briefly roll in his last bout of self-pity and constructive introspection, before recovering spectacularly, the real Giorgos reborn.
‘When are you going to follow your dreams instead of preaching to the unconverted?’
Giorgos’ question was so unexpected when it came that James was suddenly lost for words, a rare occurrence indeed. For a brief moment he felt disappointed that he had failed to wake his friend from his one- hundred-year sleep, but when he saw the amusement in Giorgos’ eyes he realised that he had broken through the shell that Giorgos had so diligently built around him since the failure of the Cappadocian expedition. The question was pure Giorgos taking his revenge by throwing James’ own words back at him.
James directed his steely gaze at Giorgos in a fake reprimand. ‘I am actually enjoying my job which is more than I can say about you. You seem content to allow yourself to slowly waste away.’ James paused. He was a disciple of the school of tough love for those about whom he cared deeply. ‘Anyway, I didn’t call you to exchange commiserations. I found something that may interest you. Do you still believe your Palaiologos theory has legs? I think I’ve got something that may help you prove it.’
‘I doubt it could be anything that important.’
Whatever hint of excitement James believed he had engendered in Giorgos was well past its expiry date. Whatever flame James thought he had lit, seemed to have been just as quickly snuffed out.
To James’ chagrin, the resigned-to-his-mundanefate Giorgos’ was still there. What would it take to get him to snap out of it, damn it? James was losing patience with his friend, but he believed he held an ace up his sleeve and couldn’t wait to play it.
‘Well, I’m no expert on Byzantine history, that’s your field, but I’d like to think that I’ve gleaned something from you, that something’s stuck, and even with my limited knowledge I can tell this is big.’
Giorgos was intrigued. ‘I should’ve known this was no courtesy call. Come on, don’t torture me. What have you found?’
‘I’ve got John Halland here with me. You remember him, our specialist icon restorer. I think he’d better explain. I’ll put him on speakerphone.’ James pressed the button.
‘Hi, Giorgos.’
‘Hi John. What have you got for me?’
‘I found a ring inside a hidden compartment in an icon I was restoring. The ring carries what looks like the Byzantine double-headed eagle. From historical accounts I’ve read, it is a match for the Imperial ring worn by the Palaiologos dynasty.’
‘Could it be a fake?’
‘No, I took the liberty of dating it. It is at least about six hundred years old. I know about your interest in the last Emperor, Konstantinos XI Palaiologos. I would be venturing into speculative territory, but it is possible that it could be his. Chronologically and design-wise, at least, it fits. But I cannot find further proof. Maybe together we could crack it.’
‘You want me to come over.’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me see it. Get onto skype.’
‘James is connecting as we speak.’
Giorgos accepted the invitation and they were connected. James was stunned by how haggard Giorgos looked, a lot worse than he had expected. He chastised himself for his disappointment. He should not expect a complete change overnight.
He was comforted by the thought that he had at least got Giorgos hooked on something other than his self- inflicted misery and that was a start. He said nothing and hid his worry for another time, when they would be alone together.
John held the ring in front of the laptop’s camera lens. Giorgos gasped and for a few seconds was rendered speechless.
‘John, show me the icon.’ Giorgos studied the icon. ‘Look at the bottom right-hand corner. That looks like a figure of an Emperor. Is there any inscription to give us a clue as to his identity?’
‘No. But I’ve only just started the cleaning of the icon. It will be another two days before anything that maybe there is revealed.’
‘Perfect. It will take me a day to wrap up things here and fly over.’
‘James came in front of the lens.
‘Giorgos, it’s all been arranged already. I’ve booked you on tomorrow’s 6.20 American Airlines evening flight to New York. Your ticket will be waiting for you at their desk at Athens Venizelos International Airport.’
‘Mr Calvell, how dare you assume that, because you want me to, and assuming I could, I would drop everything at a moment’s notice and travel halfway around the world just to give you an expert opinion? Should I feel flattered and humbled that there is no other suitable expert in the whole of the United States?’
It was a cheap shot, but Giorgos was only feigning hurt. Inside he was beaming and the smile breaking across his face was proof of that.
James couldn’t be happier. ‘There’s just too much love between us. What did you think? That I would let you stew and wallow in self-pity for the rest of your life? God knows I’ve tried everything I could think of to get you out of your stupor. My efforts went unrewarded, but my prayers seem to have been answered. This could be the breakthrough you have been waiting for. Look at this as your lucky break, the chance that you should not let get away.’
Giorgos was very glad for this life-changer that James had thrown his way. ‘You rascal. You know me better than I know myself. Thanks, James. I owe you one. See you tomorrow.’
Even after the skype connection was severed James continued looking at the display for a little while longer, smiling to himself, a glorious sense of achievement rippling through his whole body. He was happy for the transformational effect his phone call had had on his friend.
When he looked up at John Halland he saw from his amused expression that he knew what had just happened and shared his feeling of elation for a job well done.
It only took Giorgos a phone call to take five days leave from his job and fifteen minutes to pack when he got home that evening. He would be going to the airport straight from work the next day.
CHAPTER 16
New York
Present day
It was just after two a.m. on a moonless New York night. The city’s strikingly-lit skyline was advertising its wares to all and sundry, engrossed in its frenetic rhythmic dance.
The Metropolitan Museum on Fifth Avenue was asleep, journeying from dreams to nightmare and back, dreaming wild dreams, dreams that took it through each of the periods represented in its gilded belly. A figure was moving silently through its dark and veiled venerable halls.
The Museum’s sophisticated security system was no match for such a skilled predator. It responded to the touch of the exquisite figure cajoling it and dug deeper into its dreams. The figure slowed its pace as it was approaching its destination, deep inside the bowels of the building.
The figure found what it sought. It could not resist the impulse to briefly admire, under the sparse light of its torch, the object the beauty of which overcame immovability and screamed its presence. The figure chided itself for resigning itself to its weakness for beauty.
With a deft movement, the glass case was violated and the object of its affection was in its hands. There was not the slightest blink from the lasers that the figure could see with its thermal vision.
The figure took the time to savour the moment and the texture of the object, and, caressing its back, the figure removed a panel and checked inside. Hidden in one corner was a piece of paper folded numerous times.
The figure took it out, unfolded it and, concentrating the light on it, examined it and read its contents. It smiled in the dark, a smile wasted with no witness.
