It was a slow process. There was no longer anyone to help him. Roula had died before he had lost the strength he might have needed from her. It was too hard to think about her with him now, the years of contentment they might have had. And children, which she had desperately wanted, but God had willed otherwise. The young creature who had followed had been less than useless to him; only beautiful, what was that? She had expected to become his wife, but he had sent her away, grateful for the lesson in vanity, not repeating his mistake. His niece belonged to Alekos, who hated him. The men were more dependable, but he had lost them all. Phillip ran the restaurant and kept his distance, as had been arranged between them. Nicholas was in the hospital, the faithless Anton had run. Now Taki was dead, his sister’s only child. He closed his eyes and tried to close his mind to the grief and guilt that rushed in upon him.
This resistance was critical. If he could not stem the tide of regret at once, the past would break over him in an irresistible wave, and all the dead would swirl about him together. Marko, strangled in an alley, staring bulge-eyed from the mortician’s table; Roula coughing up her last bloody breaths; the young priest, burned and bleeding, writhing at his feet in the dark crypt. All of them with some claim upon him. And he, Fotis, old, broken, fearful as a child, damned, and yet still here. Ninety years of life and fighting for more. Ludicrous. Disgusting. He nearly reeled with bottomless self-loathing as he dropped the sweater with which he had been struggling and sat upon the bed once more.
Look to the Mother. That was the only way out of this. That was what all the pain and trouble had been about. He shifted around on the bed, and there she was. The light was not yet strong enough to strike her directly, but it had suffused the room in a warm orange glow that caught the brighter spots on her surface. The gold upper region and the yellowish parts where paint was missing created a contrast by which the maroon robe, the long brown hands, the enormous eyes came into focus. The eyes held the old man in their hypnotic, forgiving caress, and he could not help feeling that even there, where the paint had held, the painter’s hand did not rule. Artifice had been stripped away, and these portals burned directly out of the heart of the wood. Their black depths sounded in a time before the artist’s brief life, in the deep and sacred soul of the original. She was the first, even before the Son. She was the source, the life. Within the wood lay both. Her garments, his blood, her tears.
There was no way that a man could not be made small before this wonder. Fotis welcomed the smallness, his sins shrinking with the insignificance of his life, the lives he had helped, harmed, ended. Dust. A man had to live a very long time to feel it, to understand the lesson as well as he did now, and there was no teaching it to others. It took the transformative power of a sudden, burning clarity, lent by the Lord to the lucky few. Christ loved sinners. So there was yet hope.
Time lost meaning in the face of such contemplation, but a man was still a man, burdened with needs. Hunger brought the Snake back from the garden to the solitary room, now full of mid-morning light. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he forced himself to his feet, tugged on the gray cardigan, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Only after his coffee and oatmeal did he allow himself to consider his position once more. It was not an enviable one. Between the purchase and bribing Tomas, he had spent nearly everything to get the icon. Keeping it, and finding the means to live, would prove challenging. He had some cash, and disguised accounts in three countries. The house had been bought in Phillip’s name, and he had told no one about it, except the boy, apparently. Why had he told him? A need to share his pleasure with someone? A simple slip of age? The reason did not matter, it was done. He had then told Matthew the purchase was off, and the boy didn’t know precisely where the house was, did he? Troubling to be unsure of such details. In any case, Andreas could take what little Matthew knew and discover the rest. Others would be searching, too, even though Fotis’ return to the country had been in secret. The house could not be considered secure. He had already tarried here three days, regathering his strength. A new short-term location must be found, and a long-term location finally decided upon. Someplace warm. Mexico, perhaps.
Fotis peered out the kitchen window at the narrow wooded dell to the east. He had determined weeks before that it provided the best covert approach to the house and had intended to place motion sensors there, but had not seen to it. There was as yet insufficient foliage to provide real cover, but his eyes were not good any longer, and he could certainly miss a man at this distance. A careful soul could reach the house unseen, but could not enter it unheard.
Between the kitchen and rear stairs was the converted pantry, which served as a security room. The house alarm was controlled from here, and it could be set to produce the terrible clamor typical of such devices, or only a low pinging coupled with a flashing light specifying the location of the break, on a panel in this room and another in the master bedroom. It was the second setting Fotis used while in the house. Why disturb the neighbors? Better to surprise uninvited guests. There were also eight video monitors for cameras placed on the house and about the grounds. Too few, but without someone to constantly monitor them, the whole array was useless anyway. He simply had not counted on losing everyone. The pilot, Captain Herakles, could not be bought for such menial work. The young Peugeot driver might have served but could never be trusted, and now rested beneath the Adriatic. That had cost him triple with Herakles. So many complications.
Just before leaving the room, he saw a movement on the monitor covering the gate. A dark sedan rolled between the big stone pillars and proceeded slowly up the drive. Fotis watched unblinking as the car slipped from the first screen to reappear moments later on the monitor near the front door. It looked to be the same car he’d seen Matthew driving twice before. Who else among those who sought him would be trusting enough to come straight up the driveway? Unless it was a diversion. Scanning all the monitors now, mind utterly clear, Fotis crouched to unlock a short gray filing cabinet and took a pouch from the bottom. Inside was a small black pistol, an old Walther from a friend in MI6. Still operational as of a few months ago, and the right size and weight for his shaky hand. He snapped in a loaded clip and put a second in his cardigan pocket. For the moment, he did not brood over the pointlessness of a fight. He was unlikely to win, and even if he did, he would have to face the authorities. Still, he was a lucky man, and with survival came possibilities. He would fight for his prize.
The screens revealed no other activity. Nothing in the woods. No one on the little hillock behind the house. The car sat silently for a full minute before the driver’s door opened and Matthew stepped out. Damn him, why had he come? Who was in the car with him? Surely not Andreas, who would never allow such a foolish approach. His godson headed for the front door, and Fotis forced down a rising panic. Why Matthew? And then again, who more likely? He desperately did not want to hurt the boy, but who knew what larger game was playing out here? He could simply refuse to answer the door. Would the young man try to force it? Could Fotis let Matthew walk away, having found the place? He fingered the smooth jade beads in his pocket. Instinct spoke. He deactivated the front door alarm. Then, without a plan, he went to face his godson.
The smile on his godfather’s face was a surprise, but Matthew realized that it should not have been. Any reaction contrary to expectation was precisely what should be expected of the Snake. The smile did not disguise the fatigue and worry around the mouth and eyes, the enervating agitation that seemed to bend his whole form. Illness, or the demands of this lousy business, was clearly killing Fotis.