6 - The Eye of the Virgin: Ike Schwartz Mystery 6 Page 9

  “And that is the problem. We get used to things and they gray out in our conscious. We repeat things we no longer understand and then act silly when someone suggests we might want to change them, rearrange them, or whatever. For example, do you see that window in the back corner? Do you know which ‘saint’ is depicted there?”

  “It’s not one, is it? I thought it was a civil war thing.”

  “Precisely. A Civil War thing, The War of Northern Aggression thing, a symbol of a time that came and went. You can plainly see that window carries the image of, you should pardon the expression, our patron ‘saint,’ General Stonewall Jackson. I’m told the donor wanted an equestrian portrait, but the window wasn’t big enough to include the horse. And the good general was a Presbyterian to boot.”

  “Now you’re being silly. It’s because when this church was built, loyalties and memories were still strong. And people are accustomed to stained glass. We only notice it if it’s missing.”

  “And thereby you make my point. The benefit of having a congregation surrounded by the heavenly host is lost. If I intrude on their Protestant sensibilities with pictures, front and center, of two of the three central figures in the Christian story, perhaps they will focus on the purpose of their attendance for a change.”

  “You sound annoyed. What’s happened? Something go wrong at the vestry meeting last night? You were late coming to bed.” She blushed. Mary was famous for her blushes and the thought of bed, and the two of them in it together, was sufficient to produce one. He smiled.

  “Did you know you snore?”

  “I don’t. How can you say that?”

  He bent down and kissed her forehead. “It’s a very sweet snore, more a whisper, a promise of things to come, or erotic dreams.”

  She smacked him on the shoulder. “Keep that up and you’re in the guest room.”

  “Ouch.”

  “That didn’t hurt”

  “It might have. You don’t know your own strength. Okay. Icons are out of the ordinary for us in the Valley, foreign even, so we can’t impose them on the folks. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. I began this journey as a Methodist. We sometimes have problems with vestments and collars. But I asked you about the vestry meeting. Did something happen?”

  “Some people are unhappy, I guess. It is the nature of churches in general. There are always people who don’t like something you do, or something you don’t do. If you change one bit of the routine, people get unhappy. If you don’t change it and people are aware of new things in other churches, they are unhappy. People come and go. You know the axiom of the clergyman’s life? Put new ones in as fast as the old ones leave.”

  “Now you’re being cynical.”

  “Maybe, but there is truth in it. The fact is, if you are a clergyman or clergywoman and popularity is your goal, you will be perpetually disappointed or cease to be clergy. I know some of my colleagues work their congregations like they’re contestants on American Idol…if you loved the sermon, call 888-GOTTALUVIT, or text YOUDAMAN.”

  “As I said, cynical. Come on, Blake, it’s me you’re talking to here…so where would you get the second icon?”

  “You think I should?”

  “I didn’t say that. I wondered, if you decide to do it, where would you find one?”

  “There is an iconographer up at the college, I mean the university. He’s an adjunct faculty member. He came to church Sunday; do you remember?”

  “The man with the sad eyes, moustache and longish hair?”

  “Yes. His name is Dakis, and he paints the things. I talked to him, and he said he could do one for us. Not big, like I said, you know, about the same size as the Jesus. Placed correctly, they would force your eyes forward front and center toward the altar.”

  “Ah ha, you brought this up at your vestry meeting and were met with something less than an enthusiastic reception.”

  “I mentioned it.”

  “And they said?”

  “Pretty much what you said, ‘Never been done. Not a Protestant thing,’ et cetera. You know, the first icons I ever saw close up were at Tabka in Israel, where the miracle of the loaves and fishes is memorialized up in the Galilee. It’s a Lutheran church, by the way. It was quite effective.”

  “But the vestry wasn’t impressed. We’re not Lutherans and we’re not Greek. We don’t need that stuff in our church. Right?”

  “Almost. They weren’t bubbling over, but they said they were not against it either.”

  “But what they didn’t know, and what you didn’t tell them, you already ordered the second icon.”

  Blake shuffled his feet. “Yes, sort of.”

  “Sort of? Did you or didn’t you?”

  “I did. I thought I’d try. If there is too much flak after a month or so, I’ll take them down and hang them up in my office instead. So no permanent damage…”

  Mary touched his arm and smiled. “Do you think it will help?”

  He grinned back. “Probably not, but it will give me something to work with. Icons have a wonderful effect on people over time. I don’t know what it is, but you cannot stare at one for any length of time and not be drawn out of yourself and into another place.”

  “Then you should do it. But no incense. It makes me sneeze.”

  “Right, no incense. Yet.”

  She bopped him on the shoulder again.

  ***

  Louis Dakis placed a second gessoed board next to the first. He’d had few commissions in the last several months and now two in a row. One for the sheriff—God only knows what a Jewish sheriff—he guessed Schwartz was Jewish—wanted with an icon of the Virgin Mary, and a close copy at that. There was no accounting for taste. Some of the best icons were to be found in Israel, part of the post-World War II Russian Diaspora.

  The Episcopal priest’s interest he could understand. In fact, that was the reason he’d dropped in on the Episcopal Church with the bizarre name in the first place. What kind of church is named Stonewall Jackson Memorial? Icons were a fairly steady market for him among the clergy of the traditional denominations in and around the Washington area. Something about increasing interest in form over substance, perhaps. He supposed it represented the logical product of the labyrinthine thinking that characterized so many postmodern clerics.

  It didn’t matter to him. Money was money.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Meetings like this one could be dangerous, he reminded himself, especially when someone else controlled the set-up. He had a firm rule to never let that happen, and now he’d broken it big time. He felt on edge. The man who, at the moment, called himself Avi Kolb drove slowly through Rock Creek Park, looking for the pull-off he’d been told to take. He glided around one of the many curves that characterized the parkway and spotted the fire-blistered trash container emblazoned with “The King Lives.” Elvis or Michael? Not that he cared. He pulled in and parked next to the can.

  His training required that he wait a moment. Listening, watching. Nothing. He still didn’t like it. But he had no reason to question his sources. It had sounded real enough, certainly worth a shot, and this needed follow-up. He stepped out and made a three-sixty surveil of the area. To his right, a small path left the parking area on its northern verge and disappeared first into some shrubbery and then into the trees. His instructions were to walk in fifty yards, wait until he heard his horn sound, and return. The information he needed would be on the floor of his car.

  He didn’t like it. His preferred meeting places that were in the open, in public, busy Metro stations, restaurants, and food courts. Sit on a bench, pass the envelope, and leave. Nothing simpler. Alone and isolated like this begged for trouble. Maybe he should have taken a pass, set up the meet somewhere else, sometime later, somewhere he could manage. Have some backup, perhaps. Too late to second-guess now.

  He took a breath and spun slowly around a second time. Still nothing. He walked away
from the unlocked car and picked his way down the path, avoiding the brambles that clutched at his slacks. They were new; a present from his fiancée, if that was what she was. He wasn’t sure if the word meant anything anymore.

  When he estimated he’d gone fifty yards, he stopped, glanced at his watch, and thought to light a cigarette. Then he remembered, he’d promised Marti he would quit and as a token had thrown away a half-full pack the night before. A gaudy gesture but a serious mistake. It was times like these when he needed a smoke. He puffed up his cheeks and listened.

  Years before, he might have sneaked back to a point where he could watch the car and get a glimpse of his informant. He’d learned the hard way not to do that. Now, he waited, uncertain, glancing at his watch, and fidgeting, as only a reformed smoker with second thoughts would. When he heard the horn’s bleat, he sighed, glanced once more at the lush stand of hardwoods around him, and made his way back. He would buy cigarettes on his way home. Quitting would be something he’d undertake later; maybe when he took some leave time, he would do it then. He was due for a time-out. He heard the unmistakable racket of an old VW Beetle with a bad muffler moving away, south. Who drove old VW Beetles anymore? Superannuated hippies, Mexicans? No one he knew. He climbed the embankment up onto the parking pad and walked to his car.

  Once behind the wheel, he fished the plain manila envelope off the floor. He inspected the outside. No clue there. He fished around in the ash tray and found a bent, but still smokable cigarette butt. He rolled down the window next to him, lit the stub, fought the momentary guilt the smoke brought, and slit the bulky envelope open with his thumbnail. A blue jay squalled its rusty pump-handle call somewhere off in the woods. Another joined it.

  He removed a loose batch of mismatched papers, most poorly reproduced, and scanned them, looking for the first clue as to whether or not he had wasted an hour of his time on a meaningless meet. The blue jays switched to a louder and simpler call racketing “jay, jay, jay” back and forth across the forest floor.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God!” he murmured as he reread the words he could make out, this time carefully. His Arabic was not what it should be, his Hebrew slightly better, French nonexistent. He flipped through the dozen or so pages and studied a series of blurred snapshots. This was supposed to be what he had been searching for, what he’d been tasked to find, and would have had if he hadn’t gotten the impression that those two morons had tumbled to him. And then they had to go and shoot Zaki on top of that. No chance to get any closer then. Idiots. Had they retrieved the electronic bit of business on the damned picture, it might have opened a door or two, gotten him closer, and all this would have been unnecessary. He’d been so close and now this falls into his lap.

  He stared out through the windscreen at the trees. Something was wrong with this set-up. Too easy. Somebody’s razor—the easy answer is always the best one? Maybe, maybe not. He shuffled through the papers again. Something not right. Almost but…too easy. The blue jays screamed louder and closer. Their raucous, insistent calling resonated with his growing panic. No doubt about it now, he’d made a mistake. A rookie mistake. He’d sensed it the moment he’d opened the packet. He wanted it to be right. He wanted to end this assignment. So many false leads and now this. Too easy. Too eager. The thought of having closure finally, of shutting down the operation, of slamming the door, as his control had put it, had made him careless.

  He tossed the cigarette stub out the window and scrabbled for the car keys. He dropped them, retrieved them, and stabbed at the ignition. On the third try, he got the key in the slot and started the engine. He stuffed the papers clumsily back into the envelope, shoved it aside, and reached for the gearshift.

  He heard the gun being cocked, but didn’t bother to turn to see who held it. He knew. He’d seen his picture among the several he’d scanned, standing in a group, assault rifles slung rakishly across their chests, grinning, and a Hummer burning in the background. It was a familiar face. A face he knew. It should have been a trusted face. He suddenly felt very sad and at the same time very betrayed.

  The shot rang hollowly through the trees, the sound muffled by the shrubbery. The blue jays, their warnings unheeded, flew down the valley in a cacophony of “I told you so’s.”

  Avi Kolb had been born Thomas Wainwright in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, thirty-five years before. He attended parochial school, lettered in football, basketball, and baseball in High School. His year book said he’d been voted “Most Likely to Succeed” and, oddly, “Best Kisser.” His life ended before the first could be established, and he was a very private person, so there was no data on the second.

  He toppled over on the seat and settled in the spreading stain his blood and brains made on the upholstery. The envelope was gently removed; the still warm .45 caliber pistol placed in his hand.

  The park police found his body an hour later and reported an apparent suicide.

  The jays had returned and were quiet.

  ***

  “Excuse me, Ike, I have to take this. Charlie flipped open his cell phone and listened. It was a short message. He closed the phone without speaking. Ike watched him out of the corner of his eye. He wheeled the car through the gates that formed the entrance to Callend University, its newly gilded sign in place. He recognized the look on Charlie’s face.

  “Bad news,” he said. It was not a question. Charlie nodded. Ike drove on. Asking would not be appropriate nor would it help. If Charlie had something to say, he would say it. Otherwise, Ike knew from past experience, that when a cold wind blew out of Langley, it was not a time for either jollification or idle curiosity. The CIA was full of secrets and private disasters. Maintaining one’s ignorance of them he considered to be a blessing, a mitzvah.

  “This place looks like a movie set, Ike.”

  Ike nodded. “There was some talk last year about shooting one here. Someone wanted to make a for-TV film or documentary, I never knew which, about the robbery we had back then.”

  “I remember. We recruited Harry Grafton after that. I take it they didn’t. Make the movie, I mean.”

  “No. Apparently that’s the way the industry works. Many more treatments than projects.”

  “Did you ever run across Tommy Wainwright back when you were with us?”

  “No, can’t say that I did. Should I have?”

  “I guess not. After your time. Worked the Near East section—Israel. We pulled him in last year and then the director tasked him to…Homeland Security.”

  Ike waited. Charlie had hesitated a millisecond before he’d said Homeland Security. So, if not there, where? Did Ike care? No, by God, he didn’t

  “Here we are. I can’t wait to meet the fabulous Doctor Harris.”

  “What about Tommy Wainwright?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Agnes, all agog, ushered Charlie and Ike into Ruth’s office. She’d been told that Ike’s friend was from the CIA. With visions of Matt Damon as Jason Bourne in mind, she’d met them in the lobby. She’d looked over Ike’s shoulder expectantly and seeing no one else, swung her gaze back to Charlie. She hid her disappointment well, Ike thought. Charlie’s presence was entirely and self-consciously forgettable. He worked at it.

  “So, this is the Charles Garland who routinely corrupts our local sheriff. How do you do,” Ruth said, and extended her hand.

  “I corrupt no one. I am a man in whom you will find no guile.”

  “Quoting the Bible will not score points in this venue, Mr. Garland. You are a corrupter of my fiancée and a doer of dark deeds, not Nathaniel.”

  “I am but a humble PR flak who happens to work for the President of the United States.”

  “Hi, how are you, Ruth?” Ike said, and leaned forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. She stepped back and pointed a finger at the two men.

  “Not so fast, Schwartz. Not until you explain why you have brought this figure from the Dark Side to me.”

 
Ike collapsed into one of the crewel-covered side chairs that faced her desk. “Well—”

  “I asked to meet you.” Charlie interrupted. “But to be clear, I am in this delightful town at Ike’s invitation. He needs me.”

  “Bull, Ike rarely needs anybody. Just ask me…that’s not entirely true, though. Sometimes he requires my presence, and I his. But that’s pretty much it.”

  “Nevertheless, he called; I came. Veni, vidi, vici, or words to that effect.”

  “Charlie is showing off his classical education. Once a Princeton man, always a Princeton man. Recite one of Shakespeare’s sonnets for Ruth, Charlie. He knows sixteen of them by heart.”

  “They that have power to hurt and will do none…”

  “That’s ninety-four, very impressive. I ask again, why are you here, Willie?”

  “The wench doth have wit.”

  “Careful, Charlie, you are mixing it up with a verbal black belt. You can’t win.”

  “Ah, then. We…emphasis on the we…are here because the little break-in on one of your faculty cottages has escalated into something more than a break-in. It is now a subject that interests the government’s intelligence community, you could say.”

  “I wasn’t aware the government possessed intelligence—in community or otherwise.”

  “Um, I think we have gotten off on the wrong foot here, Ike. I propose we exit, and have Doctor Harris’ delightful secretary, or is it administrative assistant? Whichever, she can usher us in again. We will forego the sonnets, et cetera, and get straight to the point.”

  “Skip it. Just tell me in standard English why are you here?”

  “Let me try, Charlie,” Ike said and waved him into the other chair, the twin of the one in which he sat. “Ruth, Louis Dakis, your adjunct professor or whatever his title is, had in his possession an icon that had a bit of…an anomaly, you could say.”

  Ruth swiveled gently side to side in her chair. “An anomaly? What sort of an anomaly? And why would the intelligence community be interested in it?”