Spies of the Balkans

by Alan Furst

  “What will you do, Sibylla, when we close the office? Do you need help? With anything?”

  “I’ve made my arrangements, chief.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a job, as a bookkeeper, at the hotel where my husband works. Nice people, the couple that own the place.”

  “And if the Germans question you?”

  “Maybe they will, maybe they won’t, but, if they should, I don’t know anything, I was just a secretary. And there’s a chance they’ll never know I was here. The owners said they would backdate the employment records, if I wanted them to.”

  “Will you do that?”

  “Maybe. I haven’t decided.” After a moment she said, “I don’t know what you have in mind, but, whatever that might be, if you need somebody to help out you only have to ask.”

  “Thank you, Sibylla.”

  Zannis sat out the day, then went up to see his family at six. This he dreaded, and found what he’d known he would: the chaos of departure. The open suitcases, piles of clothing that were never going to fit, a blackened pot that sat on the table, waiting for a miracle. In the middle of all this, his mother was cooking a lamb roast. “We have a lot to give away,” she said.

  “Why not just leave it here?”

  “It will be stolen.”

  “Oh, you can’t be sure of that.”

  His mother didn’t answer.

  “The Naxos sails at one-thirty,” he said. “We’ll go an hour early.”

  “Well, we have packing to do in the morning. The bedding….”

  Zannis found the retsina and poured himself a generous portion. “One for me too, Constantine,” his grandmother said, staring at a ladle, then putting it aside.

  The following morning, he telephoned Sibylla and told her he wouldn’t be in the office until later, maybe two o’clock. Then he set out for the central market, Melissa rambling along with him, for the errand he couldn’t face but now had to. After hunting through the goods in several stalls, he bought a khaki pouch with a shoulder strap, possibly meant for ammunition, from some army in the city’s history. Returning home, he went to the kitchen, washed Melissa’s dinner and water bowls, wrapped them in newspaper, settled them in the pouch, and added her leash; she might just have to wear it. Then he went into the other room, but Melissa wasn’t there.

  The door to the apartment stood open. He only locked it at night, its latch hadn’t worked for years, Melissa could push it open with her head. Oh no. Hoping against hope, he looked under the bed. No dog. “Melissa? Melissa!”

  She knew. Strange mountain beast, she knew what it meant—her only possessions packed up in a khaki pouch.

  Zannis trotted down the stairs. He’d thought this through—there was no possibility she could stay with him. Fighting in the mountain villages meant near starvation—crops burned, houses destroyed—and the animals, even beloved animals, didn’t survive it. Out on Santaroza Lane, he called her name, again and again, but there was only morning silence.

  He set out on her daily route, finding no help along the way because the street was deserted. He went as far as the corniche, then worked back toward the top of the lane, past the fountain, searching every alley and looking at his watch. By now, he was supposed to be with the family. Where had she gone? Finally he turned into the alley where a neighbor kept her chicken coop and, at the very end, there she was. Lying on her stomach, head resting on crossed paws, looking as miserably sad as any dog he’d ever seen. He squatted by her side and stroked her head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You know you’re going away, don’t you. Well, good girl, it has to be. Now you have to take care of the family.” When he stood up, so did she, and walked back to the apartment, head carried low, close to his side. Facing the inevitable.

  He arrived at the house in the Turkish quarter after eleven and shooed the family along in the last hectic stages of packing—God only knew what would be forgotten. He made sure that his mother put a packet of money in a safe place—the envelope pinned to the inside of her coat. Made Ari responsible for Melissa’s traveling bag, looping the strap over his shoulder. Secured his grandmother’s valise with a length of cord. And found a taxi.

  By twelve-thirty they reached the dock; the Naxos already had steam up. Spreading out from the foot of the gangway, a great mob of people, some two hundred of them. And loud—babies wailing, people arguing and swearing, or shouting to friends. He maneuvered the family toward the gangway, then settled in to wait until they would be permitted to board. The tickets! Frantically he patted his clothing, eventually discovering he’d moved them to a safer pocket. Now a few harassed customs officials appeared and tried to form the mob, hauling trunks and suitcases and bags, into a line. But, clearly, that wasn’t going to work.

  Suddenly, gunfire.

  The rhythmic thump of Bofors cannon. Amid screams, as people dove to the ground, Zannis searched the horizon. Far above the puffs of exploding shells in a blue sky, a small aircraft, perhaps a German reconnaissance plane. Some officer at the antiaircraft battery down the bay had evidently spotted the insignia with his binoculars and given the order to fire. No chance of hitting it, not at that altitude. And the plane didn’t evade, simply circled the city, then turned out to sea and disappeared into the haze. From the crowd, more than a few cheers. An old man, standing near Zannis, said, “Where is our air force?”

  The gunfire had certainly affected the passengers on the wharf. What had been an unruly mob now formed itself into a long line, leading to a wooden table and two customs officers sitting on folding chairs. When it came the turn of the Zannis family, he hugged and kissed them all, knelt and embraced Melissa, now miraculously wearing her leash, and, taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes, watched their blurred forms wave good-bye as they climbed the gangway.

  In the office, a telegram awaited him, sent from Basel.

  HAD TO GO AWAY STOP BUSINESS CLOSED

  STOP MAY GOD WATCH OVER YOU STOP

  SIGNED FRIEND FROM BERLIN

  “At least she’s safe,” Sibylla said. “And I suppose the operation couldn’t go on forever.”

  “No, I guess it couldn’t. Maybe someone else might have taken over, but with war coming in Yugoslavia that won’t be possible.”

  “She did what she could,” Sibylla said.

  “Yes,” Zannis said. “She did.”

  Next he went off to the Bank of Commerce and Deposit on Victoros Hougo Street. He’d paid for the family steamship tickets with his own money, but he wasn’t going to abandon the secret fund—money was crucial to resistance. He was, however, not the only person in town that afternoon clearing his account. There were fourteen people ahead of him on line—all waiting for the bank officer who handled “special accounts.”

  The man was not holding up well; he seemed to Zannis pale and anxious. “I regret, sir, there are no dollars, not any more. Maybe tomorrow, we might have some, but I wouldn’t wait, if I were you.”

  “No British money? Gold sovereigns?”

  The man closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, sir. Not for weeks. Gold is very desirable now.”

  “What do you have left?”

  “Drachmas, of course. Spanish pesetas, and Swiss francs.”

  “Swiss francs,” Zannis said.

  The officer, having set the account’s file card down before him, went into the vault and returned with a metal drawer that held packets of Swiss francs, a pin forced through the corner of each stack of one hundred. “Do you have a briefcase, sir?”

  Zannis produced it and, recalling the French king in the back of his royal automobile, slid the packets into the case.

  When he returned to the office, he found a message to telephone a detective in the second district. “Costa Zannis,” he said. “You telephoned?”

  “Somebody threw a brick through the window of the German legation,” the detective said. “Would that be something for your office?”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “Yes. I went over there and wrote
up a report. The consul was in a real fury.”

  “He was, was he.”

  “Oh yes. Red in the face, sputtering.”

  Zannis laughed. “First good news today.”

  “I guess that means you don’t care.”

  “Well, I can’t help him.”

  “You should’ve seen it,” the detective said. “It was really wonderful.”

  Eventually, Zannis had to return to Santaroza Lane; he had nowhere else to go. Spring was heavy in the air that afternoon, and the two old women had their kitchen chairs out, gossiping in the last of the sunshine. As always they were pleased to see him. One of them said, “By the way, your telephone’s been ringing most of the afternoon.”

  “It has?”

  “Somebody’s been trying to reach you.”

  Zannis hurried upstairs. The apartment was very still without Melissa. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited, but the phone didn’t ring for another forty minutes. “Yes? Hello?”

  “Finally! It’s me, Costa.” Demetria, her voice strong and sweet.

  “Where are you?” The connection was suspiciously clear.

  “Not far. I’m in Salonika.”

  “You’ve come home?” he said.

  “No, that’s finished.” She paused, then said, “I’m at the Lux Palace, in 601, the suite on the top floor.”

  “I’ll be right there,” he said.

  It turned out to be the same suite where he’d first met Emilia Krebs. When Demetria opened the door, they stared at each other for a long moment. Well, now it’s happened, I hope you meant it. He rested his hands on her shoulders, wanting a good long look at her, his prize. She was wearing the bronze silk blouse and pearl necklace she’d had on the first time he’d seen her, in the back of the Rolls-Royce. Finally she raised her face, and he touched his lips to her smile.

  “Well then,” she said. “Maybe you should come inside.”

  She gestured to the sofa, sat down at the other end, then moved closer. For a time they didn’t speak, their alliance settling on them amid the ambient sounds from the open window—seagulls, car horns, voices in the street. At last he said, “Was it very bad?”

  “Bad enough,” she said. “I’m going to call down for something to drink, what would you like?”

  “French wine? Champagne?”

  As she went to the telephone, he watched her walk. Not that she overdid it, but she knew his eyes were following her. After she’d ordered champagne, she returned to the sofa. “I guess I could have done that while you were on the way but then I didn’t know if you’d want a room service waiter … knocking on the door …”

  “We have time,” he said. “What a luxury that is.”

  She looked into his eyes, excited to be with him, in love with him, and put a warm hand atop his. But she did this instead of responding to what he’d said. Because there wasn’t very much time, she just didn’t have the heart to say it. “Yes,” she said. “A luxury.”

  His eye fell on an open suitcase that stood on a luggage rack. “Is that all you brought?”

  “Oh no, there’s more in the baggage room. You should see what I brought. That’s why I waited until we came back to Salonika. Then I told him.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He was ice cold. He knew, I think. Either in his mean little heart, sensed I wasn’t with him any more, or his spies told him what was going on.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “No, he’s too busy settling his affairs before he leaves, to think about revenge.”

  “He’s going to America?”

  She nodded. “I would’ve liked to see it, but—”

  A knock on the door. “Room service.”

  They drank the champagne, touching glasses in a silent toast. Zannis poured a second, then a third, and the effect was powerful. Darkness gathered outside the window, the last drifts of sunlit cloud low on the horizon. Demetria said it was beautiful, then she yawned. “Oh God, forgive me—I couldn’t help it.”

  “You’re tired, I’m not surprised, and the champagne …”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Me too. A very difficult day, until you called.”

  “Maybe we should sleep.”

  “Why not? We’ll stay here tonight, then—”

  “Oh we can stay as long as we like.”

  “It’s expensive, no?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think I’m rich, but I have a lot of money. He gave me money, I saved it. And there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “I’ll show you.” She went to her suitcase and returned with a slim elongated package—heavy oilcloth wound tight and secured with a waxed cord. “A gift from Vasilou,” she said. “He used to go up to the monasteries and buy things from the monks.” Carefully, she unwound the oilcloth, then burlap sacking, and held up a parchment scroll wrapped around a spindle. Very delicately, she extended the parchment. “See? It’s a royal decree, from Byzantium.”

  The writing was strange; Zannis couldn’t read it. At the bottom, a series of flourishes that glittered in the lamplight.

  “The emperor’s signature,” she said. “Basil II. When the emperor signed a decree, it was sprinkled with gold dust and ground cinnabar, that’s why it sparkles.”

  Zannis peered at it. “Well, if you’re going to sign a decree … Seems like we’ve lost something in the modern government service.”

  She smiled, carefully rewrapping the scroll. “Vasilou had a professor at the university read it. It orders a water system—for some city that no longer exists.”

  As she returned the package to her suitcase, Zannis laid his head back against the sofa and, for a moment, closed his eyes. Then she said, “Very well, that does it.”

  She turned out the lamp and they undressed, she down to bra and panties while he, following her example, stayed in his underwear. She took his hand and led him to the bed, they crawled under the covers—exquisitely soft and fluffy in there—held each other, and fell asleep. For an hour. Then he woke, because she had unbuttoned the front of his underpants and was holding him in her hand.

  Later, they really slept. And the next thing he knew she’d woken him by kissing him on the forehead. “What time is it?” she said, urgency in her voice.

  He reached a hand toward the night table, found his watch, put on his glasses, and said, “Eight minutes after six.”

  “Something I want to see, so don’t go back to sleep.”

  They waited until six-thirty; then she led him to the window. From here—standing naked, side by side and holding hands—they could look out over the span of the harbor. Down at the dock, the white ship sounded its horn, two blasts, and moved slowly out into the Aegean. “There it goes,” she said.

  They put it off—a certain conversation, the inevitable conversation. Were very determined to leave it in the future, because they meant to have as much of this love affair as they could. So they made love in the late afternoon—first one kind of seduction, then another—decided to see every movie in Salonika, and ate everything in sight. A taverna he knew, one she knew, why hold back? Not now, they wouldn’t, and money no longer mattered. They ate spiced whipped feta, they ate calamari stuffed with cheese, they ate grilled octopus and grilled eggplant and mussels with rice pilaf and creamy thick yogurt with honey. Zannis didn’t go to the office on the first day, he just didn’t, and then he did it again. They walked along the sea, over to the amusement park in the Beschinar Gardens and rode the Ferris wheel. Of course, being out in the streets, there were traps laid for them: newspaper headlines in thick black print, posted on the kiosks. Reflexively, he started to comment on one of them but she put a finger to his lips and her eyes were fierce. So much warrior in Demetria, it surprised him. They weren’t so different.

  Finally, after two lost days, he went to the Via Egnatia on the third of April. No more than a raised eyebrow from Sibylla. “A certain Englishman has been frantic to reach you,” she told him. “He called and called and then,
yesterday morning, he showed up here. Escovil, is that the name? Anyhow, he had a valise with him, and he left you an envelope. On your desk.”

  Zannis sat in his chair and stared at it, an oversize yellow envelope, thick paper, you couldn’t buy a more expensive envelope than that, he thought. Still, fancy as it was, only a paper envelope, and, with thumbs and forefingers, you could rip it in half. Sibylla was busy typing something, clackety-clack, what the hell had she found to do as the world came to an end? In his mind, he saw himself as he tore the envelope in two; then he opened it. A single sheet of notepaper, the message handwritten in Greek. “This is for 5 April; you won’t be able to travel after that.” No signature. And what was “this”? The hand of the gods, Zannis said to himself. Because it was a steamship ticket for, of all ships, the Bakir out of Galata, Istanbul, the same tramp steamer that had brought a German spy to Salonika last October. A Turkish ship, the ship of a neutral nation, thus safe from German submarines and bound, at 2100 hours on 5 April, for Alexandria, Egypt.

  So now they would have to have the conversation. Zannis, the ticket folded up in the inside pocket of his jacket, walked slowly, as slowly as he could, back to the Lux Palace. It just wasn’t far enough away, not at that moment it wasn’t, and, too soon, he rode the ancient grilled elevator to the sixth floor. At his knock, Demetria swept the door wide and gestured with the hand of a stage magician. Presto! Believe your eyes if you can! She had bought at least two dozen vases, no, more, and filled each of them with flowers, red and yellow, white and blue, anemones, roses, carnations, an entire flower stall it seemed. The air was dense with aroma. “I took two hotel porters to the market,” she said. “And I could have used another. We staggered.”

  Enchanting. Well, it was. He touched a finger to the steamship ticket in his pocket, but he couldn’t show it to her now—not when she’d done all this. Demetria circled around him and slid his jacket down his arms. “Come sit with me on the sofa,” she said. “And behold! Demetria’s garden.”