The Icon

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 Müller, 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 Müller 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.”

Müller 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 Müller. 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, Müller 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. Müller 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. Müller 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,” Müller 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 co

“Yes?” Müller 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. Müller 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.

Be

It was early, and she had caught the woman preparing for work. There was the expected resistance and a

“You see, no trouble at all,” Ana said as Be

“The trouble is in front of us. Put on your seat belt, I’m not slowing down.”

“You really think they followed him?”

“It’s what I would do. Now tell me where we’re going.”

They passed the Kensico reservoir and turned off onto more winding secondary roads. It would have been a drive to enjoy on another day, lakes and forest and gorgeous vistas, but Ana was tight with tension, checking every landmark against Robin’s vague instructions, trying to forget how much might depend upon her making the right choices. Before long they passed through a wooded dell, then came up a rise to the brick wall and pillared entry. Ana could just make out the slate roof beyond a screen of trees.

“This is it, this is the house.”

“You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be, Be

Be