grandfather’s death might cause him to drop his guard, release a few of those dusty family secrets. This hope had been disappointed; his armor remained in place. She’d had it in the back of her mind that testing the market for private bidders on the icon might bring forward someone who knew about its past, and her grandfather’s. Possibly even someone with knowledge of what had happened that week her father went to Caracas. She hadn’t shared these thoughts with Wallace, and he had kept his inquiries very much to himself, steering her dutifully toward the institutions. By then she had become too distracted by Matthew to press the wily lawyer.
She dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette, her fifth of the morning. She would go through a dozen today. Eight yesterday, six the day before. Like quitting in reverse. She had been smoke-free almost four years. All it took was that first one, an hour after Matthew walked out the door, and she was back where she started. She drummed her fingers on the table. The kitchen now reminded her of Matthew, despite the fact that he had been here only half a dozen times. She exhaled the thought in a blue cloud of smoke. Never mind. The way to feel close to her runaway lover was to pursue the same mystery that he did. The thought stopped her. Was that all she was doing, trying to feel close to Matthew, to make his obsession hers? Were all those ideas about responsibility just flimsy justification? She inhaled the sweet poison, felt her body hum. Did it really matter?
Ana grabbed the telephone and dialed.
“Wallace and Warford.”
“Hi, Millie, is he there?”
“Ana. He’s in the middle of something. Can he call you back?”
“Tell him I’ll wait as long as it takes for him to be free.”
“It’s really better if he calls you.”
“I’ll wait. Please tell him.”
He let her hold for many minutes, as she knew he would, and her agitation grew exponentially over that time. Then that deep, gravelly voice was in her ear.
“My dear, sorry I haven’t been in touch.”
“We have business, Arthur. More paintings to sell.”
“I know, I really do apologize. But look, we need to do this in person. Let me pass you back to Millie and we’ll make a date.”
“I have a question. The private buyer on the icon, the one ready to spend a million five. I want to know who that was.”
He was quiet a few moments. “Why are you still thinking of that?”
“Because it strikes me as strange that anyone would offer that much.”
“Who’s to say if he would have paid in the end? I didn’t find the approach very credible, or I would have pushed you harder to explore it.”
“Yeah, well, look how credible the church deal turned out to be.”
“The church is not responsible for what happened. And you got your money.”
“Anyway, tell me who our spendthrift buyer was.”
He sighed heavily, a disappointed sound, but she was not going to be deflected. He had played that long-suffering father game with her for too long.
“The approach was made via a dealer of rather dubious reputation, whom I would prefer not to name.”
“Why? Did he ask to remain anonymous? A dealer? Come on, Arthur, whose lawyer are you?”
“Emil Rosenthal.”
“You’re kidding. That creep?”
“Now you know my reasoning in not pursuing it.”
“But who would work through a guy like Rosenthal?”
“Who knows? Rich eccentrics use all sorts of unsavory middlemen. Someone’s giving Emil business. Anyway, he’s not going to tell you.”
“And you have no idea who it was?”
“Of course not.”
“Too bad.”
“You’re not thinking of speaking to him, I hope.”
“No,” she lied. “No, I don’t see what purpose it would serve, and he’s so slimy. I was really just curious.”
“Best to let all that go. Let me give you to Millie now, and I’ll see you very soon.”
“Good. We have a lot to talk about.”
14
For a long time after he woke, Fotis thought he might be dying, and the idea was not entirely unwelcome. Hot sweat was cooling on his wracked limbs, despite the heavy blankets, and he was having difficulty breathing. Water in the lungs. Sitting up would help, but he could not command his muscles. His mind was full of a thick muzziness, unable to hold a complex thought, and he imagined sinking deeper and deeper into this state, until there was no more awareness, no more pain, until he was released from the prison of his traitorous body. Then he remembered the dream.
It had not possessed the detail and time-suspended horror of earlier versions, but it had been a worthy echo. Those same shapeless, denuded hills, stretching to the horizon beneath a leaden sky. The same endless road twisting through them, his feet upon that road, walking but making no progress. Shuffling forms to his right and left, once human, he knew, all moving in the same direction. Someone waited for him; he knew that also. Someone or something that meant him harm waited for him, black arms outstretched, like vulture’s wings, and the fact that he would never reach that fiend, but would be forever approaching it, did nothing to lessen the terror of its waiting. He had awakened then, but from the earlier visions he remembered that the hills turned to valleys, the valleys to tundra, impossibly flat and endless. Then he would pass the dark hill and empty crosses on his right, pass under the stone arch that marked the final stretch, pass into the tunnel, knowing he was near the end of the road, feeling it with every fiber of his being, yet knowing simultaneously that there was no end, that he would walk forever. This was what awaited him. This was the purgatory into which he was willingly sinking.
Fear coursed through him like cold liquid and he opened his eyes again. The ceiling seemed far above, his peripheral vision was gone. He tried to shout but heard only a weak gurgle. Gathering all his breath and strength he tried again, producing a long, weak moan, like a man crying out in his sleep, then fell silent, airless, lightless, awaiting the long descent.
Suddenly he felt strong hands upon his shoulders, felt himself pulled violently upright, saw the walls and the long slash of white light between the drawn curtains, wheeling about in his vision. His lungs convulsed. He heard a wheezing noise, then the agony of air rushing into his chest. In another moment sharp coughs shook his body, and a bitter, metallic taste was in his mouth.
At length, he slumped against whoever held him, spitting phlegmy gobs into a handkerchief held below his face. Disgusted with himself, with life. Pulling free, he swayed uncertainly as pillows were stacked behind him, then allowed himself to be pressed back, three-quarters propped up. Exhausted. Ready for sleep once more, but terrified by the prospect. At least he could breathe.
“Can I bring you anything?”
Fotis looked at the man. Not Nicholas. Nicholas was fighting for his life in a hospital in New York. This man was Taki, Fotis’ nephew, who would do anything for him. Fotis was in Greece, at the big house he had built outside of Salonika. New York was 5,000 miles away, the theft had gone wrong, and
