“Excuse me, sir.”
“What?” The unappealing fellow was immediately suspicious.
“I need to look at an apartment here.”
“No apartments. Everything is rented.”
“I understand. I need to look at one of the rented apartments. As part of an investigation.”
The man pulled himself up straight, but this accomplished little.
“Yeah? And who the hell are you?”
Andreas realized that a police officer would have shown a badge at once. Still, the man seemed movable, if he could find the lever.
“The third floor, apartment in the rear. The one who rents it is a countryman of mine.” Andreas reached into his coat for his old Foreign Service ID. It was an impressive item, small as a passport with gold-embossed leather and an official stamp next to his ten-year-old photograph. He gave the surly superindendent several moments to scrutinize it, trusting that the man could not read Greek. “Fotis Dragoumis. He is being investigated by my government.”
“What do I care? We’re not in your country. Here you need a warrant, from a judge.”
“We are obtaining one. It is a slow process in this city. I would rather move more swiftly. It is very important.”
“To you. Not to me.” The man pursed his fat lips, then lit another cigarette. “Come back when you have a warrant.” He blew smoke in Andreas’ direction and turned to his work.
“I may lose an opportunity by waiting. You may lose an opportunity also.”
“For what?”
“For profit.”
The words had an immediate effect, and the super shuffled his barrels distractedly.
“What profit?”
“Do you want to discuss this out here?”
They retreated into the vestibule, though the bulky super would not open the inside door. Andreas was acutely aware of his exposed back facing the big glass pane of the outer door as he slipped his wallet from his coat. He slid out five twenty-dollar bills, then hesitated.
“You do have keys?”
The man shrugged.
“Yes? No?” Andreas’ voice became sharp.
“I’m not supposed to, but these damn absentee tenants. You have to check a leak, you have to be able to get in, you know?”
“I know.” Andreas handed over the money. The super stared at the tiled floor for too long. The old man slid five more twenties out.
“You’re not taking anything,” the stocky fellow insisted.
“You’re just looking, right?”
“That is correct.” If he found anything worth taking, he would worry about it then.
The apartment was small. Only two rooms, the second a bedroom with a chipped bureau and a narrow bed that clearly got no use. The larger room had a good-sized painting on each wall, a landscape and three abstracts. A large, narrow cardboard packing case leaned against the small sofa, one end open and bubble wrap spilling out. It cost Andreas another fifty dollars to persuade the super to wait in the corridor. Then he went immediately to the open container. Inside was a green-and-blue abstract painting, as big as the box and still wrapped. Reaching his arm in as far as it would go, Andreas felt around behind the canvas, where the frame would have provided more than sufficient depth to hide a smallish, flat object. Nothing. Yet a great deal of the bubble wrap seemed to have been pulled out. Had the Snake retrieved the icon in the last day or so? Had he trusted it to be safe for a week before that, sitting in a packing crate in the middle of the room? Knowing, as he must, that the super was not trustworthy? It did not seem like Fotis.
Andreas turned a tight circle in the middle of the room, surveying walls, floor, ceiling in the dying light from the narrow, dust-streaked windows. What else? He explored the small closet containing nothing but wire hangers, testing its walls and floors for hidden panels. He slid painfully to his knees to search beneath the sofa, pulled up the cushions, opened all the cabinets in the tiny kitchenette, feeling more foolish by the moment. The super would expel him in a few minutes. Something was amiss here, something was slightly off, and it would come to him if he had enough time. Chair, coffee table, sofa, closet, paintings.
Paintings. The landscape did not go with the abstracts. That was nothing, Fotis collected both. It was smaller than the other paintings. Smaller, but with a large, deep frame that raised it a few inches from the wall. He stepped onto the sofa, balancing carefully on a spongy cushion, and lifted the painting from its hanger. Then stepped down and flipped it. He had been so certain of success that the empty space in the frame confused him. It was precisely the right size. He could even detect spots where the inside wooden frame had been rubbed against something. It had been here. Or something had been, and what else but the icon?
Andreas rehung the landscape. Tiredness took him and he sat down. He almost felt he could sleep; just put his head back on the striped cushions and fade into oblivion. Another one of Fotis’ abandoned items. Once more, too slow. He would never catch the Snake.
The super spoke to someone in the corridor, and Andreas struggled to his feet again. Quickly, he lifted each of the other canvases a few inches from its perch, just far enough to see that there was nothing behind it, then moved toward the door. It occurred to him at the last moment that he should have defied the super’s instructions and turned the locks.
A youngish, blond man wearing a leather jacket and tinted spectacles entered the apartment, smiling. The same man who had seemed to be following him earlier. And quite likely, Andreas intuited with resigned dread, the Dutchman who had slashed Benny. There was no way out of the place but through him, and the man would be quick.
“Mr. Spyridis, sorry we are late. You have probably examined the place already, but I need to beg your indulgence while we do so again. Turn around, please.”
Andreas easily batted away the hand that reached for his shoulder, but he was too slow to stop the fist that struck his stomach. Not a hard punch, or he would have ended up on the floor, gaping like a caught fish. In fact, the gentleness of the blow was almost an insult, customized as it was for an old man, yet sufficient to send Andreas to his knees, gasping softly. Black patches danced before his eyes while the other man’s expert hands searched him for weapons, finding none.
“We are very confident, I see,” the blond assailant murmured, standing up straight. He pulled Andreas gently to his feet. “Listen, please. It will take nothing for me to harm you. And I know your qualities, so I will be prepared for whatever you do. Sit here and catch your breath.”
It took several moments after he sat down for Andreas to notice that someone else had entered the apartment. A man older than himself, in a heavy coat like his own. Thin lips and protruding blue eyes. It was at moments like this that time became compressed, years fell away like dead skin, age was no more than the wrinkled casings that covered the young men they had been, and in some ways still were. It didn’t matter that he had seen this man only three or four times up close, fifty-six years before. Andreas recognized Müller instantly. The old German stared back at him, expressionless.
“Del Carros,” Andreas said for no reason.
“If you prefer,” the other man responded, in a voice different from the one remembered, in an accent warped by time and travel. “I hope Jan was not too rough with you.”
Andreas thought of saying something snide, but shortness of breath prevented him. He knew that fear would come next, once he got over the shock, but hoped to maintain a clear head and an attitude of calm. He understood that the Dutchman could hurt him easily, and would probably do so eventually. Andreas was afraid, not of the pain, but of shaming himself. Silence was his friend now. He must neither provoke nor cajole, but bide his time and hope for an opportunity.