The Icon by Neil Olson Page A

stay?”
    “Private homes, if they have those connections. In which case we’ll never find him. I haven’t looked for one of these guys for a while, and never in this country, but there used to be two small inns, run by elderly German ladies, very discreet. One in Brooklyn, which may be gone now; and one in the Village. That’s where I would start.”
    “And will you?”
    “I have some conditions.”
    Andreas sighed. He would rather have paid a king’s ransom than have someone else set conditions, but Benny was a peer and couldn’t be treated like some low-clearance freelancer.
    “Yes?”
    “What are your intentions when you find him?”
    “That is a question, not a condition.”
    “One flows from the other. I need to know.” Benny sized him up unblinkingly, while Andreas took longer to form a response than was wise. “My friend,” the younger man pressed, leaning forward in his chair, “do you even know what your intentions are?”
    “I have questions for him, if he can be made to answer them. It is also important that I monitor his actions.”
    “You once had bolder plans than that.”
    “I was younger. He is not responsible for your parents, Benny, he was only there to steal. That is all he has ever been about.”
    “That may be true, but it doesn’t forgive his actions. I’ve seen his signature on arrest orders. He participated. Then there’s your story, that would be reason enough.”
    “Reason for what? Tell me your damn conditions.”
    From the window came the faraway wail of sirens. In a room close by a woman laughed. Andreas felt pinned to his chair by age and fatigue.
    “I don’t want your money, first off. We do this together, or I don’t involve myself. I find him, we pay him a visit. He’s bound to be more responsive to your questions with me there.”
    “And then?”
    Benny shrugged.
    “Assuming the circumstances allow it, we get rid if him.”

7
    I made fresh coffee this time.”
    She was used to conveying calm self-assurance, Matthew could tell, but her fidgeting about the counters bespoke nervousness. Was he the cause? Why should he be? More likely the messy details of her grandfather’s estate, which he had taken another afternoon away from his busy office to help her confront. He’d walked along the reservoir, barely aware of the brisk wind, the waning gold light on the water, the joggers’ dirty looks as they darted around him on the narrow path. His senses blunted by images in his mind: a blind shepherd suddenly beholding a candle’s flame; black-shrouded widows on callused, broken knees, baring their grief to the Mother, walking away cleansed; a dark chamber full of weary, resigned supplicants made one, made whole, if only for a little while, by a touch, a glance. Faces like his grandfather’s, his aunts’ and cousins’, faces like his own. Mayer-Goff’s words echoed in his skull: I saw this with my own eyes. He barely remembered to leave the park at Ninetieth Street, good shoes muddied by the horse trail, his pace and heartbeat quickening in a disquieting fashion the moment the Kessler brownstone came into view.
    “Thanks,” he said, “that wasn’t necessary.”
    “It’s not Greek coffee, of course. I’m not sure how to make that.”
    “You need the right grounds, like espresso. Better just to go someplace where they make it well.”
    “And do you know the right place?”
    Ana carried two mugs to the table and sat across from him. Her face still appeared drawn, yet there was something strong in her, beneath the weariness. She wore it well.
    “I know a few.”
    He was so certain that she would ask where those places were, ask him if he would take her to them sometime, that he was faintly embarrassed when she did not.
    “Thanks for coming by,” she said, staring into her coffee, her tone businesslike. “I know I only lured you with the chance to see the icon again, but the price you have to pay is talking some things through with me. Informally. I