Alan Furst: Spies of the Balkans

Now Zannis headed for the taxi, gave the driver some money, thanked him, and sent him home. When Zannis slid into the passenger seat of the Skoda, Saltiel said, “So, what’s going on?”

Zannis repeated the port captain’s story, then said, “As long as he doesn’t enter the city, we leave him alone. We’ll give him a few hours to do something, then, if he’s still holed up in the ship, I’ll get some detectives to replace us.”

“What if he waits until morning, strolls down here and shows a passport to the control officer?”

“Follow him,” Zannis said. “I don’t want him running loose in the city.”

“German, you said.”

“Reads a German newspaper, who knows what he is.”

“A spy, you think?”

“Could be. The Turkish captain more or less said he was. With a look.”

Saltiel laughed. “The Levant,” he said. “A look indeed-I wouldn’t live anywhere else.” After a moment he added, “What’s a spy after in Salonika? Any idea?”

“Who knows. Maybe just the war, coming south.”

“Don’t say such things, Costa. Down here, at the ass-end of the Balkans, who cares?”

“Not Hitler. Not according to the newspapers. And he has to know what goes on here, up in the mountains, when we’re occupied.”

Saltiel looked thoughtful. “Still,” he said.

“What?”

“Well, I have a nephew who teaches at the technical school. Geography, among other things. A smart boy, Manni, he says that as long as Hitler stays allied with the Russians, we’re safe. But, if he attacks them, we could be in for it. On the map of Europe we’re the right flank-if somebody’s headed east, the right flank that goes to the Caucasus, for the oil. Anyhow, that’s Manni’s theory.”

“Believe it?”

Saltiel shrugged. “Hitler’s cunning, I wouldn’t say intelligent, but cunning. Jews he attacks, Russians he leaves alone.”

Zannis nodded, it sounded reasonable. “Before I forget,” he said, “did you bring what I asked for?”

“In the glove box.”

Zannis opened the glove box and took out a Walther PPK automatic, the German weapon preferred by Balkan detectives. There were bright metal scratches on the base of the grip. “What have you been doing with this?”

“Hanging pictures,” Saltiel said. “The last time I saw my hammer, one of the grandkids was playing with it.”

“Kids,” Zannis said, with a smile.

“I’m blessed,” Saltiel said. “You ought to get busy, Costa, you’re not getting any younger.”

Zannis’s smile widened. “With Roxanne?” he said, naming his English girlfriend.

“Well …,” Saltiel said. “I guess not.”

8:20 P.M. It had started to rain again, a few lightning flashes out in the Aegean. “You awake?” Zannis said.

“Just barely.”

“You want a nap, go ahead.”

“No thanks. Maybe later.”

10:30 P.M. “By the way,” Zannis said, “did you telephone Madam Pappas?”

“This morning, about eleven.”

“And she said?”

“That she hated her husband and she’s glad he’s dead.”

“That’s honest.”

“I thought so.”

“Anything else?”

“No, she was getting ready to scream at me, so I got off the phone-you said to go easy.”

Zannis nodded. “Let the detectives deal with her.”

“She kill him?”

“She did.”

“Naughty girl.”

1:15 A.M.

Quiet, in the city behind them. Only faint music from the tavernas on the seafront corniche and the creaking of the pier as the tide worked at the pilings. The sound was hypnotic and Zannis fought to stay awake. He took a cigarette from the flat box in his pocket-a Papastratos No. 1, top of the line in Greece-and struck a wooden match alight with his thumbnail. Expensive, these things, so a luxury for him. He made good money now, Vangelis had seen to that, but good money for a cop, which wasn’t very much, not with four people to feed. His younger brother Ari, for Aristotle, sometimes made a few drachmas by carrying messages in the city. Poor soul, he did the best he could but he wasn’t quite right, had always been “different,” and the family had long ago accepted him for who he was.

It was getting smoky in the car and Saltiel rolled down the window. “Do you think there are men on the moon?” he said.

“I don’t know. I suppose anything’s possible.”

“They were arguing about it, yesterday, in the barbershop.”

“Little green men? With one eye? Like in Buck Rogers?”

“I guess so.”

“Somebody in your barbershop thinks those movies are true?”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“I’d change barbers, if I were you.”

3:30 A.M.

“Wake up, Gabi.”

“I wasn’t sleeping. Not really.”

“Here he comes.”

Of medium height, the man wore a raincoat and carried a briefcase. He had a hard, bony, chinless face beneath a hat with the brim tilted over his eyes. As he neared the end of the pier, Zannis and Saltiel ducked down below the windshield. By now they could hear footsteps, determined and in a hurry, that approached, then faded away from them, headed around the east side of the customshouse, toward the city-to the west lay the warehouse district and the railway station. Zannis made sure of the Walther in the pocket of his jacket, slid out of the passenger seat, and was careful not to slam the door, leaving it ajar. “Give me thirty seconds, Gabi,” he said. “Then follow along, nice and slow, headlights off, and keep your distance.”

Zannis walked quickly to the east side of the customshouse, paused at the corner, and had a quick look around it. Nobody. Where the hell had he gone? There was only one street he could have taken, which served the warehouses. Zannis, moving at a fast trot, reached the street, turned the corner, and there he was-there somebody was-about two blocks away. Now Zannis realized he was getting wet, put up his umbrella, and moved into the shelter of the high brick wall of the first warehouse. Up ahead the German sped on, with long strides, as though, Zannis thought, he was taking his evening constitutional on a path in some Deutschland forest. A few seconds later the Skoda turned the corner behind him and Zannis signaled, waving his hand backward, for Saltiel to stay where he was. Zannis could hear the engine idling as the Skoda rolled to a stop. Could the German hear it? Doubtful, especially in the rain, but Zannis couldn’t be sure-the street was dead silent.

Then the German glanced over his shoulder and turned right, down a narrow alley. He’d likely seen Zannis, but so what? Just a man with an umbrella, trudging along, shoulders hunched, on a miserable night. Zannis walked past the alley, ignoring it, eyes on the ground ahead of him, until he passed the far corner and moved out of sight. He didn’t stop there but went farther down the street-if he could hear the German, the German could hear him-then looked for a place to hide. He saw a loading dock across from him and moved quickly, soaking one foot in a puddle between broken cobblestones, hurried up the steps and stood in the angle of the shuttered entryway and the wall, which was blind from the street-as far as the alley, anyhow. The German wasn’t going anywhere, Zannis realized, not from this alley, where, a few years earlier, a porter had stabbed Hamid the moneylender in an argument over a few lepta-not even a drachma-and it was blocked by a high stone wall covered with a wisteria vine. Hamid had staggered as far as the wall and pulled at the wisteria, thinking to climb over, but the vine came away from the crumbling stone and he died right there. The porter covered him up with the vine but in a few hours-it was summertime-Hamid had made his presence known and the crime was discovered. A sad business, Zannis thought, the moneylenders preyed on the waterfront laborers like hawks on pigeons. Was this a law of nature? Perhaps it was. A real hawk had once tried to get at one of his little brother’s canaries, in a cage on the windowsill, and bent the hell out of the wire frame.