“You really believe this?”

“I believe in my own experience. I am not a man given to fanciful thoughts, I assure you. My life has not been an easy one. I have seen much cruelty, and my sins are great. My sins are great,” he said a second time, as if hearing himself for the first time. The hands worked the crumpled hat furiously now. He had lost his way a little. “In some degree this belief is a burden to me, but inescapable. For the brief time that I held the icon, I felt a calm, and a love, that have lived within me always. I long for that feeling again. That is why I made the offer I did.”

He had said more than he intended, that was clear, and a poignancy like truth had infused his words. She believed in his reasons. And yet so much had been left out of the tale.

“Do you know how the icon made its way to my grandfather?”

He smiled sadly.

“You are hungry for the past. Me, for the future. I think it is your turn to speak now.”

He would tell her what she wanted if she could only keep him talking. How much truth did she owe him, after his little unburdening? How much did he already know?

“My grandfather had his own theories about the icon,” she began, for no reason in particular. “He thought it was a lot older than anyone guessed. That it had been made in Constantinople in the fourth or fifth century. Even that St. Helena commissioned it herself.”

“Indeed?”

Ana had expected scorn, or amusement, but in fact her words seemed to unsettle the old man. His watery eyes fixed upon her, no longer shy, and a stillness came over him.

“I suppose that’s ridiculous,” she added quickly. “I mean, all those really old works were destroyed, right? By fire, or the iconoclasts, or the Turks, or somebody.”

“Undoubtedly. But I wonder where he arrived at such a theory. Do you know?”

“Not really. Something he read, I suppose. Maybe something in the work itself.”

“I see.” His body language expressed terrible agitation, though his voice remained calm. “Did he have experts examine the work?”

“Not that I was ever aware of. He was very protective of it. A few friends saw it. It’s possible that one of them was an art historian.”

“But there was no close examination, no testing paint, playing with the frame, and so on.”

“Nothing like that, I’m sure.”

“I am relieved to hear it. You know, those people have no reverence for sacred art. Sometimes they do great damage in the course of examining. Your own expert, Mr. Spear, was also careful with the work, I trust.”

Again, Matthew’s involvement was no secret, yet del Carros’ speaking his name made her uneasy. There was nothing about this encounter, it seemed, that did not make her uneasy.

“He was very gentle. He only looked at it.”

“And what useful analysis did he provide you?”

None of your damn business, she wanted say, but restrained herself. There was more to learn here. Her real annoyance came from not being able to figure out what he was after. She no longer had the icon, so what she might have learned could be of little importance. Unless he felt that certain information held value, or threat, quite apart from ownership.

“Mr. Spear works for the Metropolitan Museum, not for me. He confirmed that the work was old, possibly as old as the St. Catherine’s group. That was about it.”

“Yet he has taken a very personal interest in the work’s recovery, has he not?”

“You would have to speak to him about that.”

“Very well. To the point. Where is the icon now, Ms. Kessler?”

“I never claimed to know exactly where it was.”

“Your educated guess, then. Whatever it was you came here to tell me.”

She stared at the altar, picking through the scattered facts in her brain for an answer that might halfway satisfy him.

“There’s a man named Dragoumis. A businessman, who was the intermediary for the church, or claimed to be.”

“I know who he is.”

“The police think that he might have stolen the icon from himself. The Russian mob was in on it with him. He used the church to get the price down, then had it stolen to avoid turning it over.”

He nodded slowly, but without satisfaction.

“Someone reading the newspapers closely could have discerned that much. Though I thank you for confirming it. Is there anything else?”

“The icon may be in Greece now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why else would Dragoumis have gone there?”

“I can think of a number of reasons. Do I take it, then, that you have no reliable information that the icon is in Greece?”

Ana prided herself on quick thinking. Even now, she could dredge up numerous tidbits of fact to support her assertion, but they would all be known to him, she felt sure. She remained silent. Del Carros nodded again and slumped back in the hard wooden chair, disappointed less with her, it seemed, than with the world in general. They both faced forward. A burly, bearded sightseer entered the chapel from the far door and began carefully examining the altar.

“Tell me, Ms. Kessler,” del Carros said finally, “why your continued interest in the work? You did receive a tidy sum.”

“I’m not interested in it,” she answered.

“I find that hard to believe. Could it be that you have found parting with it more difficult than you expected?”

“You find it hard to believe because you’re obsessed, so you think everyone else must be. It’s a bit egocentric, if you’ll forgive my saying so.” Her words carried more edge than she intended. Must be careful. “I truly don’t care about the icon. I’m only here because I hoped to learn some things about my grandfather. I guess I should have been clearer about that.”

“Then we have both been disappointed,” the old man said, empathetically. “And sadly, I now lack any incentive to speak to you on that subject. Though I could not have told you much in any case. So I must apologize once more for taking you out of your way.”

She was being dismissed. Just like that. As she had been her whole life, whenever she pressed too hard, whenever the questions got sticky. These men. Her father, her grandfather, Wallace, her miserable ex, Paul. Even Matthew. Push them at all and they clammed up, shut down, sent her packing, their precious mysteries preserved.

“I think you’re being a little unfair,” she said, trying to control her anger.

“Oh?” He seemed amused.

“I’ve tried to be straight with you. And you’ve really told me nothing useful. I don’t have the information you want, but I feel that if we shared ideas, we could help each other.”

“So, I am egocentric and unfair.” He was ignoring her overture. “Is there anything else?”

“OK. You’re dishonest.”

“And a liar also.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“And how do you believe that I have been dishonest with you?”

“You tease me with these hints about my grandfather, then tell me that you know nothing. And you left an awful lot out of that story you told.”

“Is that being dishonest? In my business we call that being careful. And you have been careful today also, though you are being rather careless now.”

“When were you in Greece to see the icon?”

“What does it matter?”

“Maybe it was during the war? And maybe you were there without an invitation? And maybe you had more in mind than looking?”

He no longer appeared to be amused, and she knew she had gone too far, knew it even as she was saying it. She was terrible at games. Quick to catch on, but impatient.

“Someone has been telling you stories,” the old man said slowly, studying Ana.

“No. Just some thinking on my own.” Too much thinking was a bad thing, she had heard. Too much talking about what you thought was worse. “Why don’t you set me straight?”

“Tell me what you’ve been told, and I will fill in the details.”

“I haven’t been told anything. That’s the problem, do you see? I’ll just keep getting things wrong until someone tells me the truth. Meantime, God knows what I’ll come up with.”