The Icon

“I’m prepared to do it quietly,” Be

“It’s impossible,” Andreas snapped. “We haven’t even identified him yet.”

“You won’t know him on sight?”

“I think I will, but I will need to be very close.”

“So we pick him up.”

“What if there are too many people on the street?”

“Then we follow him. See what he’s up to. Wait for the next opportunity.”

They turned east on Eighty-fourth Street and headed toward the brightening sky. Andreas hated being so close to the target with only the vaguest sketch of a plan. In truth, he had participated in numerous ill-advised operations for the Greek security forces, but they went against his nature, and his fears were usually proved correct by some blunder. He liked to run a tighter ship. The English, and later the Americans, had been his models. Mostly he envied their resources: secure apartments, high-powered surveillance, teams of trackers. His own former agency now employed all these methods, but it no longer employed him. He was on his own, at the mercy of this skilled but lunatic Jew. Andreas reminded himself that the consequences did not greatly matter. Sloppiness insulted his professionalism, but it was the result that counted. He was no longer responsible for anyone but himself. To get Müller, after all these years, would be worth something. A service rendered, and a debt paid. Let them do to him what they wanted after that. He began to feel calmer, surveying each tree-lined block, checking the pedestrian traffic at each intersection. Things would go as they went, and he was prepared for whatever happened.

Be

“Relax,” said Be

“We drove by the damn place three times.”

“Looking for parking. Everyone does it. Remember that he’s avoided detection for fifty years. Not everyone is like you, examining the stall for microphones before he shits.”

“There.”

A man came out the heavy wooden door of the brownstone and trudged wearily down the steps. In his sixties, dressed casually but carrying a briefcase.

“He doesn’t want to go to work,” Be

Andreas studied the man as he passed. Lanky, carrying a little extra weight. Exactly the right build for Müller, but too young, and the pink, freshly scrubbed face was not familiar. No one else emerged from the building for the next hour, while the sky grew brighter, and Andreas could feel Be

“For all you know,” the older man said, “he may have left an hour after he entered.”

“I realize that.”

“To do this properly you must be prepared to wait hours. All day.”

“I’m aware of the procedure. I simply don’t like it.”

“That’s because you’re an analyst at heart.”

“I’ve done my share of fieldwork.”

And got expelled for overaggressiveness, thought Andreas, but it would not be the thing to say. A lot of good operatives got labeled overzealous by their uncreative handlers. It was the switch from analyst to operative that troubled Andreas. The skills were totally separate. For all their sharing of information, the two had never conducted an operation together. Yet Be

Another forty minutes passed. Andreas nearly nodded off twice, and his legs were going to sleep. Be

“Follow me in a few minutes,” he said, then was out and walking briskly before Andreas had time to object. An unpleasant surge of adrenaline coursed through him as he watched Be

Cool air struck him at once, and he felt his stiff legs shake as he maneuvered his way across the broken sidewalk to the steps. Be

The apartment door was steel-encased and painted brown. Be

Be

The moment the lock clicked, Be

A closed door faced him. Andreas considered whether anyone would be stupid enough to trap himself in the bathroom like that, then remembered that he was not carrying a weapon and Be

He looked away from the unpleasant visage, and his gaze fell to the sink. The porcelain was damp, and a thin film hung around the drain. He rubbed at it a bit, rolled the pasty matter between thumb and finger. It was the sort of residue one found often when there was a woman in the house. Foundation, makeup, exfoliate, any of the dozens of powders necessary to the maintenance of the public face. Of course, men used these things also. Possibly hair dye was included in the mix. Andreas closed his eyes, pictured the man with the briefcase who had left the building earlier. Add a few lines to the face, white hair, glasses. The limp would be easy enough to fake. And voilà, the ghost of Müller. The weight of it made him grip the low sink with both hands, nearly ill. Fool, he cursed himself silently.