by Alan Furst
“Hotel operator, Mont Blanc. Your call is reconnected, one mo—…”
The static was worse on the new connection. Emilia Krebs shouted, “Hello? Herr Zannis?”
“Listen to me.” Zannis’s voice was loud and urgent and he spoke quickly. “I don’t know where these people are, they haven’t contacted me, but if they do, I’ll send you a postal card. It won’t say anything special, simply a greeting from abroad.”
“Meaning they’ve arrived safely.”
“That’s it. Now, if you want to write to me, just buy Panadon tablets, the aspirin. Are they available in Berlin?”
“Yes.”
“Melt them in cold water, then write with the water between the lines of a letter and, if you get a letter from Greece, iron it, not too hot, the writing will appear.”
“How ma—…” Again, the line went dead.
It came back a few seconds later. Zannis said, “Hello?” and started to speak, but, after a click, a new connection. Now the voice of a woman, some operator in some country, spoke angrily in a language Zannis couldn’t identify, and then, with another click, the connection was cut off. He waited at the desk until ten-thirty, staring at the telephone, but it was silent.
He would never hear from the sisters, he was almost certain of that. Evidently they’d set out from Berlin, some days earlier, trying to make their way to Salonika, where Zannis could help them get to Turkey, or Palestine, or wherever they could manage to slip over a border. Slip over, or bribe their way over, because as Jews in flight they were welcome nowhere in the world. Nowhere. Not one single country. And now, not as adept and forceful as their friend in Berlin, they had vanished. Well, lately people did. And they were never heard of again.
Back in his apartment, Zannis couldn’t sleep. He was exhausted, had expected to be dead to the world the instant his head hit the pillow, but he’d been wrong. He tossed and turned, his mind racing. What had happened to him at the banker’s villa—that tight band across the chest? He’d always been healthy, he had to be, there was no choice. Now what? Or maybe it was just nerves, which was, he thought, maybe even worse. But it had reached him, he had to admit that, the almost certain knowledge that invasion was imminent. This banker was a certain type of man, a type Zannis knew well. He had friends who knew things, and you couldn’t plan an invasion—recall soldiers from leave, resupply your army with ammunition, medical stores, and everything else—without people finding out about it. So the banker fled, and fled in a hurry—grabbed all the money he could and ran. Sauve qui peut! Run for your life! Write a note to the maids, do something about the dog, lock up the house, and go. Poor dog. They were, the dogs, considered special spirits in Greece: faithful friends, fearless guardians. I’m sure I was right about the dog, Zannis thought, flipping his pillow over. The maids, the “good girls,” would take care of it.
And they were special spirits, faithful guardians.
Thus it was Melissa who figured it out, sensed it, before he did. Zannis must have dozed because, just after dawn, she growled, a subdued, speculative sort of growl—what’s this? And Zannis woke up.
“Melissa? What goes on?”
She stood at the window, out there, turned her head and stared at him as he unwound himself from the snarled bedding. What had caught her attention, he realized, were voices, coming from below, on Santaroza Lane. Agitated, fearful voices. Somebody across the street had a window open and a radio on. It wasn’t music—Zannis couldn’t make out the words but he could hear the tone of voice, pitched low and grim.
He opened the window. One of the ladies who sat in a kitchen chair on sunny days was standing in the street, her black shawl pulled tight around her head and shoulders, gesticulating with her hands as she talked to a neighbor.
Zannis leaned out the window, called her by name, and said, “What’s going on?”
She looked up at him. “The Italians,” she said. “They’ve invaded us.”
Poor Mussolini.
Such a puffed-up, strutting horse’s ass. Not a man to be ignored, the way he saw it. And surely he had been ignored. Left standing there, shouting slogans from the balcony, thrusting his chubby fist in the air, while that sneaky Hitler conquered the world. Took Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Norway, and Denmark. Now that was an empire!
And Mussolini? And his new Roman Empire? What glory had it won? Not much. Occupied Albania, publicly scorned as “a handful of rocks.” And Ethiopia. What would you call that, a handful of mud? And Libya, a handful of sand? And oh yes, not to forget that when Hitler invaded France, Mussolini rushed in ten days later and took … Nice! So now the doorman at the Negresco would have to bow down to the might of Rome.
Ha-ha!
Said the world. But the worst thing you can do to a dictator is laugh at him—that’s contempt, not awe, and it made Mussolini mad. Well, he’d show the world, he’d take Greece. So there, still laughing? And he didn’t tell Hitler about it, he didn’t ask permission, he just went ahead and did it. And when Hitler heard the news, as dawn broke on the twenty-eighth of October, he was reportedly enraged. Known to be a teppichfresser, a carpet chewer, he’d likely gone down on his knees, once he was alone, and given his favorite rug a good thorough grinding.
Zannis got the details on his way to work, from headlines on the newspaper kiosks, from the newspaper he bought—which he read while walking—and from people in the street. Greece was at war, everybody was talking to everybody, there were no strangers that day. Least of all the soldiers, reservists called to duty, hundreds of them, many accompanied by wives and children so they could say good-bye at the railway station. And not a soul abroad that morning didn’t stop to wish them well.
“Be careful, my child.”
“Remember, keep your head down!”
“You give them a good kick in the ass for me, and don’t forget!”
“So maybe you need a little extra money? A few drachmas?”
“Here, have a cigarette. I see you’re smoking, take it anyhow, for later.”
“Good luck, take care of yourself.”
This from Zannis, looking up from his newspaper. He might well be joining them, he thought, before the day was done. In 1934, when he’d become a detective, he had automatically been assigned to a General Staff reserve unit in Salonika. If Greece went to war, the army could call up however many detective-grade officers it required because, in a small country, every male below the age of sixty had to be available to serve.
According to the paper, there had been a grand dinner party the night before, in Athens. Count Grazzi, the Italian ambassador, had invited the most important people in the city, including General Metaxas. Seated beneath the crossed flags of Italy and Greece, the guests drank “to our eternal friendship for Greece,” Count Grazzi himself having stood to propose the toast. Eventually, they all went home. But then, at three in the morning, Grazzi was driven to the home of General Metaxas, who came to the door in his dressing gown. Grazzi presented an ultimatum: Let our army march into your country and occupy the cities. Metaxas’s answer wasn’t complicated; it could be seen at the top of every front page of every newspaper.
“No.”
When Zannis opened the office door, he saw that Sibylla was knitting. She worked feverishly; hands moving quickly, needles clicking, a ball of gray wool in her lap. “By the time I got to the store,” she said, “and they had it open at six-thirty, all the khaki was gone. Imagine that! Not yet seven-thirty when I got there, and all the khaki wool bought up.”
“What will it be?”
“A sweater. One has a choice, sweater or socks, but I’m good at it, so I decided to make sweaters.”
All over the country, women were knitting warm clothes for the Greek boys who would be fighting in the cold mountains. A poor country, less than eight million in population, they had to improvise. So Sibylla’s fingers flew and, when the phone rang, she propped the receiver between chin and shoulder and never dropped a stitch. Producing,
Zannis thought, a rather curious juxtaposition. “And what time did you say he was murdered?” Click, click.
Zannis tried to telephone Vangelis but the line was busy, so he looked over at Saltiel and said, “What about you, Gabi? Are you leaving today?”
“Too old to fight. Officially. For the time being, I’m to take the place of an ambulance driver who’s going up to the border with the medical corps. So I get to drive around the city at night with a siren on. So what’s new.”
“And days?”
“I’ll be here. What about you?”
“I’m waiting for orders,” Zannis said. “I’m in a reserve group, we’re a communications unit, and I’m liaison with an officer of the Yugoslav General Staff. Not really sure what that means, but I guess I’ll find out.”
It was late in the morning when he finally got through to Vangelis. “I’m waiting,” Zannis explained, “for a call or a telegram. But I could be ordered to report. Maybe even today, or tomorrow.”
“Have you given any thought to what you might do if they occupy the city?”
“No, but I suppose I should.”
“We wouldn’t want them to have the files,” Vangelis said. “After that, it will be up to you. Just remember, if you decide to work underground, be careful with your address book. Just in case.” He paused, then said, “For the moment, who will run the office?”
“Saltiel and Sibylla. They’ll do fine.”
Vangelis didn’t answer immediately, his way of saying that it wasn’t true. “I’m not sure what lies ahead, Costa, but if I need you, I may have you brought back. We’ll just have to see how it goes.”
“We may surprise them,” Zannis said.
“Yes, I think we will,” Vangelis said. “If we don’t run out of bullets.”
Late in the afternoon, a telephone call for Zannis. Not the General Staff, but Roxanne. She sounded rattled, almost desperate. This was something new—she’d been cool and composed from the first day he’d met her. “I didn’t want to call you,” she said, “but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I have to get to the airport. But there isn’t a taxi to be found in the whole city, and my friends with cars don’t answer their phones, or they’re driving somebody to Athens, or—or something!”
“Roxanne …”
“What?”
“Calm down.”
“Sorry, I’ve just had—”
“There’s no point in going to the airport, all commercial flights are canceled; we’re at war—the military has taken over out there. Now, tell me where you need to go and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I need to go to the airport. Please.”
“Are we going to fight about this? You think I didn’t tell you the truth?”
“Costa, can you borrow a car? Or get one from the police?”
After a moment, he said, in a different tone of voice, “What is this?”
“A favor. I have never asked you for a favor, not ever, but I’m asking now. And part of the favor is not trying to make me explain on the telephone, because I have to be there right away.”
“Hold on.” He turned to Saltiel and said, “Gabi, may I use your car for an hour?”
Saltiel stared at him. I don’t let anyone drive my car. “Well, I guess you can, if you need it.” He was clearly not happy.
“Did you hear that?” Zannis said, on the phone.
“Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
It was a rough ride to the airport, some fifteen miles east of the city. Convoys of army trucks were rolling west, toward them, headed for the roads that went up to the Albanian border. And, being army convoys on the first day of a war, saw no reason, in the national interest, not to use both lanes. So more than once Zannis had to swerve off the road, the Skoda bumping over a rocky field. Teeth clamped together, he waited for the blown-out tire or the broken spring, though it happened, over and over again, only in his imagination. But that was bad enough.
Meanwhile, from Roxanne, stony silence, broken occasionally by English oaths, bloody this and bloody that, delivered under her breath every time the trucks came at them. Finally, answering the unasked question, she said, “If you must know, it’s just some friends who want me out of here.”
“Powerful friends,” Zannis said. “Friends with airplanes.”
“Yes, powerful friends. I know you have them; well, so do I.”
“Then I’m happy for you.”
“Bloody …” A muttered syllable followed.
“What?”
“Never mind. Just drive.”
Coming around a curve, they were suddenly confronted by a pair of gasoline tankers, side by side, horns blaring. Zannis swung the wheel over, the back end broke free, and they went skidding sideways into a field. The car stalled, Zannis pressed the ignition button, the Skoda coughed, then started. But the army wasn’t done with them. Just before they reached the airport, a long convoy came speeding right at them—and this time they almost didn’t make it. The car idled by the side of the road, pebbles hit the windshield, soldiers waved, Roxanne swore, Zannis fumed.
The airport was deserted. The Royal Hellenic Air Force—about a hundred planes: a few PZL P.24s, Polish-built fighters, and whatever else they’d managed to buy over the years—was operating from air-bases in the west. A sign on the door of the terminal building said ALL FLIGHTS CANCELED, and the only signs of life were a small group of soldiers on guard duty and a crew gathered beside its antiaircraft gun. They’d built a fire and were roasting somebody’s chicken on a bayonet.
Roxanne had only a small valise—Zannis offered to carry it but she wouldn’t let him. They walked around the terminal building and there, parked in a weedy field by the single paved runway, was a small monoplane, a Lysander, with a British RAF roundel on the fuselage. The pilot, sitting on the ground with his back against the wheel, was smoking a cigarette and reading a Donald Duck comic book. He stood when he saw them coming and flicked his cigarette away. Very short, and very small, he looked, to Zannis’s eyes, no more than seventeen.
“Sorry I’m late,” Roxanne said.
The pilot peered up at the gathering darkness and strolled back toward the observer’s cockpit, directly behind the pilot’s—both were open, no canopies to be seen. “Getting dark,” he said. “We’d better be going.”
Roxanne turned to Zannis and said, “Thank you.”
He stared at her and finally said, “You’re not going to England, are you.”
“No, only to Alexandria. I may well be back; it’s simply a precaution.”
“Of course, I understand.” His voice was flat and dead because he was heartsick. “Now,” he added, “I understand.” And how could I have been so dumb I never saw it? The British government didn’t send Lysanders to rescue the expatriate owners of ballet schools, they sent them to rescue secret service operatives.
Her eyes flashed; she moved toward him and spoke, intensely but privately, so the pilot wouldn’t hear. “It wasn’t to do with you,” she said. “It wasn’t to do with you.”
“No, of course not.”
Suddenly she grabbed a handful of his shirt, just below the collar, and twisted it, her knuckles sharp where they pressed against his chest. It surprised him, how strong she was, and the violence was a shock—this hand, in the past, had been very nice to him. “Wasn’t,” she said. Her eyes were dry, but he could see she was as close to tears as she ever came. And then he realized that the hand clutching his shirt wasn’t there in anger, it was furiously, almost unconsciously, trying to hold on to something it had lost.
The pilot cleared his throat. “Getting dark,” he said. He knotted his fingers, making a cup out of his hands, nodded up at the observer cockpit, and said, “Up we go, luv.”
Zannis walked with Roxanne the few feet to the plane. She turned and looked at him, then rested her foot on the waiting hands and was hoisted upward, floundered for a moment, skirt rising to revea
l the backs of her thighs, then swung her legs over into the cockpit. The pilot smiled at Zannis, a boyish grin which made him look even younger than seventeen, and said, “Don’t worry, mate, I’m good at this.” He handed Roxanne her valise, jumped up on the wheel housing, and climbed into the pilot’s cockpit. A moment later, the engine roared to life and the propeller spun. Zannis watched the Lysander as it taxied, then lifted into the air and turned south, heading out over the Aegean toward Egypt.
•
Back in the office, a yellow sheet of teletype paper lay on his desk. From Lazareff in Sofia.
COSTA: DO US ALL A FAVOR AND CHASE THESE BASTARDS BACK WHERE THEY CAME FROM
The message was in Bulgarian, but Zannis had grown up in Salonika, “a city where even the bootblacks speak seven languages,” and was able to figure it out. Normally, he would have enjoyed Lazareff’s gesture, but now he just sat there, his mood dark and melancholy, and stared at the wall.
He came to believe, after going back over their time together, that Roxanne hadn’t lied, that he’d not been the target of a British spy operation. He could not recall a single time when she’d asked him anything that might touch on the sort of information that spies sought. So, in fact, it wasn’t to do with him. He’d had a love affair with a woman who’d been sent to Salonika as part of an intelligence operation. Then, when war came, when occupation by an Axis force was more than possible, they’d snatched her away. Or maybe she simply did have friends in high places, friends with the power to organize an RAF Lysander flight to Greece. No, she’d actually confessed. “It wasn’t to do with you.” The it. To do with somebody else. The Germans, the Italians, the Vichy French consul; there were many possibilities.
