Jan conducted his search swiftly, hitting all the same spots Andreas already had checked, begging his pardon as he stepped next to him to remove the landscape from the wall. He and Müller then examined the interior frame for a minute or two.

“It was here,” the German said, looking up at Andreas. “I wonder where it is now.”

Their two expectant faces irritated him unreasonably.

“What the hell would I be doing here if I knew that?”

The German nodded agreeably.

“I thought you might be in it together, you and Dragoumis, but now I see differently. He has betrayed you again, yes?”

The fool saw nothing, Andreas realized, but good, let him pursue that line of thinking.

“Still,” Müller continued, “you must know him better than anyone. You can probably guess what his next step will be, where he is now.”

Andreas shook his head noncommittally. Müller would think whatever he wanted, and whatever he thought might be put to use. Müller. Incredible that he now stood before him. Unreal somehow.

“And if not you,” the German went on, “then perhaps your grandson. Maybe he is the one who knows. Maybe he and the girlfriend have kept some secrets from you. What do you think? Still nothing to say? Why do I believe that the three of you together could connect all the pieces?”

Careful now, thought Andreas. This was just the terrain he feared treading on. Show nothing. Jan whispered some words.

“Yes,” Müller agreed. “Time to go. Nothing more we can accomplish here. You will come with us, Captain. We’ll give you a little time to decide how you can best assist us.”

There was nothing to do but go. At least he would have the advantage of knowing where they were. The Dutchman helped him to his feet once more, then took up position behind him. Müller started out the door first.

“Look out for that superintendent,” said Andreas. “He’s a thief.”

Jan laughed.

23

We need to talk, Mr. Spear. Matthew. There can be no further delay.”

Ana had argued strenuously against his going into the city. Even his parents, who were mostly ignorant of what was happening, tried to forbid him. Yet his work wouldn’t wait forever. His department chief, Nevins, had shown enormous patience with Matthew’s continual absences, but the senior legal counsel wanted a meeting about the icon business, from which a probation or suspension could easily follow. He promised Ana that he would go straight from the train to the museum, stay out of sight, and return as soon as possible. After he read the pages that Carol had left in an envelope on his desk, however, his mind could not focus on his work, and the odd looks and probing questions of colleagues finally drove him out of his office and into the relative quiet of the Islamic wing. There, before the blue brilliance of the wall-sized mihrab from Iran, the priest found him.

“Father John.”

“Ioannes, please. You told me you were Greek.”

The light reflected off a thousand turquoise tiles gave the man a sickly pallor. There was no smile this time, only intense concern, and a brave attempt to restrain it.

“That’s right, I did,” Matthew confessed. “I wonder why. I’m American, of course. Someone told you to find me here?”

“One of your associates. Don’t be upset, people will tell a priest anything. Apparently you come to this room often. I can see why; it’s quite beautiful.”

“And quiet. I’m sorry the Byzantine rooms aren’t finished yet. Meantime, I slip over borders and religions.”

“The Orthodox and Muslims have much in common. Only a fool would deny it. Did you read the material I left you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I’ve removed myself from the situation. It’s too dangerous for amateurs. People have been hurt.”

“People have been killed. More will be.”

“Perhaps, but I can’t do anything about that. I only risk becoming one of them. You too, Father. These guys don’t care who they hurt. Priests have died before.”

“I’m not concerned with that. And I do not ask you to put yourself in danger, only talk to me. Do you know where your godfather is now?”

“No.”

Ioannes regarded him for several long seconds. Despite the literal truth of his reply, Matthew felt uneasy in the priest’s gaze.

“You have no idea?”

“Look. What is it that you think you can do? Do you think you can keep it safe? Do you think you can get it back to Greece without being intercepted? Do you think your corrupt church can really protect it?”

The calm face registered no offense at the hard words.

“I am uncertain about the answers to those questions, but my fears are similar to your own. That is why I feel a more permanent solution is necessary. Shall we go on discussing this here, or find a more private place?”

Matthew looked around, seeing nothing. Something in the priest’s words had gotten to him, and he knew that they must go on with this. Where? What coffee shop would be quiet enough and private enough? What place was safe any longer?

“I need to do a few things. Then we’ll go talk.”

Matthew spent another half hour finishing an acquisitions memo and reviewing the growing mountain of reports and phone calls he would have to return to another day. The cardboard model of the new Byzantine rooms sat on a table just outside the door of his cramped, airless office, and he stared at it a moment as he passed. The proudest achievement of his time here; work was already proceeding in the chambers beside and directly below the great staircase. He could not bring himself to care about any of it. He could not even fake it anymore. Nevins gave him a sour look as he left. Surely they would fire him.

Father John wandered the great expanse of the Medieval Hall until Matthew came to collect him. The priest asked no questions as Matthew led him through the busy streets of Yorkville to his apartment. No better location had occurred to the younger man, and he could at least lock himself in and keep the telephone ready at hand. He had memorized Andreas’ and Benny’s numbers.

Surprisingly, the priest accepted a beer, which he sipped slowly from a water glass. Matthew left the shades down and lit a short, fat emergency candle to minimize the light any window-watcher might spy. The effect was more gloomily atmospheric than he would have liked.

“You are convinced, then?” Father Ioannes nodded at the pages spread across the wooden kitchen table. “That it is the same icon.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m convinced. It’s quite possible.”

“And this means nothing to you?”

“It doesn’t change the nature of the work, or what it was intended to do. Heal. Engender faith. I suppose what it does is explain why people who know of its genesis would be willing to kill for it. It’s exceptionally old, and built around an artifact even older and more precious.”

“The swatch of robe.”

“Yes.”

“Soaked in the blood of Christ.”

The quiet awe in the words, spoken by the old priest across a flickering candle, first chilled, then annoyed Matthew.

“If you choose to believe that.”

“Why not believe it?”

“Because there are countless claims of such things, pieces of the true cross, finger bones of saints, the crown of thorns, the spear of Longinus.”

“Undoubtedly many are false. And very likely some are true. The icon has power; you have felt that yourself. The power comes from somewhere.”

“Faith,” Matthew insisted, “does it not? The image inspires faith, and the power is granted by God. The image holds no power by itself. Any more than Peter’s skull or Paul’s thumb knuckle. It seems to me you people had a big fight about this a thousand-odd years ago. Iconoclasm. The destruction of images. I’m no supporter, but they had a point, and they forced a distinction. Proskynesis, the kind of veneration you could show an image, versus latreía, the true worship due to God alone. Yes?”