Read The Icon for Free Online Page B

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 Müller?”
    Now Müller. 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.”
    “I don’t want to discuss Müller. I need to see Alex.”
    “Yes. I have been to the hospital twice. He refused to see me the first time.”
    “I am sorry to hear it.”
    “But not surprised. He may resist seeing you also. Are you prepared for that?”
    Prepared for it. How did one prepare for rejection from an ill son, a possibly dying son? Andreas had lived through many terrible things, but he could imagine nothing worse than such a rejection, and would not let his mind dwell on it.
    “With Matthew’s support, I hope to overcome resistance.”
    “Excellent. Look now, let us forget this gloomy talk for an hour. Come into the parlor and have a cognac with me.”
    “I should see Alekos immediately.”
    “Visiting hours are late. We’ll all go, after we eat.”
    “No, I will go with Matthew.”
    “Of course. He is joining us for dinner. Then you will both go to see Alex.”
    The schemer had thought of everything. Anyway, the food would be good, and Matthew’s company would make the evening tolerable. Andreas did not drink, but he would have a cognac with Fotis. It seemed like just what he needed.
    “You have the good Metaxa?”
    “Better. Remy Martin XO.”

3
    T he night before, Matthew had the dream again. A painting vanished, a masterpiece of the collection which he was expected to find, but he couldn’t remember what it looked like. A group stood before the empty wall, declaiming the lost portrait’s beauty, the lips, the eyes, the otherworldly flesh tones, and he tried to build an image in his mind, but it shifted, eluded him, like faces do in dreams. The museum he knew so well became an impenetrable maze, with no Ariadne to help him. Darkness came down. Strange sounds distracted. The search went before and behind, he chased, he was pursued. In a dim basement chamber he saw what must be the image on the far wall, but the path was uncertain, no course took him directly there. No help, he was alone. And then not alone, as a terrible presence filled his consciousness. He always woke then.
    They drove in silence, Matthew at the wheel of his colleague Carol’s borrowed Taurus, Andreas settled deeply into the passenger seat. The life had gone out of the old man as soon as they stepped through Fotis’ front door into the cool evening air, and it became clear that the animation he had shown over dinner was an act, for Fotis’ benefit. They were always performing for each other. Coming off the Triboro Bridge, Matthew paid the toll and accelerated away, glancing at his grandfather. Hat and collar obscured his face, and shadow alternated with pink streetlight across the barely visible features. Matthew had seen Andreas in Athens two years before and been struck once again by how little he aged. Still sharp-eyed, clear-minded, grip like a vise. At seventy-seven he could have passed for a vigorous sixty. This night he seemed old, stoop-shouldered and shuffling. His eyes wandered, as did his mind. Of course, it could be fatigue from the flight.
    The car shaped the looping entry to the FDR Drive, and Matthew turned off almost immediately on 116th Street. Shouts and the metallic bang of a