few years,” he said eagerly. “I think it is my true calling.”
“Ah.”
“Never mind that, I know what you’re thinking. Only a fool would collect art for money. Too unstable. I enjoy it. I enjoy pursuing my own peculiar tastes, and I enjoy being surrounded by beautiful things.”
“This landscape?”
Fotis shifted to look. “Dutch. A student of Bruegel, I’m told. Beautiful, yes?”
“Very beautiful. And I see you have an icon.”
“A few of them. Not very old, or valuable. They have been greatly overproduced in recent centuries. This one is Russian.”
“You would like to collect some authentic Byzantine examples, no doubt.”
Dragoumis turned back around, a smile both cold and satisfied on his long, regal face.
“There is no real trade in Byzantine icons. Not enough of them in private hands. It’s all museums and churches, so it is hard to set a price. Their true value is spiritual.” Fotis the pious.
“Of course.”
“You know that Kessler is dead.”
Andreas sighed. It had occurred to him from the start that Kessler and the icon were behind this forced visit.
“I had heard.”
“Keeping up those contacts. Good.”
Andreas shrugged. Why bother saying he’d read it in the New York Times? Fotis assumed that all information must come through intelligence channels. Let him think that Andreas was still plugged into the network.
“So,” Fotis continued, “what does our fine government of Greece think of this development?”
“What should they think? All they would know of Kessler is what you told them.”
“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 Muller?”
Now Muller. 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.”
