“Who is in the car?”

“A friend. A priest, actually.”

“He knows what is happening?”

“He knows some of it.”

“He will not come inside?”

“No.”

The old man seemed satisfied with this answer. He shut and locked the door, shuffled toward the staircase, paused, and then started up. The indecision and absence of courtesy were sufficiently out of character to disturb Matthew, but at the same time there was a satisfying sense of seeing behind the mask. He could do nothing but follow, first quietly unlocking the door again. The house resembled many he had seen in the area, a combination of stone and half-timber, slate-roofed and larger than it appeared to be. The interior walls were cream, scattered with bookcases and any number of impressionistic landscapes and religious works that had previously been in Fotis’ storage. The heat was ridiculously high, and Matthew shed his jacket as he climbed.

“I must have been more specific about the location than I remember,” Fotis posited.

“I would think you would be more interested in why I’m here.”

Fotis whirled about at the top of the stairs, his wide-eyed amusement verging on madness. The light from a high window caught an ugly yellow bruise on his left temple.

“Why? Why else? There are no secrets with us. We share the same hunger, only I hope you will see that my need is greater.”

The old man rushed off down the corridor, and Matthew could only yell at his back.

“You’ve got it wrong, Theio. It’s not about that. Listen to me.”

Following, Matthew entered a large bedroom near the back of the house. The blankets were still rumpled on the king-sized bed. Light poured in through three windows. A telephone and an odd console dominated the big oak desk, and his godfather sat in a leather chair in the corner, staring at the mantel. Leaning there, above an unused fireplace, was the icon. It was smaller than Matthew remembered. In fact, it seemed diminished in every way, unworthy of the blood and anguish spent on it. The eyes appeared to recognize this. They had lost their magnetic hold, their promise of mysteries to be revealed in time, and now looked only forlorn. Perversely, Matthew felt this new vision of the work begin to breed in him a feeling of protectiveness nearly as strong as the passion for revelation it had replaced. He became cognizant of the profound effect that the circumstances of his viewings were having upon his reaction. Ana’s presence had provoked a sort of holy lust, his father’s a deep fear and a need for healing. And now this appropriate sadness. Was it for Fotis? Was the painting no more than a conduit?

“She holds you still,” Fotis whispered.

“No,” Matthew answered, but it was not completely true. She held him differently now.

“Understand me, my child. I cannot live much longer. When I am gone she will be yours, but I need her with me if I am to die well. I have no other hope. If you had seen the things I have seen, you would not try to deny me.”

“The things you’ve seen? Or the things you’ve done?”

“Who else knows you’ve come here?”

He would not follow the old man’s lead. That was a tired routine.

“They have Andreas.”

“Who has him?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s this del Carros. He tried to grab Ana Kessler a few days ago. I’m pretty certain he had a deal with your Russians to get the icon.”

Fotis nodded. “You are sure they have him?”

“I spoke to him.”

“What did he say? Precisely.”

“Not much. I think he was drugged. He told me to do nothing, and he referred to ‘both’ of them, so I assume it’s only two men who have him.”

“Good. That’s all?”

“He called them ‘princes.’ I figured he was being sarcastic.” Fotis’ stare bored into the younger man for many long moments. Matthew knew he was being read, but he remained calm, in the knowledge that he was not hiding anything. “They’re going to call me soon,” he pressed. “They expect information on the icon’s location.”

“Did it not occur to you this could be a trick by your grandfather?”

“What, you think he’s faking being held?”

Fotis nodded, still looking him hard in the face. It was a sure sign of how deeply the paranoia of the last few weeks had penetrated that Matthew seriously weighed the idea in his mind.

“No. You have no idea how badly he wants me out of all this. He would not invent some scheme that sent me after you alone. You must know that.”

“Maybe you’re in it together.”

“That doesn’t make sense, for the same reason. You’re thinking out loud, you don’t even believe what you’re saying.”

“Perhaps.”

“We have to help him.”

“Of course we do.” But there was no heart behind the words. Fotis stared, unblinking, no longer seeing Matthew, but scheming again, stalling for time.

“So what does ‘princes’ mean?”

“The Prince,” Fotis began slowly, “was what your grandfather and I called the German officer I told you about. Or sometimes the Pasha, because he liked to live well, and surround himself with stolen treasures. He is the man Andreas made the deal with, sending the Holy Mother into exile.”

“Müller. The Nazi he was hunting all those years.”

“The same.”

“Del Carros is Müller.”

“It may be so.”

“What did he intend by telling me that?”

“Only that we should know. Or as a warning, perhaps, that we are dealing with someone far more dangerous than I had guessed. He is still a loyal fellow, your grandfather.”

“Yeah, and how will you repay that loyalty?”

“I have not the means to help him. I can barely protect myself.”

“You have the icon. It’s not worth Andreas’ life.”

“His life is forfeit already. You did not tell him, or them, of this place?”

“Of course not.”

“Then there is nothing they can get from him. Do you see? He has used his last opportunity to warn us. If you give them the information now, he still dies, and very likely you and I also. And they take our Lady. He would become the instrument of our deaths. Do you think he wants that? Do you think he wants Müller to have the chance to betray him again? For shame. They only win if they get the icon. We can prevent that. You must assist me.”

“I know someone who can help us. He’s ex-Mossad, a friend of Andreas. We can’t give up on him, we have to try something.”

“You understand nothing.”

Fury shook his godfather’s ill frame, and the hand gripping the pistol bounced on his leg. A dull trilling drew both sets of eyes to the desk, where a red light flashed on the console. Fotis jumped up and shuffled over to it.

“The priest has gotten curious, perhaps? No. Not the front door, the back, the back…”

He wheeled about and pointed the gun at Matthew’s head. The body language was so threatening that Matthew found himself throwing his hands up and recoiling two steps.

“Theio!”

“Who have you led here? Speak the truth.”

“No one. Just the priest.”

Fotis dropped the gun to his side again, speaking more quietly as he marched past Matthew.

“No, you have brought them. Maybe unawares, but they followed you.”

Recovering himself somewhat, Matthew followed the old man out of the room on shaky legs. Fotis turned once to put a finger to his lips, then started along the corridor, not the way they had come but in the opposite direction, turning once onto a shorter corridor. At the top of a steep, narrow staircase he gestured for Matthew to stay put, then started down. In moments, he had vanished around a turn and Matthew stood there, mute and helpless, staring at the place where he had gone. What should he do now? Who was down there? Should he go check on Ioannes? Indecision held him to the spot, and perhaps a minute later he heard a faint noise below. Then Fotis reappeared. The Snake struggled a bit on the ascent, but he gripped Matthew’s shoulder with a strong hand and placed his lips right at the younger man’s ear.