The Icon Read Online Free PDF

the archway.
    Intense, cramping pain in his chest and down his arm collapsed his mental processes for a moment. He either could not see or could not understand what he was seeing, and the small part of his consciousness that was neither afraid nor in pain was able to look on this condition with curiosity. Then something in his head popped and the pain diffused, though his heart still felt like a clenched fist, and his vision was too silky to make out anything. The figure had remained in the doorway, but he had not been able to really see it before his eyes failed. No, be true, he had seen it for a moment. A man, not a woman. Neither his father nor his son, but a young man, lean and bearded, face half discolored, the eyes wide with fear or rapture. Not anger; Kessler did not think it was anger. A man, not a woman. The Son, not the Mother, dear God help him, the heavier judge. He felt his useless torso slumping forward as the figure approached. The stilled terror within him leaped up once more, then was transformed in an instant into something else, a new emotion, hard to encompass. Sadness, perhaps, broad and profound, but that too was transitory, for sadness melted into wonder, wonder into understanding, then all was light.

2
    A ndreas clutched the narrow armrests and prayed for the earth to leap up and catch him. The plane seemed to have dropped out from underneath, sucking his internal organs along with it and leaving the empty shell of his body floating in the ether. Yet when he opened his eyes he found himself intact, still squeezed into the cramped coach seat, the aisle to his right, the fat, constantly shifting businessman to his left. A world of trouble awaited, and he could have used the disconnected hours above the Atlantic to compose his mind, but he had found concentration impossible. It had been years since he’d flown, and he was distressed to learn how fully age had caught up with him. His ears rang, his neck ached, his legs were cold. He could no longer filter distractions. No matter. He would not truly know the situation until he was on the ground, and anyway, he often functioned better on instinct.
    The plane dipped again, and Jamaica Bay loomed up below. Twenty seconds later they touched down at JFK. The businessman smiled at Andreas.
    “Welcome to Gomorrah.”
     
    His suitcase was the first out of the chute—an omen, surely. He retrieved it from the carousel and went to look for Matthew at the arrival area, eyes casually searching every face for potential mischief. Old habits. He had long ago ceased to be worth anyone’s troubling over.
    “Father?”
    He turned, despite his caution; the voice was so clearly directed at him. Three meters distant, a young man, square-faced, powerful. The cheap dress jacket fit awkwardly, and Andreas sensed more than saw a concealed weapon.
    “Andreas Spyridis,” the younger man said, more uncertainly.
    Would it be now? How many moments like this had there been in the last fifty years, when he had to wonder if some old debt had caught up with him? His body tensed but his mind was calm, ready for whatever would happen.
    “I am Spyridis.”
    “Mr. Dragoumis sends me to meet you.”
    Andreas uncoiled partway. He doubted that Fotis would have him shot at the airport.
    “What’s your name?”
    It was always the last question they expected, these couriers. It was important to surprise them, and to show no surprise on your own part. He had not told Dragoumis he was coming, but that was no matter. Fotis simply knew things.
    “Nicholas. I work for Mr. Dragoumis, he waits for you now.” Serviceable English. Neither man was speaking his native tongue, though Andreas could not quite catch the other’s inflection. Not Greek, but a language he knew. “I am to bring you directly. For dinner.”
    “I’m supposed to meet someone.”
    “Mr. Dragoumis has telephoned your grandson. He will also be there.”
    Russian, almost certainly.
    “I see. Well, it seems everything is