“Who did you have in mind?”
Matthew’s thoughts lost their grounding. The entire business was beyond his grasp, and a sickening realization loomed. And yet, having been fooled so easily up to now, how could he simply accept what he was hearing? Should he abandon his faith in Fotis so quickly?
“You know, I have to say, Tomas was at least as credible as you guys. He went through all the proper motions. He put down a lot of money. Where did that come from?”
Baldy spoke sharply in Greek, something to the effect that they were wasting time. Father John answered him quietly: where were they going in such a hurry? Then the older man leaned forward and stared earnestly at Matthew.
“Obviously, Tomas had a backer. The person who was really after the work all along. Perhaps you know who that person is.”
Matthew shook his head, in resistance rather than denial.
“You have no reason to trust me,” the priest continued, “but I am asking you to do so. For the good of the church, for the good of others who have been deceived, and in memory of those who have died for the work, I ask your assistance. Please, tell me where the icon is.”
Matthew’s inclination to trust was enormous, but he was coming to see it as a character flaw.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
The bald one cursed, and Matthew stepped into the relative safety of the blue-tiled fluorescent chamber. Cold water on his face felt good but did not clear his mind. This priest was convincing. He exuded compassion and honesty to a degree that was nearly hypnotic. Could he be believed? Was it more complicated? A church faction fight, perhaps? The conclusion he kept returning to was the same one that had made him hold his tongue before: he could not turn his godfather over on such a slender thread of trust. He would have to investigate the matter himself, quickly, as he had been intending to do by coming here. That meant losing these two. Would they let him walk out? Did they have the means of following him without his realizing? There wasn’t time to lie low for a day or two, every hour might count.
Through the door he could hear a cell phone ringing. When he composed himself and stepped out, Matthew saw the bald one just putting his phone away as he jabbered excitedly to Father John. The swift, heavily accented Greek mostly eluded him, but through the buzz of words he clearly heard a familiar name. The priest looked up.
“Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine. I have to leave.”
“An associate of my friend here has made a discovery among Father Tomas’ abandoned possessions. A name, known to us. Fotis Dragoumis. I think he is related to you?”
Matthew nodded.
“You are close to him?”
“Yes, I am.”
“He is, perhaps, a dangerous man to deal with?”
“I don’t think of him that way. It might be dangerous for you.”
“Nevertheless, we must see him. I think you should come with us. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“We will not force you. It is completely your decision. Somehow I feel your presence will make things less hazardous for both sides.”
Matthew absorbed the import of those words. The urge to be included in whatever fell out was overwhelming other considerations.
“I need to call him.”
“I cannot stop you. But if you do, he will be gone when we arrive, and neither you nor I will see that icon again. I think you know this.”
Still he hesitated. The priest was guessing; he couldn’t know for sure that Fotis had the icon.
“Scata,” spat Baldy, bolting forward. Instinctively, Matthew’s arms shot out, the heels of his hands catching the other man hard in the chest, staggering him so that he grabbed at the mattress to keep from falling. Meaning to rush for the door, Matthew instead found himself advancing, a sudden unexpected rage replacing his fear in an instant, filling him. He hadn’t thrown a fist since adolescence, but he wanted to beat the stocky little man senseless. Baldy recovered swiftly and sprang at him, his heavy fist catching Matthew in the stomach, awkwardly, but hard enough to bend him double with a deep, nauseating pain. He braced for another blow, but then the priest was between them.
“Stamata! Stop it, both of you.” Father John helped him to a chair, but Matthew would not sit, merely leaned on the pale wooden arm, pulling hard for breath. Baldy straightened his jacket, a combination of rage and surprise distorting his features. “Demetrios was not after you,” the priest said firmly, “he was headed for the door.”
Matthew had realized that a moment after he struck, and yet the anger remained, barely under control. And wholly misdirected, he now understood. His hands shook. The floor seemed to drop away, like the shaky scaffolding that Fotis had built beneath him. A lie; he had built it himself, using the shoddy materials his godfather supplied, the half-truths and flimsy reasoning. Ignoring every sign, letting the worthy goal justify all. He had been played. It was just as his father had warned him, he could keep the truth at bay no longer.
“OK,” Matthew said, once his breath returned. “I’ll go with you. But we do this my way. Fotis is very sharp, and he’s well protected.”
The priest smiled.
“Then we shall count on you to protect us.”
It was cold. Andreas had not been on the streets this early in a long time, and he was surprised at how the predawn chill penetrated him. He walked swiftly to get the blood flowing in his stiff limbs, knowing that he could not afford to be slow in the minutes or hours to come. Vigorous action might be required. He felt a tremor of unease rise up. He had poked and poked, expecting nothing, and suddenly he had stirred up the hornets’ nest. Things could easily get out of hand now, and he would have no one to blame but himself. Yet he couldn’t wish it were not happening. If it was Muller, well, a reckoning was required. Time did not wash away crimes, and instinct continued to tell him that the threat to anyone involved with the icon was real. He only hoped that Benny would be punctual, because it was very cold.
Shadows hung thickly in the narrow canyons of side streets, but the sky was slowly brightening over Queens. Some people were out already, solitary specters appearing not quite aware or awake. Taxis rocketed up Third Avenue. A silver-gray sedan sat before a brick bank on the northeast corner of an intersection. A small Japanese car, good for parking. The passenger door was unlocked, and Andreas slipped gratefully into the warm compartment. Benny was already smoking, and two cups of deli coffee were jammed into a plastic holder between them. The man’s demeanor was relaxed this morning, and he allowed the thin stream of traffic to pass completely before pulling onto the avenue.
“Where are we going,” Andreas asked.
“Not far. Yorkville. Germantown, they call it, but it’s really more Hungarian. Hungarian churches, restaurants, clubs.”
“I know the neighborhood.”
“There’s a kind of boardinghouse, run by a Hungarian woman. I didn’t know about it before, but someone put me on to it a few days ago.”
“And you sent one of the girls over with brochures?”
“Got in through the cleaning service, not that it’s any of your business. Anyway, he’s not staying in the boardinghouse proper, but in an apartment this woman owns, a few blocks away. Under the name Peter Miller.”
“Miller,” Andreas mused, skeptically. “That’s an old one. He hasn’t used
