Free The Icon by Neil Olson

file, when I could get no help from you people at the time.”
    “Resources were thin. He was small-time, a major or a colonel, I think. Not even a general, let alone some architect of the Reich. You needed the Israelis.”
    “He was small-time for them, also. They did give me a few leads in the end. That was how I found the house.”
    “But the Argentineans intercepted you.”
    “As soon as I stepped off the bus in a nearby village. They knew exactly who I was. They were polite, said that there had been a development which would please me. Took me up the hill to the house. Showed me the grave.”
    “It does sound awfully tidy.”
    “Will you help me, Robert?”
    Morrison stuck a fork into the hefty pile of eggs just placed before him. Then paused, looking perplexed, or perhaps nauseated.
    “It’s sticky.”
    “Send it back.”
    “The situation is sticky. If there was some reason we didn’t help you back then, I don’t know what it was, and I don’t feel like blundering into it now.”
    “All these years later, what can it matter? Indulge an old man.”
    “There’s no upside to this. If he’s dead, I’ve wasted my time. If he’s alive, and I put you on to him, things could get ugly. I can’t have you terminating this guy on American soil.”
    “Who said anything about that?”
    “Isn’t that what you were aiming for back then? Why else do you want to find him?”
    “I have questions. More important, I must keep an eye on him to protect others.”
    “You think he means to try something? I’ve got to know about that if you do.”
    “I have no idea what he intends. Understand, Robert,” and Andreas leaned across the chipped Formica, fixing the other man in his unblinking gaze, “all you can tell me is that he entered the country. I will still have to find him, which will likely prove impossible, but at least I will be on my guard. You will be protecting me with this information. Do you see?”
    “I see that you’re a smooth-talking old bastard.”
    “Have me watched.”
    “Can’t afford that.”
    Andreas reached into his coat and removed a slip of paper, which he placed on the table. Morrison studied it a moment, chewing his toast.
    “The aliases?”
    “As many as I know of.”
    “He could have come up with twenty more in the last thirty years.”
    “True. But without someone hunting him, I doubt he would bother. It’s troublesome work, creating identities. Anyway, at least one of these was used within the last ten years, in eastern Europe. I’ve marked it. Of course, it may not have been him.”
    This was becoming too much information for the agency man, who had come to the great metropolis with other priorities and now shifted restlessly in his seat. Andreas was content. It was best that the tired bureaucrat remember as little of this conversation as possible.
    “If I pick this up,” said Morrison, nodding at the paper, “it doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything. I may do the search and still decide to do nothing. You might not hear from me.”
    “I understand.”
    The younger man sighed and slipped his wallet from his suit jacket, sliding out a twenty as he slid the white scrap of paper in.
    “Unless this guy is on a watch list, it’s very unlikely I’ll find him. Don’t call me about this. I’ll call your hotel if I have anything to report.”
    “You never let me pay.”
    “It’s my country. You can buy me dinner in Athens.”
    “You always say that, but you never come.”
    “One of these days.”

5
    F otis was on his usual bench, turned three-quarters from the sun, gray overcoat and fedora, white mustache like a beacon. Bright pink patches stood out on his prominent cheekbones, and he stared distractedly into space while feeding bits of soft pretzel to a flock of pigeons at his feet. Fotis occupied such a powerful place in his imagination that Matthew was constantly surprised to see what an old and delicate-looking man his godfather had become. And why not? He was