“You believe so? In that case the file is empty, because I told them absolutely nothing about Kessler. Why would I?”
“Neither did I. Perhaps they have other sources. You won’t learn anything from me.”
They became quiet again. Andreas wondered where the bathroom was.
“The granddaughter is executor.” Dragoumis slid a long brown cigarette from the pack and lit it. “She is looking to have the whole collection appraised.”
“Have you offered your services?”
Fotis laughed, blowing swirling orbs of smoke.
“I’m a small-time collector. I assumed she would go to one of the auction houses.”
“Logical.”
“But it seems she has loftier goals. Her lawyer has been speaking to some of the major museums. I can see it now, the Kessler Wing of the Metropolitan.”
Andreas’ radar began sounding.
“Why the Metropolitan?”
“Just an example, but it’s the most obvious choice. Kessler concentrated on medieval. There aren’t many places in this country that could do justice to that. None of the other New York museums.”
“Why New York? Why not Europe?”
“Perhaps they will try Europe. New York was his home, though. Bad history across the Atlantic. The Swiss wouldn’t touch him. Probably not the Germans, either. Anyway, you’ll never guess whom the Met is sending over to look at a few things.”
He did not have to guess.
“Your grandson,” Fotis continued. “The world is small, my friend, no?”
Andreas managed not to show alarm, but he was unnerved. Dragoumis was older, sicker, self-deluding, but here was why he had always been better at these games. He was relentless, and he constantly found new ways to unbalance you.
“Fotis,” he said quietly, without either threat or plea, “leave Matthew out of this.”
“My dearest Andreou, what have I to do with it? You think they consult me?”
“How do you know about it?”
“Matthew told me. Look now, the chief medievalist is an old man, not young and handsome like our boy. Byzantine is his specialty; that’s your doing, not mine. All those years taking him to churches and museums. Of course they would send Matthew. The girl will love him, the museum will get the icon, and our boy gets the credit. Where is the harm?”
“No harm. If that is all there is to the story.”
“Truthfully? I begin to wonder.” The old man waved his cigarette around casually. “Because here you are.”
“My son is ill.”
“Your son has been ill for months. Kessler died ten days ago.”
Andreas leaned back in his chair, desperately wanting to be out of this place, to be anywhere else but in the lair of this sad, scheming creature. “You have lived too long, Foti, you see plots everywhere. I came to see my son, no other reason.” He stood. “Have your man take me to my hotel. I can never find a taxi in this neighborhood.”
Dragoumis stubbed out his cigarette and looked up at his old friend with large, watery eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears. As if he were the injured party! Despite himself, Andreas almost clapped his hands at the performance. Fotis the wronged.
“I have offended you, I am sorry. Please, sit. Please, my friend, let us not part in anger.”
Andreas sat, but his mind was made up to go.
“I withdraw my question,” Fotis continued. “If I have expressed doubts, there are reasons. I must trust that you too have reasons for not sharing your plans with me. Now that you understand Matthew is involved, you may adjust your actions in a way that will not direct harm to his interests.”
“What the hell is it that you think I’m up to? You think the Greek government wants that icon? You think they would send me to get it?”
“What have you heard of Müller?”
Now Müller. The man was shameless.
“Only that he’s dead.”
“Really. I have heard that he is here, in New York.”
Andreas shifted uneasily in his chair, willing himself not to respond, but failing. “From whom?”
“An unreliable source, I admit. Still, another thing I thought you should know. It would make sense that he would come. You never believed that he was dead.”
“I don’t want to discuss Müller. I need to see Alex.”
“Yes. I have been to the hospital twice. He refused to see me the first time.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“But not surprised. He may resist seeing you also. Are you prepared for that?”
Prepared for it. How did one prepare for rejection from an ill son, a possibly dying son? Andreas had lived through many terrible things, but he could imagine nothing worse than such a rejection, and would not let his mind dwell on it.
“With Matthew’s support, I hope to overcome resistance.”
“Excellent. Look now, let us forget this gloomy talk for an hour. Come into the parlor and have a cognac with me.”
“I should see Alekos immediately.”
“Visiting hours are late. We’ll all go, after we eat.”
“No, I will go with Matthew.”
“Of course. He is joining us for dinner. Then you will both go to see Alex.”
The schemer had thought of everything. Anyway, the food would be good, and Matthew’s company would make the evening tolerable. Andreas did not drink, but he would have a cognac with Fotis. It seemed like just what he needed.
“You have the good Metaxa?”
“Better. Remy Martin XO.”
3
The night before, Matthew had the dream again. A painting vanished, a masterpiece of the collection which he was expected to find, but he couldn’t remember what it looked like. A group stood before the empty wall, declaiming the lost portrait’s beauty, the lips, the eyes, the otherworldly flesh tones, and he tried to build an image in his mind, but it shifted, eluded him, like faces do in dreams. The museum he knew so well became an impenetrable maze, with no Ariadne to help him. Darkness came down. Strange sounds distracted. The search went before and behind, he chased, he was pursued. In a dim basement chamber he saw what must be the image on the far wall, but the path was uncertain, no course took him directly there. No help, he was alone. And then not alone, as a terrible presence filled his consciousness. He always woke then.
They drove in silence, Matthew at the wheel of his colleague Carol’s borrowed Taurus, Andreas settled deeply into the passenger seat. The life had gone out of the old man as soon as they stepped through Fotis’ front door into the cool evening air, and it became clear that the animation he had shown over dinner was an act, for Fotis’ benefit. They were always performing for each other. Coming off the Triboro Bridge, Matthew paid the toll and accelerated away, glancing at his grandfather. Hat and collar obscured his face, and shadow alternated with pink streetlight across the barely visible features. Matthew had seen Andreas in Athens two years before and been struck once again by how little he aged. Still sharp-eyed, clear-minded, grip like a vise. At seventy-seven he could have passed for a vigorous sixty. This night he seemed old, stoop-shouldered and shuffling. His eyes wandered, as did his mind. Of course, it could be fatigue from the flight.
The car shaped the looping entry to the FDR Drive, and Matthew turned off almost immediately on 116th Street. Shouts and the metallic bang of a backboard reached them from a dimly lit basketball court. Tall brick projects rose up around them.
“This is Harlem?” Andreas asked.
“Spanish Harlem, I guess.”
“It’s ugly.”
“Yeah, well.”
“This is an ugly city.”
“So is Athens.”
“A strange comparison. Have I offended your local pride?”
“Modern cities are ugly. New York has some beautiful places.”
“ Athens has history.”
“Too much history.”
“It’s true. It’s true that the Greeks are undermined by their history; it is a common phenomenon in Europe. Americans are more willing to attempt things. This is their strength, but it also leads them into much foolishness. They change friends constantly, abandon old allies. This is why the world distrusts America.”