Andreas was silent a long time, staring past Matthew to the streaked glass wall and busy runways beyond.
“I have thought about those things all these years,” he said at last. “I had suspicions from the start. It was why I made the plan myself, which went all to hell. It was why I kept Stamatis’ note to myself, made the final exchange myself. I wanted to know what Fotis’ game was, but we killed the two men who could have told me. He, the father; me, the son. And as time passed I became less certain that I wanted to know. Because to know the truth might put my brother’s death on his head, as well as my villagers. And then I would have to decide what to do about that.”
“What about the villagers?”
Andreas clenched his teeth once or twice, the false ones clicking.
“Müller shot them.”
“What, after you gave him the icon?”
“The next morning. He took the icon and let me walk away, and we retrieved the guns that night. A good take, fifty rifles, a few machine guns, crates of ammunition. Fotis knew nothing until it was over. I made up a story about someone seeing Kosta, tracking him down, how I had to act swiftly to save my villagers. He was angry, deeply angry, but made a show of congratulating me. We still had to work together. The next morning Müller shot twenty people. He had been able to delay a day, but his men could not accept that there would be no retribution. It was part of their system; I should have anticipated that. He probably thought he was being generous, twenty instead of forty or fifty. Two of them were cousins of mine, one a woman, I would call her girl today. Glykeria. Her parents wanted me to marry her. She was shot with her father. Another was my messenger, Stefano.”
Matthew thought of photographs he’d seen, fallen, twisted figures in an olive grove, the entire male population of a village, lined up and shot; a German officer walked among them with a pistol, finishing off the wounded. It was Crete, he remembered, but it could have been anywhere in Greece. The death of Mikalis the priest became absorbed in those other deaths, like a drop of water in the sea.
“That’s why you hunted Müller all those years. It had nothing to do with the icon.”
“It had everything to do with it, but I was not looking for it, if that’s what you mean. The painting is bad luck. When I heard the shots fired that morning, I would have destroyed the thing if it had been in front of me. I wish it had burned in the fire.”
Matthew took a deep drink of his beer and imagined the icon, the chipped paint, the haunting eyes, enshrouded in flame. Blackening and peeling away to ash. If it had burned fifty years ago there would be no cause for this present strife. His godfather and grandfather might not be at odds. He himself would have been saved this troubling obsession. And yet who could say how many lives it had touched for the good? Between Andreas’ contempt-a kind of reverse superstition-and Fotis’ perverted reverence, Matthew had come to see only the negative effects, which had more to do with the men involved than the work. Was his own desire so impure? He wanted it, yes, but only to study, to sit in contemplation within its calming radius. Others must feel the same. The church had used the icon as a force of good for centuries without any legend of death or discord growing up around it. It was a matter of putting it back in the right hands.
“That’s a terrible story. I’m sorry.”
“Just one of many from those times.”
“There were lots of executions, weren’t there? They made the people pay every time you resisted them.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t stop fighting because of that. The icon was incidental.” Matthew hated the tone of his own voice. “Anyway, you needed the guns, right?”
“Oh, yes, the guns proved very useful later, for killing our countrymen.”
“Müller would have killed more people if you hadn’t bargained.”
“All my life,” Andreas said quietly, “I have been able to see through men. Not all the time, but often enough that I have come to depend upon it. Some fool will be telling me a lie and the truth will appear before me clearly, as if I am watching it. Like a film. I uncovered many secrets this way, saved myself from bad mistakes. Yet in every piece of business involving this icon I have behaved like a blind man. I see only part of the truth, and my decisions are always bad ones. Every step of the way I have made the wrong move.”
“Papou, you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Not too hard, I think. The signs were there, a wiser man would have read them properly. I knew enough to keep Fotis out of the exchange, but I made a terrible mistake trusting Kosta. And it cost my brother his life. I made a bargain with Müller that anyone should have seen he could not keep. Twenty more died.”
“You couldn’t have saved them.”
“I chased a phantom all over New York while Fotis was making mischief right under my nose, using you.”
“You could not have known any of those things. And you’re not responsible for me. I’ve been a bigger idiot than anyone.”
“You were lacking information. And you have a weakness for this thing. There, again, he saw what I did not. He has been one step ahead of me all along. He still is.”
“If he’s not dead.”
“I would not wager on it.”
“You don’t think that was him in the car with Taki?”
“I have only secondhand reports, but the description, presumed age, everything I’ve been told sounds wrong.”
“I should have gone out there to identify him. Sotir hustled me onto the plane, didn’t want me mixed up with any investigation.”
“He was right. They might have held you for days, weeks.”
“At least we’d know.”
“Perhaps not, the body was badly damaged. I am glad you were spared viewing it. They will know for certain in a day or so-teeth, fingerprints. But it is not him.”
Andreas closed his eyes, pursuing his own thoughts. Matthew took another long swallow. He saw what I did not. What did Fotis see? What did Andreas imagine he saw? That Matthew could be coerced, or inspired, by faith? Was it true? Could one call these half-formed gropings, these awkward manifestations of awe, faith? Should he be ashamed of that? He was embarrassed now to think of his father before the icon. What had he expected, that the Holy Mother would reach out of the wood and smite him on the forehead, You are healed! Maybe only that the man would feel some of the mystery and joy that his son felt before the image. That the two would join in some silent communion there on the spot. Ridiculous.
“I wish I knew what the hell to do next,” Matthew said.
The old man looked him in the eye for the first time in many minutes.
“I have not dissuaded you from this hunt at any point. I have assisted you to the degree that I was able. True?”
“Sure. I was a little upset about Sotir, but he saved my ass, so I’m grateful.”
“Then what I must tell you now is to let this go. Two men are dead. Another in the hospital, another missing. This has become far too dangerous a pursuit, with far too small a reward. What would you do with the icon anyway?”
“Give it to the Greek church, as Ana Kessler intended.”
“Not good enough. Not a reason to die, or to put others at risk. She received money, and she is safer without the work. If she does not reverse herself, her story should protect you from prosecution. There is no reason to continue. Not to mention that the trail is cold.”
“What about the Russians?”
Andreas sighed.
“They are dangerous people. Information would not come easily. Chances are, they disposed of the icon days ago, if they ever had it.”
“What do you mean? Where did it go if they didn’t take it?”