forgive, but requiring something of you first. Matthew held the gaze as long as he could and then had to look away.
“Are you OK?” She spoke softly behind him.
“Yes.”
“They get to you, don’t they? The eyes. I can never look at them for long.”
“They’re very expressive.”
“A little frightening, I think. Beautiful, but judgmental. The way religion feels when you’re young.”
“I suppose religion was a much more primal experience when this was painted.”
“I think of all those Renaissance masterpieces.” She was beside him now, speaking quietly, almost into his ear. “Aesthetically, they’re flawless. Mary is always serene. Yet there’s something so much more powerful, or vital, about this. She looks menacing. Godly. Not that Mary is a god, technically.”
“To the Greeks she is.”
“I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I’d blame the coffee, but the truth is I get nervous standing here.”
“Guilty conscience?”
“Could be. I just find the work very unsettling. My grandfather could sit in front of it for hours, I don’t know how.” He felt her breath on his neck as she exhaled deeply, calming herself. “He died in here, actually.”
“Really.”
“Simultaneous heart attack and stroke. Diana, his nurse, found him just exactly where you’re standing.”
He resisted the impulse to move.
“No wonder it bothers you.”
“So is it good work, Matthew?” she asked.
“It’s a shame about the damage, though it only seems to add to the mystique. I’d say it’s excellent work, and very old. Possibly pre-iconoclastic, which would make it quite rare. I’ll know better when I look at it more closely.”
“I guess we should take it off the wall.”
“I’ll do it, if you like. I’m experienced at handling these things.”
She pulled her hair back with both hands and nodded.
“It probably violates the insurance policy, but I would prefer that. We just need to turn off the alarm.”
“How do we do that?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Come help me figure it out.”
Andreas had left a message for Morrison in Washington the night before, and the agency man had called him back at the hotel the next morning.
“What brings you to the States, my friend?”
“My son is ill.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
No doubt he was, but the tone of voice made it clear that he had more pressing business than chatting with a retired Greek operative. Andreas could picture the man, trim, regulation hair and that shifting, nervous gaze, determined to miss nothing while missing everything. Impatience. That was the reason, despite all its resources, that American intelligence was always getting things wrong. They were good at reading satellite photos, but not at reading faces. They could not gauge the mood of a people, or even a single man.
“I have a request,” Andreas continued. “It is a rather delicate matter.”
“I’m sure this line is secure.”
“I would prefer to meet. I believe you are here in New York?”
“Why do you say that?’
“A guess.” One had to become good at guessing when one had no resources. “You often come here. Besides, there are no secure lines in Washington.”
Morrison laughed. “Probably true. OK, but it has to be brief, and it has to be soon. Like right now, this morning.”
“That suits me well.”
Morrison chose a generic coffee shop near Herald Square, the kind of place he always preferred. The man had an encyclopedic knowledge of every faceless, tasteless eatery in every northeastern American city. Morrison’s predecessor, Bill Barber, had taken Andreas to wonderful restaurants where they ate, drank, told stories, and traded information almost incidentally, as if none of it were about business. But Barber hadn’t been much for protocol, and Andreas had been useful then.
He arrived early and chose a booth in back, too near the hot, musty stink of the deep-fryer. Morrison arrived a few minutes later in his trademark blue suit and gray raincoat,
“Are you OK?” She spoke softly behind him.
“Yes.”
“They get to you, don’t they? The eyes. I can never look at them for long.”
“They’re very expressive.”
“A little frightening, I think. Beautiful, but judgmental. The way religion feels when you’re young.”
“I suppose religion was a much more primal experience when this was painted.”
“I think of all those Renaissance masterpieces.” She was beside him now, speaking quietly, almost into his ear. “Aesthetically, they’re flawless. Mary is always serene. Yet there’s something so much more powerful, or vital, about this. She looks menacing. Godly. Not that Mary is a god, technically.”
“To the Greeks she is.”
“I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I’d blame the coffee, but the truth is I get nervous standing here.”
“Guilty conscience?”
“Could be. I just find the work very unsettling. My grandfather could sit in front of it for hours, I don’t know how.” He felt her breath on his neck as she exhaled deeply, calming herself. “He died in here, actually.”
“Really.”
“Simultaneous heart attack and stroke. Diana, his nurse, found him just exactly where you’re standing.”
He resisted the impulse to move.
“No wonder it bothers you.”
“So is it good work, Matthew?” she asked.
“It’s a shame about the damage, though it only seems to add to the mystique. I’d say it’s excellent work, and very old. Possibly pre-iconoclastic, which would make it quite rare. I’ll know better when I look at it more closely.”
“I guess we should take it off the wall.”
“I’ll do it, if you like. I’m experienced at handling these things.”
She pulled her hair back with both hands and nodded.
“It probably violates the insurance policy, but I would prefer that. We just need to turn off the alarm.”
“How do we do that?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Come help me figure it out.”
Andreas had left a message for Morrison in Washington the night before, and the agency man had called him back at the hotel the next morning.
“What brings you to the States, my friend?”
“My son is ill.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
No doubt he was, but the tone of voice made it clear that he had more pressing business than chatting with a retired Greek operative. Andreas could picture the man, trim, regulation hair and that shifting, nervous gaze, determined to miss nothing while missing everything. Impatience. That was the reason, despite all its resources, that American intelligence was always getting things wrong. They were good at reading satellite photos, but not at reading faces. They could not gauge the mood of a people, or even a single man.
“I have a request,” Andreas continued. “It is a rather delicate matter.”
“I’m sure this line is secure.”
“I would prefer to meet. I believe you are here in New York?”
“Why do you say that?’
“A guess.” One had to become good at guessing when one had no resources. “You often come here. Besides, there are no secure lines in Washington.”
Morrison laughed. “Probably true. OK, but it has to be brief, and it has to be soon. Like right now, this morning.”
“That suits me well.”
Morrison chose a generic coffee shop near Herald Square, the kind of place he always preferred. The man had an encyclopedic knowledge of every faceless, tasteless eatery in every northeastern American city. Morrison’s predecessor, Bill Barber, had taken Andreas to wonderful restaurants where they ate, drank, told stories, and traded information almost incidentally, as if none of it were about business. But Barber hadn’t been much for protocol, and Andreas had been useful then.
He arrived early and chose a booth in back, too near the hot, musty stink of the deep-fryer. Morrison arrived a few minutes later in his trademark blue suit and gray raincoat,
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