Alan Furst: Spies of the Balkans

Out of the corner of his eye, Zannis could see that Roxanne had the glow of a woman whose two attractive male friends are getting along well. He nodded, now I understand , then said, “Still, it must be hard to find places to write about, with a war going on.”

“Only the neutrals. ‘On Skis in Frosty Switzerland!’ ‘A Visit to Sunny Spain!’ And, truth to tell, it’s hard to reach even those countries.”

“At least there is Salonika,” Zannis said. “Or anywhere in Greece, or Turkey.”

“And so I’m here. Not for the old come-and-see-it travel writing, but more wishful thinking, these days, a reminder of better times.”

“Just for readers in Alexandria?”

“Oh, I expect the pieces will appear in the British papers. In the Daily Express anyhow, they’ve always run my stories.”

“Well, if I can be of help … Where are you staying?”

“I’ve been lucky, Roxanne helped me find a place in a fishing village down on the peninsula. It’s all whitewashed houses, little alleys with stone steps, cypress trees-you know.”

“Picturesque,” Roxanne said, in English.

“Gawd, Roxy, don’t say that word.”

“It means …?” Zannis said.

“Cute.” Now she was tormenting Escovil. Then, to Zannis, “Beautiful in an old-fashioned way.”

“They are beautiful, these villages,” Zannis said. “And you can buy wonderful food from the fishermen. By the way, I meant what I said, about help. Having your own place, it sounds like you’ll be here for a while.”

“Maybe a month-it’s a kind of working vacation. And, frankly, I’m glad to get away. Alexandria’s impossible now-soldiers and sailors everywhere, a lot of the old families have left for the countryside.” He paused, reflectively, then answered a question Zannis hadn’t asked. “I did try to join up, in ‘thirty-nine, but …” He tapped his heart, then shook his head at the idiocy of it all. “Hard to believe they turned me down-I’ve climbed mountains, run for trains, ridden camels-but they say my heart’s no good.”

Liar , Zannis thought, with a sympathetic smile.

Roxanne put a hand on Escovil’s arm. “You have a perfectly fine heart, my dear.”

“I think so. Anyhow, we’re fighting the Italians now, out in the Libyan desert. Pretty much a stalemate, but if things go wrong I expect they might reconsider.”

“Until then,” Zannis said, “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Salonika, Mr. Escovil.”

“Please, call me Francis.”

It was very late, not long until dawn, in Roxanne’s saggy bed at the Pension Bastasini. Tired-from too many people-and groggy-from too much wine-Zannis had intended to drop Roxanne off and go back to his apartment, but she’d insisted he come up for a drink, and one thing had led to another. Parties always aroused her, so she’d been avid, and that had had a powerful effect on him. Which led in turn to her present condition: content, feline, and sleepy, her damp middle clamped to his thigh as they lay facing each other on their sides. Intimate, and warm, but temporary. In time, he knew, she would move a little, and then a little more. But not quite yet, so Zannis gazed idly at the red glow at the end of his cigarette.

“What went on with you and Elias?” she said.

“Nothing much.”

“It looked like more than gossip.”

“Oh, his misspent youth.”

“Misspent youth? Misspent entire life, you mean, the old satyr.”

“He’s tried to make love to you?”

“Of course. To every woman he meets.”

“Well, it wasn’t about that. He fought with the guerrillas, the klephts, a long time ago, and we talked about it. Briefly.”

“Hardly misspent, from the Greek point of view.”

Oh let’s talk politics . Instead of answering, Zannis yawned.

“You’re not going to sleep, are you?”

“Not yet.”

“What did you think of Francis?”

“Pleasant fellow. And a spy, of course.”

“He is? Francis? ”

“Yes, can’t you tell?”

“No. How do you know?”

“Silly story, about a working vacation in the middle of a war.”

“Really.” She thought it over. “A British spy.”

“Or a secret agent. This, that, the other thing, call it whatever you like, but he’s working for one of the intelligence services, and maybe for a long time. Is he really a travel writer?”

“Oh yes, and top class. Up there with Robert Byron and Leigh Fermor and Waugh. Are they all spies?”

“It’s possible. More likely they were recruited, one, two, or all of them, after ‘thirty-eight, when it was pretty damn clear to everyone but Chamberlain that Britain was going to have to go to war.”

“Will you, I don’t know, will you watch him?”

“I doubt it. The British are our friends. In fact, the British are just about our only friends. I don’t know what he wants here, but I don’t think he, I should say they , mean us harm.” Tired of the conversation, he lowered his head and brushed her nipple with his lips. “Anyhow you’re British, and you’re my friend.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, a luxuriant stretch and then, down below, she moved. Ran her hand beneath his arm and pressed it against his backside, drawing him closer and resettling her legs around his thigh. Said a barely audible “Mm,” and again moved, slid.

27 October. Late in the afternoon, a call from one of the detectives-detective-inspector in rank-at the CID, Salonika’s Criminal Investigation Division. One of Salonika’s most prominent citizens, a banker, had not shown up at his bank for three days. His second-in-command had telephoned, no answer, then gone out to the house and knocked on the door. Again, no answer. Back at the bank, it was discovered that a great deal of cash-large-denomination drachma notes, Swiss francs, British pounds-was missing.

Zannis knew the detective, who was young for the job, ambitious and vain, and wore a vain little mustache and a very expensive fawn-colored hat. He picked Zannis up at the office and drove him out to the city’s fanciest quarter, where, in front of a splendid villa-portico, columns-a locksmith was waiting. “Thought I’d better call him,” the detective said; this was not a neighborhood where one kicked in doors. Likely they couldn’t have kicked it in even if they’d wanted to. The villa, built by some Turkish bey around the turn of the century, was massive and well-secured.

Even better inside: dark, silent, perfectly maintained, and, Zannis’s sense of smell told him, not host to a corpse. Thank God for that . Only a note for the maids, in the kitchen. Here were two thousand drachma for each of them-a lot of money, almost two hundred dollars-thank you for being such good girls, we’ll be back some day. The money itself was gone, the house was clean, sheets covered the furniture.

They searched the rooms, finding wardrobe trunks but no hand luggage. “Do you have a theory, sir?” the detective asked. “Been stealing for years, perhaps?”

“Always possible,” Zannis said. But he knew better; he knew what this meant and the more he thought about it the more he knew. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so good, tightness in the chest. He went to the kitchen cabinet, found a glass, filled it with cold water, and drank most of it. Then he lit a cigarette. The detective went to the parlor and returned with an ashtray.

When he was done with the cigarette, they continued the search. No passports, no bankbooks, a dog’s rubber ball with a bell inside it but no dog and no dog leash. On a desk, family photographs and three empty frames. In the wife’s dresser, expensive scarves but no underwear. Fashionable dresses in the closet, and three empty hangers. “Very nice,” the detective said. “Quilted hangers.” A datebook in the desk drawer. Pages from 15 October to 5 November cut, not ripped, out.