the truth. Listen to me. Everything was my idea. The Snake knew nothing. My father cooperated only because I threatened him. I threatened to tell you all of his dark schemes. No, wait, this is better. He stole the icon to keep you from giving it to the Germans. He is a patriot, a hero even, my father. What do you think of that? Tell your master that story.”

The boy was only taunting him. He had pushed him in the wrong direction. Now Elias would have to use other methods, and his spirit sickened at the thought.

“Kosta, I will make you speak to me.”

“I have told you everything. I did it all, stole the icon, killed your hypocrite brother.”

“What did you say?”

“All priests are hypocrites, liars. Religion is a lie. You have told me so yourself.” The false smile was now pinned solidly on the burned mask. “I did not think you even liked your brother.”

“Bastard.”

“Truly. I thought you might be happy that I killed him.”

“Be silent, you bastard.” The captain squeezed the words out, barely able to speak, his entire body a clenched muscle.

“Why should I be? I am beyond the commands of men. I have nothing to fear, or to hide.” He took a deep breath. “I am damned, and I will see your bastard brother in hell, where he burns right now.”

The action was involuntary, instantaneous. The roar and flash filled the small chamber. Kosta’s head flew back and a bright mist sprayed the ancient wall behind him, like an abstract gloss to the three-quarters vanished image of the saint painted there. The ringing persisted long afterward in Elias’ ears. Days and weeks. The arm holding the hot pistol dropped to his side. He understood immediately that he had been played, had probably understood it before he fired. The two of them had conspired in this ritual of provocation and reaction, so that they each might avoid what must otherwise follow. Yet Elias could not help feeling made a fool of. He had learned little. Kosta died protecting a father who was already dead, and Fotis kept his secrets.

The captain lifted up the icon, too small and light to support its reputation, it seemed to him. A stream of daylight through the door struck the surface, setting the gold leaf ablaze. Out of the shadows, the eyes no longer accused but seemed more frightened or sad. Like a mother who knew her son was doomed. The two panels were indeed out of alignment, looking as if someone had dug at the seams on one side.

Was he really going to give it to Müller? His brother had died trying to save it; should he not try to honor that brave, futile action? What then, keep it? Fotis or Müller would pursue it wherever it went. And forty villagers would be shot. Then Mikalis truly would have died for nothing. No, the last good thing Elias could do was trade the work for those lives. And the guns, he must not forget the guns, the original purpose behind this madness.

A small scrabbling sound caught his attention: the little one, Ioannes, with his bruised head and eyes wide as plates, staring not at his murdered brother but at Elias. There was no determining how much he had seen and heard, and he was now a problem. A witness against the captain, to any number of parties. The last male of his family, and thus the certain carrier of a blood feud. Logic dictated an obvious course. Fotis would not hesitate, but he was not Fotis.

He ushered the child out into the sunlight, where he began shivering uncontrollably. Then Elias went back inside and wrapped the painting in the old sheepskin jacket in which it had been carried to this place. Kosta stared blindly at heaven. The captain settled for closing the dead man’s eyes.

“I will come back for your brother,” Elias told the boy when he stepped back outside, the parcel under his arm. “I will not leave him here.”

The boy said nothing, stared off into space, though the shivering had receded somewhat.

“Walk,” said the captain, and they started down the hillside together. When they reached the trail, Elias looked south. He would have to go that way soon, but one more detour detained him. The boy must be put somewhere, and he thought he knew the place. Still, he lingered a moment, staring south, his mind traveling to Katarini. His village. Some way or another word would get out of what he and Fotis had done, and it would be his village no longer. He would have to leave then, and probably never return. It made no difference. His life would be in Athens after they drove the Germans out, provided the communists did not get it. He could not expect others to see the necessity of what he did. The world was full of small men, and yet it made him sad. Generations of his ancestors had lived here. His father’s bones lay in that village, and now his brother’s would as well. But not his own, never his own.

Captain Elias shook these thoughts from his mind, took the boy by the shoulders, and turned him north.

18

SPRING 2000

The tables around them in the cramped airport bar were empty. No one would know what to make of such an odd tale in any case, Matthew figured. He had not wasted the opportunity of Andreas’ coming to Kennedy to meet his flight, but had dragged the old man to the nearest quiet spot available and demanded whatever part of the story he was still missing.

“The exchange went off?”

Andreas sipped his ginger ale before answering.

“Yes. Stefano delivered the message. Müller was willing to make the deal, even then. The soldier we killed at the church meant nothing to him, he was gathering his riches. Many of the German officers were doing the same. Merten, the one in charge of Salonika, sank fifty cases of stolen Jewish gold off Kalamata, thinking he would retrieve it after the war.”

“I read about that.”

“Müller wasn’t after gold. Art, especially religious art, was his calling. He had heard about the icon somewhere, from his father most likely. Art theft was a family tradition. I learned this later, when I was hunting him. He had himself stationed in Greece just to find it. Between Göring, the art lover, and the Nazi obsession with the occult, I imagine the story of a painting with supernatural powers got him some attention. Maybe one of them even sent him to retrieve it, a birthday present for the Führer, what do you think?”

The old man’s tone was cynical, but Matthew felt the depth of his suspicion and disgust, felt a chill enter his own body. Was such a guess really so outlandish?

“Epiros was in the Italian occupation zone,” Andreas continued, “so Müller had to bide his time. Even once the Germans came in, there were all those villages in all those hills. Needle in a haystack, you say, yes? Greeks love to gossip, but no one could tell him the truth about the Holy Mother. Many villages had old icons, all of them liked to claim theirs was the famous one. Nobody knew where our icon had gone. After we beat back the Italians, before the Germans attacked, my brother had it walled up in a secret space near the altar, behind the iconostásis. A good spot. Only Mikalis, the carpenter, and I knew where it was.”

“Not Fotis?”

“No. That is why he had to come to me. Müller understood the political split among the guerrillas. The communists were strongest, so contacts developed between the Germans and the other groups. We were fighting them, too, especially in Epiros where that fat-assed Zervas commanded the republicans. But mostly Zervas was watching the communists, watching the royalists, whom he hated even more, until he made peace with them. As the war went on, and we knew the Germans would leave soon, everyone started to think about postwar politics.”