Alan Furst's Classic Spy Novels

by Alan Furst

  “Sit down,” he said brusquely. “Welcome to Palestine. You will see me, then a doctor if you need one, representatives of the kibbutzim, and so forth. We are here to help you, please be patient with us. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded that he understood.

  “Very well. Your name?”

  “Itzhak Gold.”

  “Your name truly?”

  “Not really.”

  “Never mind. We don’t care. Itzhak Gold it is. From where?”

  “Kurland.”

  “I’ll write Lithuania.”

  “If you like.”

  “From a village?”

  “The city of Kaunas.”

  “Very well. I’ll write Kaunas. Next, occupation.”

  “Clerk.”

  Heshel Zavi wrote the word in Hebrew. Another clerk, he thought, just what they needed. He glanced at the man’s hands, un-callused and soft. Well, they would fix that. “You would, no doubt, like to be a clerk in Palestine.”

  The man shrugged, as though to say he knew nothing else.

  “It’s farmers we need,” Heshel Zavi said. “Someone who can fix a tractor. Clerks we have.”

  Again the man shrugged. “Perhaps there is a civil service.”

  “Like me, you mean?” Amazing how many of them wanted his job—two hours in the country and they were ready to shove him aside.

  “No, not exactly like you. You have a small defense force, I believe.”

  “There are several, all with grand names. Night watchmen is what they are.”

  “Ah,” said the man, his small, ratlike face lighting up with a smile, “the very thing for me.”

  “You’re sure? You can always change your mind. You will change your mind—that’s mostly what we do here, we are preoccupied with it. People who have not been able to change their minds for two thousand years tend to make up for lost time once they have the opportunity. As for being a night watchman, well, there’s not much future in that, is there.”

  “A little, maybe. Where there are night watchmen, there will soon be someone to suggest what they should watch at night.”

  Nimble, Heshel Zavi thought, and ambitious. He found himself liking the man, soft hands or not. He leaned forward across the desk. “Look,” he said, “if you can bear waiting a little longer, maybe I have a friend who might help you. But it will take time. I have you to finish, and many others.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” the man said. “I’ll wait.”

  The people of Sfintu Gheorghe would never forget the events of April 1945. The stories were told again and again—never the same way twice, of course, everybody had their own version of it, depending on where they’d been and what they’d seen and what they wished they’d seen. They weren’t liars, exactly, they just liked to make a good story better. Who can blame them? After all, Sfintu Gheorghe wasn’t much of a place. In the old days, five centuries earlier, it had been a port of call for Genoese traders, but now it was just a fishing village, a few hundred souls perched out on an arm of the Dunărea that reached to the sea. They were of Greek origin, descendants of the Phanariot Greeks who had once served as the bureaucracy of Turkish and Boyar rule. Those days were gone, of course, now they were simply fishermen who took their boats out on the Black Sea.

  The sea was black, a curiosity of nature, teeming with life just below the surface, then, fifty fathoms down, a dead place with a bizarre chemistry of water. The normal oxygen had, in some ancient time, been replaced by poisonous hydrogen sulfide and nothing could live in it. So whatever died in the surface waters drifted down to the lower depths where, because there was no oxygen, it did not decompose. Think of it, they would tell the rare visitor. Sailors, great fishes, boats, sea monsters—it was all still down there.

  They had a slightly peculiar vision of life in Sfintu Gheorghe, but that served them well during the second week in April because peculiar things went on. First, there was the madman. There were those who claimed the whole business started right there. Others disagreed. The Fortunate One, they’d say; the madman had nothing to do with it, he just happened to be around when the Fortunate One made his grandiose gesture. Nobody, however, denied that the madman had been there first, showing up on the tenth of April and hiding in the church.

  Hiding really wasn’t the word for it. Everyone knew he was there. A fellow with a bald head and a scraggy beard, clutching a piece of burlap that held a sheaf of soiled paper. Well, they thought, since the war some very odd people had shown up in the village, the madman was just one more, and he didn’t bother anybody. He spent his days in the tiny loft inside the onion dome atop the church, coming out at night to relieve himself. The priest would leave him a little something to eat, and they all waited to see what he would do. A few of them had hidden up there themselves, when some dangerous person from the government came looking for them—it was the official village hiding place, and the madman, for the moment, was welcome to it.

  Then, on the morning of April 12, the magnificent gift was made to appear—as though by sorcery. A fisherman discovered it on the beach, crossed himself, prayed to God, then ran like the devil to spread the news. He brought with him the note he found, and read it aloud as people gathered to see what was going on:

  To the Good People of Sfintu Gheorghe, Greetings and God’s Blessing. For those who sheltered a man when he was cold, who fed him when he hungered, and who consoled him in the darkest hour of his life, a gift of appreciation.

  He signed himself The Fortunate One.

  Who was that?

  Many candidates were suggested—the villagers combed their memories for lost travelers or storm-beached sailors that they’d helped—but no one of them was considered a certainty. His gesture, on the other hand, could easily enough be explained. The wicker hampers came from Istanbul, almost due south of them on the Black Sea, and they were clearly marked with an address in Turkish—a certain shop on a certain street, obviously the grandest of places. This man, whoever he might be, had been helped by the village—nursed back to health, some said—then traveled on to Istanbul, where he had made his fortune. Now, later in life, he had determined to make peace with his memories and acted lavishly to repay an old kindness. He must be, they decided, a very fortunate one indeed, for there were twenty hampers. Half the village gathered around them as their contents were revealed. Fresh hams. Purple grapes. Tomatoes. Squash. Even eggplant, the most treasured vegetable of all Romanians. Pears. Peaches. And Spanish champagne—at least thirty cases of it. How, someone asked, could you even have an eggplant in April? Where did these things come from? Not from any farmer they’d ever heard of. Grown in a glass house, others said, shaking their fingers up and down as though they’d been burned—the universal sign language meaning very expensive. It was all perishable, would have to be eaten that very night, so preparations for a great feast were immediately undertaken.

  There was, in the otherwise joyous proceedings, one sour note. Sometime on the afternoon of the twelfth a few Bucharest types, tough guys in city clothes, showed up at Sfintu Gheorghe accompanied by a big, nasty-looking Russian in a leather coat, with his hair sheared off so you could see the big nasty bulge at the back of his skull. They were looking for the madman, though they weren’t very specific about it. This threatened to put a severe damper on matters, for if they took the madman they would also, clearly, take those who had aided him. But the people of Sfintu Gheorghe had not survived the horrendous regimes of their country for nothing. The city types weren’t going to be a problem—their eyes lit up when they saw the bounty and they immediately went to work on the peaches. The Russian was another matter. He was the sourest thing they’d ever seen, so they determined to sweeten him up in a very traditional way. A couple of dark little girls with black eyes took him off somewhere and fucked him senseless. To begin with, they teased him into drinking a bottle of champagne which, instead of slamming a lid down on his feelings or making him explode like a bomb, as the vodka tended to do, rendered him giddily li
ghtheaded and merry as a goat. He took a little black-haired girl under each arm and vanished in a swirl of giggles and wasn’t seen again for two days, at which time he was discovered sitting in the mud in his un-derdrawers, holding his head with one hand and his balls with the other.

  At 8:30 on the evening of the twelfth, the Brovno pulled into Galati harbor and Khristo walked up a long ramp onto the quay, Ivo at his side. The docks were lit by dazzling floodlights, and he could see a small army of welders crawling around in the skeletons of newly raised cranes, showers of blue sparks raining down through the girders.

  “Good luck,” Ivo said. He reached into a pocket and handed over a thick packet of Romanian lei.

  Khristo was a little taken aback, it was a great deal of money.

  “From your friends,” Ivo said. “It’s a cold world without friends.”

  “It is from Drazen Kulic?”

  “Him. And others.”

  “You will thank him for me?”

  “Of course. There is also this: it is suggested that you take a taxi to Sfintu Gheorghe—no need to walk with all that money. Best to show the driver that you have sufficient means for the ride. Then, on your way back, use the same taxi. Lake Murigheol is one place you ought to see, as long as you’ve come this far. Quite beautiful in the spring, it’s said. And you should have it all to yourself—tourists are not expected.”

  “Is it close to Sfintu Gheorghe?”

  “Some few kilometers. The man who drives the taxi ought to be able to find it.”

  They shook hands. “Thank you,” Khristo said.

  “My pleasure. Now the work begins—a hundred papers to be stamped by idiots, then we’ll have to shove this wretched pipe all the way back to Yugoslavia. Up stream.” He grimaced at the thought.

  “No. Really? For God’s sake, why?”

  Ivo shrugged. “We need it more than they do. Let them be satisfied with a fraternal gesture.”

  “A lot of work for a fraternal gesture.”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing to be done about it.” He nodded back toward the pipe-laden barge, his expression a parody of helplessness. “Wrong gauge,” he said.

  There was a bonfire in Sfintu Gheorghe. Four men in shirtsleeves, ties pulled down, were dancing to the music of a violin, each holding the corner of a white handkerchief. The men were very drunk, and it was not a large handkerchief. But the violin was rapturous, the crowd was banging knives and forks and tin pots, and the dancers made up in gravity what they lacked in grace. Two of the men were wearing tinted glasses, and all had holstered pistols beneath their armpits.

  Khristo Stoianev, still vibrating from a three-hour taxi ride over a cart track, stood quietly at the edge of the crowd. A heavy woman turned partway toward him and stared uncertainly. He smiled warmly, clapped his hands to the rhythm with broad enthusiasm, and was rewarded with a shy smile in return. He spent some time in this way, letting them notice him, letting them accept him as someone who did not mean them harm. Villagers, he knew, could communicate without speaking—a subtle defense mechanism—and somehow come to a silent decision about the intentions of strangers. You had to let them read your character.

  When they began to lose interest in him, he looked over the crowd and picked out the village priest. There would be, in such a place, a triumvirate of leadership: a headman or mayor, a queen of wives, and a local priest. Any one of them would know where Sascha was—if they did not know of him, he was not there. When people grow up in a small village, they learn all the hiding places.

  The priest was not hard to find. He was a young man, with hair and beard worn long in the Greek Orthodox manner, and his black cassock fell to the tops of his shoes. Khristo circled the crowd casually until he stood next to him.

  “Praise God, Father,” he said, using very slow French.

  “My son,” the man acknowledged.

  He was flooded with relief. He could not speak Romanian, but he knew that most educated people in the country had a second language—German or French. “A feast,” he said. “Is there a wedding?”

  “No, my son,” the priest said. “The village has been blessed today. A good deed has returned to us.”

  “And you have guests,” he said. The men with the pistols, sweating in the night air, moved with slow dignity as the violin encountered a brief period of melancholy.

  “We are all countrymen,” the priest said. “Praise God.”

  Khristo heard clearly the relief in the latter statement. “Is there one guest missing?” he asked gently. “A man with dark hair? A man who has seen the world?” Now he had put himself at the priest’s mercy and feared what he would do next. One shout would be sufficient, he thought, yet who would shout at a feast?

  The priest’s eyes sharpened in the firelight and Khristo knew that Sascha was somewhere in the village. His fingers dawdled for a moment by the pocket where the money nested, but instinct told him that such an offer would not be well received. The music picked up and he shouted “Hey!” and clapped his hands.

  “Are you a believer?” the priest said.

  “I am, Father,” he answered matter-of-factly, “though I have strayed more than I should these last few years.”

  The priest nodded to himself. He had been forced to make a decision and he had made it. “You should attend church, my son,” he said, and pointedly broke off the conversation, walking forward a pace or two to be nearer the dancers.

  Khristo could see the church; its silver-painted dome reflected light from the bonfire. He moved slowly away from the crowd in the opposite direction, then circled around behind a row of little houses, climbing over garden fences and groping ahead of him for beanpoles and twine. The local dogs loved a feast as well as the villagers, for which he was thankful—the last thing he needed was a dog to wear on his ankle and these yards, he knew, were their sacred territories.

  The church was dark and silent. He watched it for a time but it told him nothing—an old mosque, built under Turkish rule, with a cross mounted atop the dome when Christianity returned. He opened the door a few inches, then stepped inside and let it close behind him. It smelled musty, like old straw, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard. “Sascha,” he whispered.

  There was no answer.

  He regretted, now, leaving his little automatic on the Brovno, but his cover would not allow for it. A Yugoslav river sailor just might turn up in Sfintu Gheorghe—an armed Yugoslav river sailor had better not. There was the faintest trace of light in the church, filtering in from a high window. He moved slowly down an aisle between wooden benches until he reached the altar. “Sascha?”

  There was no answer.

  To the left of the altar, out of the sightline of the benches, was a pole ladder. He walked to the base of it, slowly, and looked up to see the edge of a loft. “Sascha, it’s Khristo. Stoianev. I’ve come to take you away, to take you to freedom,” he said in Russian.

  There was no answer.

  Had he left the church? Perhaps the meaning of the priest’s statement had been innocent, the man simply telling him to go to church more often for the good of his soul. He took a step back from the ladder, his thoughts settling on the taxi that waited for him at the edge of the village.

  “Sascha Vonets.” He said it in a normal voice. “Are you in this church?”

  There was only silence, the muffled sound of the violin, a shout of laughter, barking dogs. He was going to have to climb the ladder. He put one foot on the bottom rung and bounced to make sure it would take his weight, then moved up a rung at a time. “I’m coming up to talk to you,” he whispered into the darkness. A fool’s errand, he thought. The man was likely a thousand miles away while he whispered nonsense into an empty church loft. Still, he kept climbing. He reached the point where he could see over the edge of the loft, but it was very dark, walled off from the high window. He went up another rung and swung one foot onto the boards of the loft. He kicked something, a plate by the sound of it, which went skittering away across the floor. Ther
e was an orange flame and a pop and he fell backward, landing on his back and taking the ladder down with him. “Oh no,” he said. He got to his hands and knees and crawled past the altar, down the aisle between the benches, shouldered the door open and rolled himself down the three steps to the dirt street, then wedged himself between the steps and the wall of the church.

  He tore at his clothes until he found it. He couldn’t see very well, but it was midway up his left side, just below the ribs, a small hole like a nail puncture, with blood just beginning to well from the center. As he watched, the blood made a droplet that swelled until it broke loose and ran slowly down his skin. He covered the wound gently with a cupped hand, as though it embarrassed him. It hurt a little, like a cut, but there was a frightening pain on the left side of his chest and he realized that he was gasping for air.

  From within the church there was a crash, then the sound of running footsteps. Here they come, he thought. But there should have been more of them—in the houses, among the crowd, everywhere—the NKVD used scores of people to set a trap. A man threw open the door and ran down the steps into the street, a pistol in his hand. His hair and beard were wildly disarrayed, his motions frantic and abrupt. “Satans! Where are you? Murderers!” he mumbled, as though to himself. Suddenly he discovered Khristo, ran toward him and peered into his face. “Is it Khristo?” he said, seemingly stunned at finding him crumpled between the steps and the wall of a church.

  “You killed me,” Khristo said, voice sorrowful and tired. The pain in his chest was fierce and there was no air to breathe. In the distance, the violin began to play a new kind of song. It was a jazz song, one he’d heard before, but he could not remember its name.

  The man knelt above him. “Oh God,” he said. “It is you.”

  He shrugged. He no longer cared about anything.

  “Why did you speak Russian? You frightened me.”

  He coughed, spit something on the ground. “Sascha?”