“I did not expect you to stay, to marry Irini-I thought you would come back to Greece. But it is much better that you did not. Much better.”
“I probably would have become a communist, just to spite you. What are you smiling about, old man?”
“The idea of you taking any interest in politics at all.”
“You don’t make it sound like I’ve missed much.”
“No, you were wise. It’s a fool’s game.”
“It’s good that you came here,” the younger man said softly.
“It’s good that we’ve spoken.”
Andreas breathed in the damp air, exhaled slowly. Such declarations from his son were the best he could hope for, and he tried to be grateful for them, grateful for this moment. Glancing over, he noticed that Alex no longer leaned upon the fence but merely touched it with one hand, swaying slightly, but standing on his own feet.
“You look good, Aleko,” he said, against the dictates of ancient superstition. “You look strong.”
Alex stared hard into the woods, searching, perplexed.
“Yes. I feel strong.”
Sotir Plastiris lived in one of the many concrete apartment buildings that had come to deface the city of Salonika. Like most residents, he had filled his terrace with plants and bright flowers, and the collective effect of all that living color somewhat ameliorated the gray, slapdash look of the buildings themselves. The interior was furnished in the traditional bourgeois fashion: white walls, dark wood, a hammered copperplate with Alexander’s profile hanging in the living room, a figurine in gaudy peasant dress in a glass cabinet. To the man’s credit, there was no cheap icon in the corner with a votive candle before it; this meant only that Sotir had no wife to attend to such matters. Matthew might have looked down upon the whole arrangement, but in truth the apartment wasn’t so different from his grandfather’s in Athens, and he felt comfortable in it.
“Yiasou,” said Sotir, handing Matthew a small glass of cognac, then raising his own as he sat down in an easy chair opposite. He turned his round face to the window, his expression slack, his mind seemingly at rest, but his companion suspected otherwise.
“By plane, it would be difficult,” Sotir said after a time, his English precise, but heavily accented. All his grandfather’s cronies insisted on speaking English to him, Matthew mused. Some matter of professional pride, no doubt. “They are careful at the airports now. A ship would be easier. More private owners, more space. You could hide a small piece within a large container. Customs at the ports are overmatched by the volume, and also corrupt. Mostly, they are afraid of what is being taken out, not what is coming in.”
“ Piraeus, or here?”
“ Piraeus would make more sense. More activity.”
“It wouldn’t have arrived yet.”
“In a few days. It’s more than a week from New York, depending on the stops.”
Matthew nodded, sipped the cognac.
“Of course, it could be a plane. An isolated airstrip.”
“Yes, and it may be coming by train from Paris.” Plastiris smiled with gray teeth. “It may not be coming at all. We are speaking only about what is probable. It would be unwise to tire yourself with every possibility.”
Instead of trying to duck his grandfather’s watchdog, which would likely have been impossible in any case, Matthew decided to make use of him, and had to confess that he liked Plastiris’ easy, Old World style. He also had to keep reminding himself that the man was one of the gang, an ex-freedom fighter, spy, assassin-who knew what?
“The main thing,” Sotir continued, “is to keep your eye on Dragoumis, see what he does, who comes and goes. Which is difficult, since the house is on a hill and surrounded by trees.”
“How was he able to buy that property? He was supposed to be in exile.”
“Your grandfather opened the way. It was intended as a small favor. Visits, for Holy Week each year. He surely did not expect that Fotis would be allowed to build a fortress, or engage in his old activities.”
“Why was he?”
“It’s the way things are done. He was distrusted until the moment Andreas persuaded them to make a concession. Once they did, his file was downgraded, and they forgot all about him. Things must be black and white for bureaucrats. If he’s allowed back in, well then, he must not be a real threat. Besides, he’s old. It’s all young men in there now. They don’t remember the colonels. They don’t remember anything.”
“Do you have the means to watch the house? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
“Dragoumis is not my concern.”
“No, apparently I am.” He waited, but Plastiris gave nothing away. “And Fotis is my concern, so it all goes together.”
“I am sorry, Matthew. I am retired. My nephews do favors for me sometimes, but I do not want them getting near your godfather. He is too unpredictable.”
“Then I guess I’m on my own.”
“Will you attempt to see him again?”
“We’re supposed to meet tomorrow night. The Easter services at Saint Demetrios.”
“Is he well enough?”
“If he decides he is, not much will stop him.”
“Of course. And you will try to learn more of his plans.”
Matthew massaged his temples with both hands.
“‘Try’ is the word. I pushed him pretty hard yesterday. Dredged up some stuff from the war, but nothing about what he’s up to now.”
“I think it unlikely he will tell you anything useful.”
“I’ll just have to stay nearby, look for him to make a mistake.”
“You hope to catch him receiving the icon.”
“That would be convenient.”
“Why do you believe it will come at all? He does not live here. The chance of discovery and seizure is great. There is no logic to it.”
“You’re probably right, I don’t know that it’s coming. But the longer he stays, the more I think it must be for some reason.”
“He is ill.”
“Yes, but I wonder if that alone would stop him if he needed to be elsewhere. If the icon is in the possession of others in New York, even if they’re in business with him, he’s taking a big chance by being away for a week. They may get ideas. He’s not that trusting.”
“And what do you think he means to do with it?”
“Do with it?” Plastiris was younger than Andreas, Matthew figured, and measurably younger than Fotis. The story of the Holy Mother and what had happened during the war-to the extent that anyone really knew the true story-was an open secret in the Greek intelligence community, at least according to his grandfather. But it was a very old story now. Could it be that Sotir did not understand the icon’s power? “I think he means to keep it.”
