“He has spoken to me of you. You are one of the lost ones. Your sins are deep, but in Jesus all things are possible. Repent, and be one with the Lord.”

Several silver cars swept by, scratched windows, fluorescent light, very few people in the orange seats. The train slowed and Matthew’s eyes locked with those of a figure, or maybe a face only in a door window, quickly gone. Wide eyes of the deepest brown, alarmed or saddened, half the face discolored. There and gone in a moment, but Matthew’s body was electrified to his fingertips. He had seen that face before, those eyes. In a dream, perhaps.

The train stopped and a door opened before him. He stepped through but did not sit, looking back at the platform. The homeless giant was still by the bench, no longer looking at Matthew, muttering once more. Somehow his familiar insanity seemed less threatening than the face in the window, and Matthew had nearly decided to step off again when the doors closed and the train lurched forward. He grabbed a pole to avoid falling.

There was nobody in the car, and there were only two old women in the one ahead. Matthew held the steel pole fiercely, gazing down a vanishing series of windows in the doors connecting the cars, waiting for the specter to reappear. Or some new threat. He regretted all of it now-every incident and decision that had drawn him deeper into this bloodstained chase and further from his dull, comfortable life. Let him go back to worrying about staff politics, or some troubled girlfriend. He could not take this enervating obsession, this fear, this miserable paranoia. Nothing had happened. He had, perhaps, seen a face. He had been harassed by a homeless man. So what? Every encounter had become heavy with hidden meaning.

A few others got off with him at Seventy-seventh Street. Matthew rushed up the stairs and into the streetlit night as if pursued by demons. Lexington Avenue, lined with florists, coffee shops, and copiers, was dead at one o’clock in the morning. A banging grate beneath his feet startled him; a cab turning onto Eightieth Street nearly ran him down. The empty side streets were worse. It had been a warm day, but he felt chilled. Perhaps he was sick. Restaurants and twenty-four-hour delis created more human traffic on Second Avenue, and he relaxed somewhat. Entering his building, he dropped his keys on the black-and-white tiles, picked them up quickly and dropped them again, cursing loudly in the echoing stairwell. Waking the neighbors, if any of them were home. He barely knew the other people in the building. There was no one here he would go to for help.

Two flights up, he turned both locks and stepped into his cramped kitchen. It took him several seconds to realize that something was wrong. There were lights on. Then he heard movement somewhere, the quietest shuffle of feet, a creaking floorboard. He was looking about for something to use as a weapon when she called to him.

“Matthew.”

Ana appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking the way he felt. Her hair was wild, dark shadows hung under her eyes, her clothes appeared slept in. He thought she looked beautiful.

“How did you get in?”

“Benny let me in.”

“Benny.”

“Ezraki. Don’t tell me that you don’t know Benny.”

The name came back to him. An Israeli friend of his grandfather, did marketing research or something. Ex-Mossad, as if any of them were really ex-anything.

“Yeah, I know him. But I never gave him my keys.”

“He’s got this big set of skeleton keys, says he can open eighty percent of the ordinary locks in the city.”

“That’s comforting. Why did he bring you here?”

“I got myself into some trouble.” She tried to sound flip, but her voice broke. “He didn’t think I should go back to my place right away.”

Matthew turned swiftly to bolt the useless locks, and turned back just as she rushed into him, knocking her forehead against his chin.

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK.”

He held her for several minutes, arms wrapped tightly, fingers digging into her ribs. Strange to feel such comfort, to be able to give such comfort in the midst of such distress. He had not expected to hold her again. His mind had been packed with all the explanations, justifications, pleas with which he might win back her trust, all of them insufficient and unconvincing even to his own ears. Yet here she was. No explanations, no excuses. Warm breath on his neck, the aloe scent of her shampoo.

“I feel so stupid,” she said into his collar. “And frightened.”

“Tell me what happened.”

She released him slowly, sat down at the little kitchen table. He boiled water for tea they would not drink while she told him of Rosenthal, del Carros, and the encounter at the cathedral. By the time he told her of his misadventures in Greece it was three o’clock in the morning. He held her hands across the table, shaking from fatigue.

“I can’t believe you went hunting for that guy after the speech you gave me last week.”

“I assumed he was just some old collector,” she answered. “It didn’t seem dangerous. I thought I might learn a few things.”

“You did that, all right,” he laughed.

“Well, I was told some things, anyway. You have to consider the source. Then I had to open my big mouth, pretend to know secrets. I wonder if they’ll come looking for me.”

“I doubt it. Now that they know people are protecting you.”

“Maybe they believe I know where the icon is.”

“What does Benny think?”

“What you said. They were willing to grab me while they had the chance, but they won’t try again. They just want the icon. I can’t get that fucking thing out of my life even when I give it away.”

That’s because you let me into your life, he almost answered, but thought better of it. They were silent for some moments.

“So they’re gone, right?” Ana spoke again. “The icon, and your godfather.”

“It looks that way. Actually, I have a wild guess where he is.”

“Really, where? No, don’t tell me.”

“I have no intention of telling you. In fact, I’m trying hard to let all this go.”

She squeezed his hands firmly.

“That’s exactly what we need to do.”

“I’m so tired.”

“You should sleep. I can go now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m sure it’s safe. You need time to get your head together.”

“You’re not going anywhere. You are not leaving my sight.”

“OK.” She smiled at him. “But I’m not sure I can sleep. I’m afraid I’ll have nightmares of people chasing me.”

“I felt like someone was chasing me tonight.”

“When?”

“Earlier. In the subway, all the way home. Don’t worry, it wasn’t anyone. Just paranoia, but it really felt like someone, or something, was after me.”

“This thing is eating you alive. Please tell me you’ll let it go.”

“I will,” he said, in a tone that sounded convincing even to himself. “I have to, I’m not cut out for this.”

She came around the table and held him again. “Promise me.”

“I promise myself. I want out.” He closed his eyes. “I just pray that they leave us alone.”

“It could have been him. It could very well have been him.”

They had retreated from the coffee shop to the car so that Benny could smoke. In any case, it afforded a better view of Matthew’s street. Neither the boy nor Ana had emerged yet, which Andreas took as a likely sign of reconciliation.

“But you can’t be sure,” said Andreas.

“How can I be sure?” Benny slammed his door and lit up immediately. A heavy white bandage covered his left forearm and made some actions clumsy. “I’ve never seen him, just photographs. All old men look alike.”

“So what makes you think it might be him?”

“The face was close enough. And he would have someone like that Dutchman around him. Why does a simple collector need someone like that?”

“He is no simple collector. A dangerous man, certainly. That doesn’t mean he’s Müller.”