“We can ask her to leave your name out of the report, if that is what bothers you.”

“It’s nothing to me. I’m a licensed investigator, the gun is registered. But it may look bad for all of you. Why is the girl talking to buyers after she has sold the piece? Why is a suspect’s grandfather putting an investigator on his girlfriend? Anyway, I wouldn’t count on police protection. They’re very stingy about handing that out.”

“Matthew can go to my son’s house for a while. The woman can go with him, if she likes. They should be safer out there.”

“Will you call your man back? Morrison.”

“Yes. It was too late last night when I got the message. I will call him this morning.”

“And you will tell me if he has discovered anything of interest?”

“Perhaps.”

Benny exhaled furiously.

“Don’t play with me, Spyridis, or I’ll wash my hands of you.”

“That would be tragic.”

21

This time it was Morrison who wanted to meet. Andreas joined him at the corner of Fiftieth Street and Fifth Avenue, beneath the looming facade of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and they walked east toward Morrison’s next appointment.

“How’s your son?”

“I think he has improved,” Andreas replied. “I cannot explain it.”

“Don’t try. That’s good news.”

“We shall see.”

“And how was your grandson’s trip to Salonika?”

“Robert, please, we have only a few blocks.”

“You think this is chitchat? He’s in deep, my friend. There are two people dead in Greece, and your buddy Dragoumis is AWOL.”

“Are you part of the investigation now?”

“No. Just curious.”

“You are, as they say, covering your ass.”

“You bet I am. I’m the one who gave clearance for your grandson to leave the country. Now it appears that the matter has escalated. You don’t think you owe me some answers?”

“So you have no information for me?”

“I have information. I believe in sharing. I’m a sharing kind of guy. Share with me, Andy.”

Very well, then. Andreas considered what to say.

“Matthew was nowhere near where the incident took place. Someone tried to assassinate Dragoumis in the mountains. At least two were killed, one of them his nephew. The authorities there suspect November 17, which means that no one will be caught. Myself, I am skeptical.”

“Why?”

They stopped at a streetlight on Park Avenue. A tattooed bike messenger zipped down Fiftieth Street, crossed himself, then pedaled furiously into traffic, just ahead of a roaring Brinks truck. Andreas found Morrison’s questions tiresome.

“The nephew was shot by a forty-five, and there was a motorcycle, which all sounds correct for 17. But Dragoumis is too old and obscure a target for them, and it happened too far from Athens.”

“Who do you suspect?”

“Everyone. Fotis has many enemies. Anyway, you are bound to know more than I do, so why not simply tell me?”

“I don’t know that much,” Morrison claimed as they crossed the avenue. “They identified the second man. Serious prison time for everything from extortion to weapons sales. He was so mangled they thought he might be your friend at first. Now they think the hat and cigarettes were a kind of calling card from Dragoumis, letting whoever ordered the hit know that he had gotten the better of them.”

“How did Fotis escape the scene?”

“Not sure. They did find an abandoned car near a small airport in Kozani.”

“He’s back here,” Andreas said with certainty.

“Could be. I assumed he’d go into hiding.”

“He will, but he came back here first. I tell you, Robert, I do not believe that icon ever left New York.”

“You’re right about that.”

“Ah, now we come to your information.”

“The NYPD has been looking into Dragoumis’ employees, especially the one who disappeared after the theft. Anton Marcus, aka, Marchevsky. They picked him up at Kennedy the night before last. False passport, ten thousand in cash on his person. He’s actually a tough cookie, wouldn’t tell them anything. But there’s a guy he used to work for, Vasili Karov, liquor wholesaler, Russian mob. Apparently Dragoumis gets a lot of his boys from Karov, and there is some question whether they ever really leave Karov’s orbit. You following me?”

“I am not yet senile.”

“So anyway, they figure Karov may be mixed up in this. They shook him down once before but got nothing. This time, they tell him that Anton squealed, which is bullshit, but they must have made some good guesses. Two lawyers and eight hours later he cuts a deal, tells them everything. It’s pretty much what you guessed. Dragoumis and Karov cooked it up between them. The other Russian wasn’t supposed to get shot, but no one told him the plan and he put up too much of a fight. The icon gets put aside for Dragoumis. The Russians get three other paintings which they take at the same time. Except that Karov says Dragoumis tricked him, left the wrong painting for him to steal. Anyway, Karov figures that was his excuse to shaft the Greek and sell the switched painting to a new buyer.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Why would Dragoumis go to the trouble of setting this up just to leave the wrong painting? And why does Karov care, when the painting isn’t his in the deal? He’s making an excuse for double-crossing your pal.”

“What was the name of the new buyer?”

“Del Rios? Something like that. Probably a false name. Cops are looking for him now.”

“Did Karov say how much he paid?”

“A hundred and fifty, I think.”

Not enough. The Russian might be bending the truth, but there was truth there. Del Carros-surely the name Morrison was fumbling for-had been willing to pay Ana Kessler a million and a half. Unless he was a complete fool, Karov would not settle for so little.

“When did this exchange take place?”

“Four days ago.”

Before del Carros cornered Ana. Yet it was obvious from that meeting that he was still hunting for the icon. He had purchased the fake knowing it was fake. Why? To put Fotis off his guard? So Fotis still had the icon, had never parted with it. Andreas felt certain.

They crossed Second Avenue and walked a little way without speaking. The old man understood that now was the time to pass on what he knew about del Carros, and what he guessed about Dragoumis. To let go of these last bits of secret information and be truly done with it. Still, he hesitated. Morrison touched him on the shoulder.

“One more thing. A Felix Martín flew into Newark from Mexico City five days ago. Argentine citizen. Probably means nothing. There must be a hundred guys in Buenos Aires alone with that name, but it is one of the aliases your German used to use. Just thought I’d mention it.”

Andreas said nothing. He had resisted Benny’s words the day before, and even now he wished that he was a man who believed in coincidence. Morrison began walking again, and Andreas fell into step behind him. They emerged onto First Avenue with a brilliant afternoon light striking the white-and-black tower of the UN, and a huge gray freighter moving down the East River.

“There’s a great Greek restaurant just one block up. We’ll go there sometime. So, Andy, you got anything else to tell me? You sure do seem to be thinking hard about something.”

“Trying to put some things together.”

“You let me know if you do. I have to run.”

“Thank you, Robert. I will keep you informed.”

“That would be a first.”

…brought back from the Holy Land by Helena, the mother of Constantine. Upon the robe were stains of sacred blood from the wounds of our Savior as he lay in his mother’s arms, fallen but soon to rise. From the robe, a section was cut bearing these stains, and sealed between two panels of cypress. Upon these Matthias, a monk of the Studium, created the image of the Holy Mother as she appeared to him in a vision, so that all who looked upon it knew this to be her true face. The image was then placed in the church of the Blachernae, above the silver casket which held the robe itself, and there it performed many miracles, especially curing the ill among the family and followers of the Emperor. From that church, the image would be brought forth in time of need and carried in procession around the walls to instill courage in the hearts of the city’s defenders…