Spies of the Balkans: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  If Escovil was already anxious about the meeting, the expression on Zannis's face did nothing to reassure him. "I hurried straight over," he said.

  "What do you want from me?" Zannis said.

  "Byer told us you flew from Paris to Sofia. How did you manage that?" After a moment he added, "The people I work for would like to know how you did it." It isn't me.

  "I was helped by some friends in Paris, people I met when I lived there."

  "And they are ...?"

  "Friends in Paris. And now, let me ask you something. Who had the idea that I should go to a restaurant? Because I'm sure Byer told you what happened."

  Escovil hesitated. "A senior person, in London, felt you should act like a visitor. The original idea was the Eiffel Tower, but the time didn't work. So, a brasserie."

  "Very clever," Zannis said. "Except that it wasn't."

  "We need to know about the airplane," Escovil said, desperation in his voice. "It could be very important, very important."

  "Well, you know as much as I'm going to tell you. I understand what your people want, they want to be able to use what I used, any spy service would, but they'll have to find their own way."

  "Would you at least meet with them?"

  Zannis stared at Escovil. "No," he said.

  A muscle ticked in Escovil's cheek. He half-turned toward the door, then turned back to face Zannis. "I'm serving in a war, Zannis. And so are you, no matter whether you like it or not." He reached the door in two strides and, over his shoulder, said, "I'd think about that if I were you."

  It was just after six when Zannis got back to Santaroza Lane. As he took Melissa's butcher scraps from his tiny refrigerator, he saw the mail he'd tossed on the table when he'd come home the night before. He fed Melissa, then, looking for anything commonplace to make him feel, if not better, at least occupied, he began to look through the pile of envelopes. A few bills, an invitation to a formal party, a letter. No return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper:

  5 February

  C.

  We have left Salonika and gone to Athens. I have said my mother is ill and I had to come here, to Kalamaria, to take care of her. She has a telephone, 65-245. I don't know how long I can stay here, and I don't know where you are. I hope you read this in time.

  D.

  He called immediately and was out the door minutes later. Kalamaria wasn't far away, maybe ten miles south, down the peninsula. Out on the corniche he found a taxi and paid the driver extravagantly to take him to the village, where, Demetria had told him, there was only one hotel, the Hotel Angelina. He arrived at seven-ten and took a room. The hotel was barely open, in February, but a boy led him up to Room 3--likely their finest, since Zannis was their only guest--and lit a small oil heater in the corner. It produced a loud pop and a flash, and the boy swore as he jumped aside, but the thing worked and, ten minutes later, the room began to warm up.

  The Hotel Angelina was on the bay and the room had one large window that faced west, over the sea. Not so bad, the room. Whitewashed stucco walls, a narrow bed with a winter blanket, a lamp on a night table, a wooden chair, and an armoire with two hangers. Zannis hung his trench coat and jacket on one, and left the other for his guest. He tried sitting in the chair, then lay on the bed, set his glasses on the night table, and waited. There were rain squalls on the bay that night, accompanied by a gusting wind that sighed and moaned and rattled the window. Eight o'clock came and went. Eight-fifteen. Where was she? Eight-twenty.

  Two light knocks on the door.

  When he opened it, there she was. Beautiful, yes, but unsmiling and, he sensed, maybe a little scared. He'd planned to embrace her--finally, at last!--but something told him not to, so he rested a light hand on her shoulder and guided her into the room. "Hello, Demetria," said the passionate lover. "May I take your coat?" She nodded. He could smell her perfume on the collar as as he hung it up in the armoire.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she wore a heavy slate-colored wool sweater and skirt, with thick black cotton stockings and lace-up shoes. "Oh lord," she said.

  "Yes, I know."

  "You can sit down," she said.

  He was standing there, hesitant, and as tense as she was. "I can go downstairs. Maybe there's some retsina, or wine."

  She brightened. "Whatever they have. It's cold in here."

  He went downstairs. The hotel didn't exactly have a bar; a shelf with bottles stood above a square plank table. The door by the table was ajar, Zannis could hear a radio. "Hello?" he said. When the woman who had rented him the room came out, he bought a bottle of retsina and she gave him two cloudy glasses, then said, "Good night, sir."

  Demetria was sitting exactly where he'd left her, rubbing her hands.

  "What a night," Zannis said. He poured retsina into the glasses and gave her one. When he sat by her side, the bed sagged beneath them.

  Demetria laughed. "Ah, Kalamaria."

  "Did you live here? As a child?"

  "No, my mother came here after my father died. Returned. It was her home village."

  "Is she actually ill?"

  "Oh no, not her. Never. Not that I can remember."

  "You told her, ah, what you're doing?"

  From Demetria, a tight smile. "She knows, Mama does. Knows her daughter."

  They clinked their glasses together and drank. The retsina was strong.

  "Not so bad," Zannis said.

  "No, not bad at all. A good idea." She put her glass on the floor and rubbed her hands, trying to get warm.

  "Shall we get drunk and forget our woes?"

  "Not that drunk."

  When she again picked up her glass, Zannis saw that she wasn't wearing her wedding ring. And she'd pulled her hair back with an elaborate silver clip.

  "I called your house, this morning," he said. "I came home last night but I didn't see your letter until just before I called you."

  "I knew ... I knew you would call. I mean, I knew you would call to the house in Salonika, so I telephoned, from Athens. Nobody answered...." She put her glass on the floor, rubbed her hands and said, "My hands are so cold." You dumb ox.

  "Give them to me." He held her hands, which weren't all that cold, and said, "You're right. They need to be warmed up." He took her left hand in both of his and rubbed the back, then the palm.

  After a time she said, just the faintest trace of a hitch in her voice, "That's better." With her free hand, she drank some retsina, then put her glass back on the floor.

  "Now the other. You were saying?"

  "That I called, from Athens...."

  He worked on her hand, his skin stroking hers. "And?"

  She leaned toward him a little. "And you ... weren't home."

  "No." He noticed that the dark shade of lipstick she wore flattered her olive skin. "No ... I wasn't."

  "So I wrote it." She was closer now.

  He took both her hands, meaning to move her toward him but she was, somehow, already there. "I did get it."

  "I know." Her face was very close to his, so she spoke very softly. "You said."

  He pressed his lips against hers, which moved. After a time he said, "So ..." They kissed again, he put a hand on her back, she put a hand on his. With his lips an inch away from her mouth he whispered, "... I telephoned." The wool of her sweater was rough against his hand as it went up and down.

  It was awkward, sitting side by side, but they managed, until he could feel her breasts against him. When she tilted her head, her lips lay across his, and she spread them apart, so that his tongue could touch hers. Involuntarily, he shivered.

  He knelt on the floor and began to untie the laces of her shoes. As he worked at one of the knots, she ran her fingers through his hair, then down the side of his face. "Can you do it?"

  The knot came undone.

  They had set the hard pillows against the iron railing at the foot of the bed in order to see out the window, where, across the bay, a lightning storm raged over Mount Olympus. The mountain was famous
for that. Almost always, in bad weather, forked white bolts lit the clouds above the summit--which meant that Zeus was angry, according to the ancient Greeks. Zannis was anything but. Demetria lay sideways against him, the silver clip cold where it rested on his shoulder.

  When he'd finished with her shoes, he had returned to her side and taken the hem of her sweater in his hands but she held them still and said, her voice low and warm, "Let me do this for you." Then she stood, turned off the lamp, and undressed. It wasn't overly theatrical; she might have been alone, before a mirror, and took her time because she always did. Nonetheless, it was a kind of performance, for she clearly liked being watched. Carefully, she folded her clothing and laid each piece on the chair, using it as--a prop? She wore very fancy silk panties over a garter belt and, after she'd slid them down, she turned partly away from him and braced her foot on the chair in order to remove her stocking. From this perspective, her bottom was fuller, as it curved, than promised when she'd leaned against the back of a sofa. And the angled form of a woman in that position suggested a seductive painting, though it was a natural, a logical, way to go about removing a stocking.

  Was it not?

  When she'd laid the garter belt on top of her clothes, she stood there a moment, head canted to one side. So, here is what you shall have. Was it what he'd hoped for? She was heavier, sturdier, than the naked Demetria of his imagination, with small breasts, small areolae, erect nipples.

  Demetria may have taken time to undress, Zannis most certainly did not. He shed his clothes, took her in his arms and drew her close, savoring the feel of skin on skin. And here, pressed between them, was an emphatic answer to her silent question. Until that evening, Zannis had been in a way ambivalent; for in his heart a tender passion, which he thought of as love, had warred with the most base desire. But tender passion, as it turned out, would have to wait. And he was only half to blame. Maybe less.

  And so?

  Lightning flickered in the distance and, when a squall passed over the Hotel Angelina, wind-blown rain surged against the window. "You could, you know"--Zannis spoke the words slowly--"never go back to Athens."

  She didn't answer, and he couldn't see her face, but she nestled against him, which meant no and he knew it.

  "No?" he said, making sure.

  "It is ...," she said, suppressing the too soon, then started over. "It would be very sudden."

  "You have to go back?"

  "Don't," she said.

  He didn't. But, even so, she rolled away from him and lay on her stomach with her chin on her hands. He stroked her back, a deep cleft in the center. "Can you stay until the morning?"

  "Well, I'm surely not going anywhere now."

  "Is it a long walk? To your mother's house?"

  "Not far. It's on the water, just around the bay. One of those stucco villas."

  "Oh?"

  "'Oh?'" she said, imitating him. "Yes, my love, now you know."

  "Know what?"

  "That she could never afford such a thing. Nor could I. And you should see where my sister lives, in Monastir."

  "Oh."

  "You think I'm paid for, like ... I won't say the word."

  "That isn't true."

  She shrugged.

  "So he's rich, so what?"

  "That barely describes it. He buys French paintings, and Byzantine manuscripts, and carved emeralds. He spends money like water, on anything that takes his fancy. Have you noticed a small white ship, practically new, that stays docked in Salonika? I think it was an English ship, one of those that carried mail and passengers to the Orient. Anyhow it sits there, with a full crew on board, ready to go at an hour's notice. 'In case,' as he puts it, 'things go badly here.' Then we will all sail away to safety."

  "Not a yacht?"

  "The yacht is in Athens, in Piraeus. Not meant for an ocean in winter."

  "You will leave with him, if 'things go badly'?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not." She thought for a time. "Perhaps I won't be invited, when the day comes. He has a girlfriend lately, seventeen years old, and he hasn't been ... interested in me for a while. So, when I return, I don't want you to think that I ..." She left it there.

  Zannis sighed and settled down next to her, in time laying his leg across the backs of her knees and stroking her in a different way. She turned her head so that their faces were close together. "I get the feeling you're not ready to go to sleep."

  "Not yet."

  11 February. The rains continued. Hanging from a clothes tree in the corner of the office, three coats dripped water onto the floor. When Zannis reached his desk, a note from Saltiel--a name, a telephone number--awaited him. "This would be the mayor's girlfriend?"

  "It would." Saltiel was not only amused, he was anticipating the performance.

  "Hello? Madam Karras?"

  "Yes?"

  "My name is Zannis, I'm with the Salonika police department."

  "Yes?" The way she said it meant What could you want with me?

  "I have a favor to ask of you, Madam Karras."

  "What favor?"

  "That you refrain, in the future, from shooting at the mayor. Please."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. We know you did it, or hired somebody to do it, and if I can't be sure you'll never try it again, I'm going to have you arrested."

  "How dare you! What did you say your name was?"

  "Zannis. Z-a-n-n-i-s."

  "You can't just--"

  "I can," he said, interrupting her. "The detectives investigated the incident and they know how it came about and so, instead of taking you to jail, I'm telephoning you. It is a courtesy, Madam Karras. Please believe me."

  "Really? And where was courtesy when I needed it? Some people, I won't mention any names, need to be taught a lesson, in courtesy."

  "Madam Karras, I'm looking at your photograph." He wasn't. "And I can see that you're an extremely attractive woman. Surely men, many men, are drawn to you. But, Madam Karras, allow me to suggest that the path to romance will be smoother if you don't shoot your lover in the behind."

  Madam Karras cackled. "Just tell me that bastard didn't have it coming."

  "I can't tell you that. All I can tell you is to leave him alone."

  "Well ..."

  "Please?"

  "You're not a bad sort, Zannis. Are you married?"

  "With five children. Will you take this call to heart?"

  "I'll think about it."

  "No, dear, make a decision. The handcuffs are waiting."

  "Oh all right."

  "Thank you. It's the smart thing to do."

  Zannis hung up. Saltiel was laughing to himself, and shaking his head.

  12 February. Berlin was glazed with ice that morning, perhaps the worst of the tricks winter played on the Prussian city. At Gestapo headquarters on the Prinz-Albrechtstrasse, Hauptsturmfuhrer Albert Hauser was trying to figure out what to do about Emilia Krebs. His list of names was shrinking: some of the suspects had been arrested, success for Hauser, yet some had disappeared, failure for Hauser. That couldn't continue, or he really would wind up in Poland, the Hell of German security cosmology. But he couldn't touch her. He worked, alas, for a moron, there was no other way to put it. The joke about Nazi racial theory said that the ideal superman of the master race would be as blond as Hitler, as lean as Goring, and as tall as Goebbels. But the joke was only a joke, and his superior, an SS major, was there because he was truly blond, tall, and lean. And a moron. He didn't think like a policeman, he thought like a Nazi: politics, ideology, was, to him, everything. And in that ideology rank meant power, and power ruled supreme.

  Hauser had gone to see him, to discuss the Krebs case, but the meeting hadn't lasted long. "This man Krebs is a Wehrmacht colonel!" he'd thundered. "Do you wish to see me crushed?"

  Hauser wished precisely that, but there was no hope any time soon. Still, brave fellow, he wondered if he might not have the most private, the most genial, the most diffident conversation with E
milia Krebs. Where? Certainly not in his office. Neutral ground? Not bad, but impossible. To the dinners and parties of her social circle, Hauser was not invited. And they did not yet have an agent inside her circle who could find a way to get him there. Down the hall, another Gestapo officer was working on the recruitment of a weak and venal member of the group--they were everywhere, but one had to fish them out--as an informant, but he wasn't yet theirs. So, no parties. That left the Krebs home, in Dahlem.

  Alarm bells went off in Hauser's mind. "Darling, the Gestapo came to see me today." What? To my house? To my home? The home of the important Colonel Krebs? Of the Wehrmacht? An organization that didn't care for the Nazis and loathed the SS. No, a simple telephone call from Krebs, going upward into the lofty heaven of the General Staff, and Hauser would be shooting Poles until they shot him. Those people were crazy, there was absolutely no dealing with them. So, better not to offend Colonel Krebs.

  However ...

  ... if the Krebs woman was involved with an escape operation, and Hauser pretty much knew she was, would the husband not be aware of it? And, Hauser reasoned, if he was, would his first instinct not be to protect her? How would he do that? By calling attention to the fact that the Gestapo considered her a 'person of interest'? Or, maybe, by hushing the whole thing up? And how would he do that? By telling her to end it. Stop what you're doing, or our whole lives will come crashing down around us.

  Hauser, in the midst of speculation, usually looked out the window, but that morning the glass was coated with frost and he found himself staring instead at the photograph of his father, the mustached Dusseldorf policeman, that stood on his desk. So, Papa, what is the safest way for Albert? Papa knew. The list! True. What mattered was the list. It couldn't keep shrinking because, if it did, so much for Hauser. Safer, in the long run, to have a chat with the Krebs woman.

  Who should he be? He would dress a little for the country, a hand-knit sweater under a jacket with leather buttons. A pipe? He'd never smoked a pipe in his life but how hard could it be to learn? No, Albert! A policeman with a Prussian haircut, sheared close on the sides--smoking a pipe? And then, clumsy with the thing, he'd likely burn a hole in the colonel's carpet.