firing, but his aim was off badly. The German shook his head as his vision cleared. He had been lucky. Now he was on sore knees with a bruised skull and no way to get up those stairs. Never mind; at least he was inside the house. He glanced across the hall. There was a large, plush living room with light pouring in through French doors over a white sofa, glass table, and thick flokati rug. It reminded him of a room in a house he had once owned, a place where he had been almost content. Don’t think of that now. There was a door at the back of the dining room, next to a tall, glass-fronted hutch. There must be a back stairway in a house like this. He had to find it, and find Jan. Muller stood slowly, painfully, and moved toward the narrow door.
The kitchen was large and gloomy, despite the white walls and blue curtains, and there was a faint smell of gas in the air. A bowl and a mug sat in the sink. There were two doors, in addition to the one from which he had entered. The one on the left appeared more promising, but no sooner had he thought that than a loud boom came from that direction. A larger-caliber gun than the one in front, so there were two holding the upper floor. Where was Jan? If the Dutchman was down, then this business was finished, and he would be lucky to get out with his life. Lucky. Hardly the correct word. There was no escape but one for a man his age. He was not leaving without the icon, whatever the consequences. He willed himself to move toward the sound of the shot.
A short corridor led into a small room full of filing cabinets and black- and-white monitors. He saw the cars parked in front, several empty views of the grounds, the front steps, the priest wandering aimlessly around the side of the house. There were no interior views. A moment later he glanced up to see Van Meer standing beside him. Jan smiled.
“You’ve lost your hat.”
“Yes,” whispered Muller, repressing his shock at being so easily surprised. “I guess I have. What about that shot?”
“A poor one. Missed me by half a meter, but someone is up there.”
“In front also.”
Jan nodded. “This is an unfavorable position. Two on two and they have the high ground. Wisdom says we should withdraw.”
“Impossible. We’ll never have this opportunity again.”
Jan nodded once more, having expected this response. His eyes were directed over the German’s shoulder at the kitchen door, and as they spoke his head made small adjustments to catch any stray sound. There were moments when Van Meer seemed pure mechanics, pure calculation, but Muller could tell that the gamesman in him had been aroused. He would not leave now.
“I expect a large bonus,” Jan said.
“Done. The front stairs are long and straight. It’s no good.”
“There’s an angle in back. Maybe four meters from the landing to the shooter.”
“That’s the way, then.”
“Wait here.”
Muller despised the tone of command from inferiors, but he was getting used to it with this one, and he watched the entry to the stairwell as Jan ducked into the kitchen. The younger man returned a minute later with a bundle of dishcloths tied together, stinking of something. Cleaning fluid, perhaps. In his other hand he held a wet towel.
They moved carefully into the stairwell, then up the narrow steps together. Jan pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and sparked the bundle, nodding to Muller. The old man slid along the outer wall, aware of the fist-sized crater in the plaster an arm’s length away. Before he quite cleared the angle, he stuck out his shaking left hand and fired three quick bursts, the noise tremendous in that tight space, then withdrew. Jan stepped into the open spot and tossed his flaming bundle up the stairs.
The air smelled of acrid burning. Would they light up the whole house, Muller wondered, still shaking? Was it fear or anticipation? When had he become so nervous, so feeble? Jan stared at him with that damned serene expression. A scuffing noise came from above, a foot stomping the fiery bundle. Crouching, Jan slipped halfway around the angle, fired twice, and ducked back. There was a dull metal thud on the stairs above. The Dutchman leaned out once more, then darted up out of sight. Muller took a deep breath and followed, picking up the wet towel on his way.
Two steps from the top a black nine-millimeter lay on the stair, and there was a smudge of blood on the corner of the wall. Jan stood in the smoky corridor, looking left and right. Muller tossed the wet towel over the burning pile of rags, stamped on it several times. The floor was scorched, but nothing seemed to have caught. Bullet holes were everywhere.
“You hit him,” Muller whispered.
“In the hand,” Jan said. “Spear. He’s nearby.”
“But disarmed.”
Disarmed, wounded, surely terrified. The German mentally crossed the boy off. Now it was down to Dragoumis, and the odds were back in their favor. The icon was here, somewhere on the second floor, or the Greek would not have abandoned the first without a fight. The corridor they were in connected with another about four meters ahead, where a right turn would take them to the front of the house. Van Meer took a glance around the corner.
“Yes?” Muller prompted.
“Nothing. Lots of doors.”
“Can you see the top of the front stairs?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then the Greek can’t block them without getting hit from here. Circle back around and come up the front, and we’ll move in from both sides.”
“Spear is here somewhere.”
“Never mind him. Dragoumis is the main thing.”
The Dutchman looked dubious, but he nodded, slipped down the short corridor, and vanished noiselessly down the back stairs. Muller edged to the corner and glanced around, seeing only what Jan had described. This was it. They were closing in by the moment. The surrounding houses were probably too far away to hear the shots, and Dragoumis would never call the police. They had him, unless they committed some blunder. Like losing track of rounds. How many had he fired? Only three, he was fairly certain. He searched his coat for his spare clip and came up instead with a small leather case. The syringe and narcotic. He had neglected to give Spyridis another shot before leaving the car. It hardly mattered; the man was out cold and bound besides. Yet such errors reflected a state of mind. He must focus. He must do better if he was to survive this day. No more mistakes. Be like Jan, he told his shaking hands, a machine, until the business was finished.
Benny’s silver Nissan came up the off-ramp at terrific speed, barely stopping for Ana to get in, and they were back on the curving parkway in under a minute. The first thing she’d done was call Benny. Matthew’s message had given her very little to go on; he’d only wanted her to know what he was up to in case something happened. However, he’d already told her the story about searching for his godfather’s house with the old girlfriend, who had grown up in that part of the world. Robin was the key. Benny went straight to Matthew’s apartment and ransacked it for an address book, which he quickly located. Men were notoriously bad about actually recording anything in such books, but Benny had found a Robin Sprague with a phone number, and Ana had convinced him that the call was better off coming from her.
It was early, and she had caught the woman preparing for work. There was the expected resistance and annoyance, and Ana had to toss out a lot of personal information about Matthew in order to prove the close connection. Then she told Robin that he was in danger-something involving his godfather. Robin knew Fotis, and clearly did not find this too hard to believe. The details had gotten fuzzy in the intervening month or two, but as best she could, she reconstructed the route to the house. Ana would not tell Benny what she had learned, but insisted that he pick her up on the way. He was already driving north at that point, and her ploy infuriated him. You’re putting Matthew at risk, he raged, but the delay would only be a few minutes, and the matter was too important for her to concede. She calmed Matthew’s parents by telling them she
