"The Icon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Olson Neil)

4

In the beginning was the word. In the end, words weren’t worth much. At the church services he surreptitiously attended, Matthew quickly lost the thread of the words spoken, sung, lost his grip on the Greek language, found it transformed into pure music, pure sound. Sound mixed with the smell of incense, the glint of pale lamps off gold leaf, the dark eyes of saints in the iconostasis. Some days it was enough to invoke a sort of trance, which was soothing to the soul or at least the psyche. Was it faith? He knew that if he followed the words, if he attempted the journey in any sort of intellectual manner, it all felt ridiculous. He had to let himself go. His former girlfriend Robin, a lapsed Catholic, had experienced the same phenomenon. Christ Hypnotist, she called it.

In Greece, in his grandfather’s village, an old priest had shown Matthew a poor black-and-white photograph of the Holy Mother of Katarini, taken before the war, before its disappearance. His godfather’s descriptions, the text he had read in a handful of books, words, had all been rendered pointless by a single glance at a sixty-year-old, five-by-seven image. In an instant, he had understood everything. The longing, the hope, the despair, all present in the swirl of deep gray color, in those black eyes. Now, if his godfather was right, he was mere minutes from seeing the real thing. And words would fail once more.

The brownstone looked like several others on the street, except for the iron bars on the windows and the discreet surveillance camera by the door. The buzzer made no noise audible from the outside, but Matthew waited. His attention was focused on the grill of the speaker when the door swung open.

She wasn’t the maid, that was certain. Early thirties, attractive, dark blond hair, circles under her pale blue eyes, an expensively casual beige suit. The granddaughter. She seemed startled to see him but spoke his name.

“Mr. Spear?”

“Yes. Ms. Kessler.”

“That’s right. You look surprised to see me.”

“I was going to say the same thing.”

She laughed, a short, uninhibited burst of sound.

“Come in.” He stepped into the cramped entry and stood very close to her while she continued to speak. “Preconceptions are funny. Who were you expecting?”

“I don’t know, a maid, I guess.”

“No maid.”

A dark, wood-paneled library stood immediately to the right of the entry, but the rest of the place was remarkably light. He followed her down a narrow corridor of warm wood and white paint. Framed prints covered the walls, maps of medieval cities; the dead man’s taste, no doubt. She hadn’t yet put her own touches on the place, he noted, then realized he didn’t have a clue what her own tastes might be. As Robin would have told him, he was trying to construct a personality without yet knowing the person. It was a bad habit of his.

“The cook is deaf, and he’s not here now. I let the nurse go after my grandfather died, so it’s just me. Would you like coffee?”

The kitchen was bright, the windows admitting as much light as the massive plane tree in the courtyard would allow. Matthew hesitated. This was his first solo house call, and he wasn’t certain of protocol.

“Only if you’re having some.”

“Any excuse for a cup of coffee. Please sit down.”

Into two blue china mugs she poured stale coffee-he could smell it-from a cheap plastic coffeemaker on the counter.

“Milk, sugar?”

“Black is fine.”

“I’m glad you said that, because there is no milk and I don’t know where the sugar is.”

He took a sip and set the mug aside. No one in his family would serve coffee like that to his worst enemy. What was it with rich people and food?

“So who were you expecting,” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“ Tweed jacket? Gray hair and spectacles?”

“That’s right. Maybe a pipe.”

“Not on the job. Don’t want to get smoke on those delicate surfaces.”

“Of course. I was really just expecting someone older.”

“I’m working on it, every day.”

She laughed again, and he realized that he was going to have to resist the impulse to keep making her do that.

“Have you been with the museum long?”

“Three years. Not long. You can be there ten years and still be the new guy.”

“But you’re a curator?”

“Assistant curator.”

“That’s impressive for someone as young as you, isn’t it?”

He understood now. This wasn’t small talk, he was being interviewed. Was he equal to the job of assessing her grandfather’s work?

“Not really. They needed someone who knew Eastern Orthodox art, and that’s been my primary focus. I was at the Byzantine Museum in Athens for two years before this.”

“Interesting.” She seemed to tire quickly of her own questioning. “This coffee is terrible, I’ll make some fresh.”

“I’ve had plenty this morning.”

“You want to get to work and I’m dragging my feet.”

“There’s no rush.” He had to be careful. “It’s not an easy matter, exposing work that has a strong emotional connection to a complete stranger. It’s one thing to contemplate parting with it, another to watch some so-called expert sizing it up, reducing it to a piece of commerce.”

“Is that what you do, Mr. Spear?”

“I hope not. I was trying to see it from your side.”

“You’re very understanding. You must do this a lot.”

“No, actually.”

“The thing is, the icon is downstairs in this sort of chapel my grandfather built. It’s a very private place. No one went in there but him.”

“I see. Well, we, or you, could take it out of there and I could examine it up here. The light would probably be better, anyway.”

“Sorry, I hadn’t even thought about the light. I can’t imagine seeing it any kind of way but the way it is now, in that strange room. I guess that’s why I haven’t moved it.”

“Now you’ve made me curious.”

“I’m making too much of it. It’s just a little chapel, an old man’s indulgence. I mean, who builds a chapel in their home anymore?”

“Your grandfather was obviously a medievalist at heart.”

“Yes, he was.”

“May I see it?”

She looked at him blankly for a moment. She was tired, sleep-deprived probably, fully formed thoughts coming slowly to her upper consciousness.

“The chapel? Absolutely, I want you to. Then we can take the icon someplace with better lighting, so you can examine it properly.”

“Great.”

“OK.” She stood up, paused again. “I guess what I’m trying to explain is that this wasn’t a valuable artwork to my grandfather. It was a sacred object, to be worshiped.”

Matthew felt a tingling in the back of his skull, and an impulse, contrary to his nature, to reveal something of himself.

“That was its original purpose,” he said quietly. “That’s why it was created.”

They were the right words. She seemed calmed, though she continued to stand there.

“It’s odd. He was raised Catholic, but he preferred Orthodox art. It’s as if his aesthetic tastes led him into a different kind of religious belief. Which might make you doubt his sincerity, except I think all art, even secular art, was spiritual to him.”

He smiled, aware that no response was necessary.

“I hope,” she said hesitantly, “that religious talk isn’t offensive to you.”

“Not at all. My family is Greek, religion is in the blood.”

“I should have known that. My lawyer knows your godfather, or something?”

“That’s right.”

“Then Spear is…?”

“Spyridis. My grandfather still hasn’t forgiven my father for that.”

“Right.” She sat again, yet he sensed forward progress. “So you’re Greek Orthodox?”

“Yes, I mean, so far as I’m anything. My father isn’t religious, and I had only limited exposure to religion growing up.”

“And your mother?”

“She’s a believer, mostly, she and my godfather. Worry beads and calendars of the saints and all that. They took us to church at Easter, made sure we knew what it was about.”

“‘Us’ is…?”

“Me and my sister.”

“Is your sister religious?”

Where the hell was she going with this?

“No. She has my father’s scientific mind.”

“And are you of the scientific or spiritual mind-set, Mr. Spear?”

“I try to blend the two. My training is scientific, but there’s no real understanding of this kind of work without comprehending the religious purpose.”

“What a careful answer.”

“I write them down on my sleeve for quick reference.”

“In case you get grilled by some rude creature like me,” she laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get to know you better. And I guess I’m stalling.”

“If you’re not comfortable doing this now, we can make another appointment. I confess I’d be disappointed, but-”

“No, it’s fine. You are being incredibly patient.”

“Please call me Matthew, by the way.”

“Matthew. Good. I usually answer to Chris.”

“Usually, huh?”

“Usually.”

“Is that what I should call you?”

He could take her long stare so many ways that he decided to ignore it. She carried both mugs to the sink and stood for awhile with her back to him.

“No, I guess not. Call me Ana.”

“Ana. All right.”

“Follow me, Matthew.”

The chamber was not large, maybe twenty feet deep by twelve wide, the darkness within accentuated by the brightness elsewhere in the house. The only illumination came from scattered streaks of blue, red, and yellow light from six small stained-glass windows. Matthew could make out a bench, candelabra, square panels on the walls. Details were visible on several of the near panels, figures in a crowd scene, a leaning cross against a gray-blue sky. Of the larger panel, directly opposite the arched entry, he could make out no details until his companion turned a dial in the room behind, and the Holy Mother of Katarini slowly emerged from darkness.

The icon, about twenty-four by thirty inches, was badly chipped and at first glance appeared nearly abstract: a luminous gold field with a maroon wedge emerging from the bottom and covering most of the panel. The wedge soon revealed itself as a robe wrapped about the torso and head of a woman. Her forearms were raised before her chest, her long hands raised in prayerful supplication. The shape of her hood could be made out clearly, but the details of her face were murky. Except for the eyes. The eyes drew you in, and Matthew realized that he had walked more than halfway across the chamber without any awareness of moving. Not even the photograph had prepared him for these eyes floating within that cowl. Large, dark brown almost to black, and almond-shaped, in the favored Eastern style. Penetrating, all-knowing, forgiving, or rather ready to forgive, but requiring something of you first. Matthew held the gaze as long as he could and then had to look away.

“Are you OK?” She spoke softly behind him.

“Yes.”

“They get to you, don’t they? The eyes. I can never look at them for long.”

“They’re very expressive.”

“A little frightening, I think. Beautiful, but judgmental. The way religion feels when you’re young.”

“I suppose religion was a much more primal experience when this was painted.”

“I think of all those Renaissance masterpieces.” She was beside him now, speaking quietly, almost into his ear. “Aesthetically, they’re flawless. Mary is always serene. Yet there’s something so much more powerful, or vital, about this. She looks menacing. Godly. Not that Mary is a god, technically.”

“To the Greeks she is.”

“I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I’d blame the coffee, but the truth is I get nervous standing here.”

“Guilty conscience?”

“Could be. I just find the work very unsettling. My grandfather could sit in front of it for hours, I don’t know how.” He felt her breath on his neck as she exhaled deeply, calming herself. “He died in here, actually.”

“Really.”

“Simultaneous heart attack and stroke. Diana, his nurse, found him just exactly where you’re standing.”

He resisted the impulse to move.

“No wonder it bothers you.”

“So is it good work, Matthew?” she asked.

“It’s a shame about the damage, though it only seems to add to the mystique. I’d say it’s excellent work, and very old. Possibly pre-iconoclastic, which would make it quite rare. I’ll know better when I look at it more closely.”

“I guess we should take it off the wall.”

“I’ll do it, if you like. I’m experienced at handling these things.”

She pulled her hair back with both hands and nodded.

“It probably violates the insurance policy, but I would prefer that. We just need to turn off the alarm.”

“How do we do that?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Come help me figure it out.”

Andreas had left a message for Morrison in Washington the night before, and the agency man had called him back at the hotel the next morning.

“What brings you to the States, my friend?”

“My son is ill.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

No doubt he was, but the tone of voice made it clear that he had more pressing business than chatting with a retired Greek operative. Andreas could picture the man, trim, regulation hair and that shifting, nervous gaze, determined to miss nothing while missing everything. Impatience. That was the reason, despite all its resources, that American intelligence was always getting things wrong. They were good at reading satellite photos, but not at reading faces. They could not gauge the mood of a people, or even a single man.

“I have a request,” Andreas continued. “It is a rather delicate matter.”

“I’m sure this line is secure.”

“I would prefer to meet. I believe you are here in New York?”

“Why do you say that?’

“A guess.” One had to become good at guessing when one had no resources. “You often come here. Besides, there are no secure lines in Washington.”

Morrison laughed. “Probably true. OK, but it has to be brief, and it has to be soon. Like right now, this morning.”

“That suits me well.”

Morrison chose a generic coffee shop near Herald Square, the kind of place he always preferred. The man had an encyclopedic knowledge of every faceless, tasteless eatery in every northeastern American city. Morrison’s predecessor, Bill Barber, had taken Andreas to wonderful restaurants where they ate, drank, told stories, and traded information almost incidentally, as if none of it were about business. But Barber hadn’t been much for protocol, and Andreas had been useful then.

He arrived early and chose a booth in back, too near the hot, musty stink of the deep-fryer. Morrison arrived a few minutes later in his trademark blue suit and gray raincoat, the uniform, though today it was appropriate to the weather-windy, and threatening rain.

“You look well.”

“I look terrible, and so do you,” Andreas shot back, as much to unsettle the man as to state the truth. It had been years since they had last met, and the years had not been kind to Morrison. He had gotten heavy; gone gray at the temples; and his gaze no longer darted so much but had a set, glazed cast about it. Perhaps there had been some unpleasant fieldwork. Perhaps family. Andreas could empathize, but the other man was certain not to speak of whatever it was.

“I’m OK, not enough sleep is all. I am sorry about your boy. Alex, right?”

“You went to the trouble of checking my file. I am honored.”

“Jesus, Andy, I happened to remember. You always insult people you need favors from?”

“Yes, it’s a Greek custom. We hate to be in anyone’s debt, so we offend them right at the start to let them know they do not own us.”

Morrison shook his head, appeased or amused.

“Is that true?”

“No. I am an uncivilized old man, my apologies. Yes, Alex.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“A blood disorder. You would know the name if I could remember it. Such illnesses are rare in my family, but for one so young…I do not understand.”

“There’s no understanding these things. God works in mysterious ways, the shit.”

Andreas decided that he liked this older, crankier version of Morrison better than the insolently confident fellow he’d known before. A weary, bleached-blond waitress took silent but visible offense at their order of coffee, and the agency man felt compelled to add eggs and toast.

“Haven’t had breakfast.”

“You should always eat breakfast, Robert.”

“I know, my wife tells me every day.”

“Personally, I would not eat breakfast here, but I am very careful about food.”

“I wasn’t actually planning on it.”

“She intimidated you. She is Peloponnesian, that one, fierce. The cook also, not a very clean-looking fellow. And the Mexican dishwasher has a cold. No, I would not eat here.”

“I’ll have an orange juice to kill the germs.”

“Orange juice. Have garlic.”

“In my eggs?”

“Better than in your coffee. I’m looking for a man.”

“Official business?”

“I have no official business any longer. This is, as you say, a favor. I want to know if this man entered the country in the last two weeks. Probably somewhere in the New York region, though possibly farther away. I can give you all of his known aliases.”

“That’s too wide a net. Point of origin?”

“ South America. Argentina, but it’s likely he would pass through another country first.”

“So he knows what he’s doing.”

“Yes, but I believe he may have lowered his guard in this instance. He will not expect to be tracked, and he will be in a hurry.”

“Physical description?”

“Medium height, blue eyes. Older, in his eighties.”

“This guy wouldn’t be German by any chance? Dead for about thirty years?”

Andreas leaned back against the creaking imitation leather, disappointed by this development. He had counted on Morrison’s relative youth to keep him in the dark.

“We never spoke of this before.”

“Come on, Andy,” laughed the government man, “it was your obsession. It’s all in your file. But the guy is supposed to be dead.”

“They showed me a grave. A wooden cross and some turned earth behind the last house he owned. I never saw a body.”

“This was Argentinean intelligence?”

“The grave was fresh. No more than a day or two old. They could have dug it an hour before I came up the hill.”

“People do just die, my friend. A lot of those old Nazis managed to die a natural death.”

“It was too convenient. They were protecting him. They still are, I’m sure. Maybe you are, too.”

“Me?” Morrison smiled innocently.

“The fine organization you work for. It’s interesting that my hunt for Müller is so detailed in my file, when I could get no help from you people at the time.”

“Resources were thin. He was small-time, a major or a colonel, I think. Not even a general, let alone some architect of the Reich. You needed the Israelis.”

“He was small-time for them, also. They did give me a few leads in the end. That was how I found the house.”

“But the Argentineans intercepted you.”

“As soon as I stepped off the bus in a nearby village. They knew exactly who I was. They were polite, said that there had been a development which would please me. Took me up the hill to the house. Showed me the grave.”

“It does sound awfully tidy.”

“Will you help me, Robert?”

Morrison stuck a fork into the hefty pile of eggs just placed before him. Then paused, looking perplexed, or perhaps nauseated.

“It’s sticky.”

“Send it back.”

“The situation is sticky. If there was some reason we didn’t help you back then, I don’t know what it was, and I don’t feel like blundering into it now.”

“All these years later, what can it matter? Indulge an old man.”

“There’s no upside to this. If he’s dead, I’ve wasted my time. If he’s alive, and I put you on to him, things could get ugly. I can’t have you terminating this guy on American soil.”

“Who said anything about that?”

“Isn’t that what you were aiming for back then? Why else do you want to find him?”

“I have questions. More important, I must keep an eye on him to protect others.”

“You think he means to try something? I’ve got to know about that if you do.”

“I have no idea what he intends. Understand, Robert,” and Andreas leaned across the chipped Formica, fixing the other man in his unblinking gaze, “all you can tell me is that he entered the country. I will still have to find him, which will likely prove impossible, but at least I will be on my guard. You will be protecting me with this information. Do you see?”

“I see that you’re a smooth-talking old bastard.”

“Have me watched.”

“Can’t afford that.”

Andreas reached into his coat and removed a slip of paper, which he placed on the table. Morrison studied it a moment, chewing his toast.

“The aliases?”

“As many as I know of.”

“He could have come up with twenty more in the last thirty years.”

“True. But without someone hunting him, I doubt he would bother. It’s troublesome work, creating identities. Anyway, at least one of these was used within the last ten years, in eastern Europe. I’ve marked it. Of course, it may not have been him.”

This was becoming too much information for the agency man, who had come to the great metropolis with other priorities and now shifted restlessly in his seat. Andreas was content. It was best that the tired bureaucrat remember as little of this conversation as possible.

“If I pick this up,” said Morrison, nodding at the paper, “it doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything. I may do the search and still decide to do nothing. You might not hear from me.”

“I understand.”

The younger man sighed and slipped his wallet from his suit jacket, sliding out a twenty as he slid the white scrap of paper in.

“Unless this guy is on a watch list, it’s very unlikely I’ll find him. Don’t call me about this. I’ll call your hotel if I have anything to report.”

“You never let me pay.”

“It’s my country. You can buy me dinner in Athens.”

“You always say that, but you never come.”

“One of these days.”