Alan Furst - Spies of the Balkans

The prostitute was watching Zannis as he read and said, “Terrible thing.”

Zannis mumbled an assent-it was too early in the morning to talk, and, once he went to work, a full day’s talking lay ahead of him.

Turning to the seaman, she said, “Don’t you think? Shooting at a mayor?”

The man raised his hands and shrugged; he did not understand Greek.

“Always something here,” the waiter said. “They never catch them, people like that.”

But, Zannis found when he reached the office, they already had. Sort of. “What they say in the papers”-Saltiel had his feet up on the desk, his jacket over the back of the chair-“is that he was shot at, yesterday morning, while getting into his car. True, as far as it goes. But the detective who questioned the mayor told me that he was getting into the backseat, because he has a driver, and his left foot was up on the floorboard as he bent over to go through the door, with his briefcase in his left hand, swung slightly behind him. Try it, Costa, and you’ll see what went on.”

“What?”

“The way the detective sees it, somebody tried to shoot him in the backside.”

“A warning?”

“More like a lesson. I talked to some people, especially the mayor’s secretary, who knows all, and what happened is that the mayor’s wife caught him in bed with his girlfriend and made him cut her loose. Girlfriend doesn’t like it-she thought she was the one and only-so she goes out and hires somebody to pop him one in the ass. Or maybe she did it herself. She’s nobody to fool with, according to the secretary.”

“The mayor never turned around? Never saw anybody?”

“At the time they thought, the mayor and the driver, they’d heard a car backfire. Or at least that’s what they told the detectives.” Saltiel raised his eyebrows. “According to the mayor, he didn’t realize he’d been shot at until he got to his desk and opened the briefcase. The bullet stopped right in the middle of Papadopoulos v. City of Salonika.”

“So, case closed,” Zannis said.

“Not around here, it isn’t. The mayor can’t have that in the newspapers, so the investigation is transferred to this office and we’re supposed to question a few Communists, or Macedonian terrorists, or whatever we can think up. At least tell the press we’re doing it.”

“Maybe a disappointed office seeker,” Zannis said.

“Yes, that’s good. Or a lunatic.”

“Well, we’re not going hunting for lunatics, but somebody better talk to the girlfriend and tell her not to try that again.”

“Somebody?” Saltiel said.

“All right, Gabi, get me a telephone number.”

There was more that had gone on in his absence. Saltiel opened his desk drawer and handed Zannis a message from Emilia Krebs. In ochre letters above the lines of the typed commercial paragraphs she said that three men and two women would be leaving Berlin on the eleventh of February, adding that she had no knowledge of the man seen on the platform of the Skoplje railway station. The secret writing was far more legible than what Zannis had been able to produce. “Who heated the letter?” he asked Saltiel.

“Sibylla. I never used an iron in my life.”

“Well done, Sibylla,” Zannis said. “Did you send the teletypes?”

“I did,” Sibylla said. “They were confirmed, and I made copies for you.”

“Thank you,” Zannis said. “And I mean it.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” she said, both surprised and pleased that Zannis was so grateful. “I’ll do the next one too, if you like.”

As Saltiel returned to his desk, Zannis prepared to telephone Demetria’s house. He’d almost done it the night before, because the time he’d spent in Paris-the Germans, the shooting, the escape-had had its effect on him. On the flight to Sofia he’d thought, in fact told himself, your time is running out , and more than once. Now he was going to reach for her, any way he could, and to hell with the consequences. But, as his hand moved toward the telephone, it rang.

“Yes? Hello?”

“Hello. I’m calling from the Bastasini.”

Escovil . “And?”

“I understand you were tired last night, but I would like to talk to you, as soon as possible.” Escovil was trying to sound casual, but his voice was strained and tense.

“I can’t, right now,” Zannis said, cold as ice. “I’m busy.”

The line hissed. “Some people I know are very, concerned.”

“Why? They got what they wanted.”

“They’d like to know-the details.”

“Ask him.”

“Um, he isn’t sure how it worked. So they’re, well, anxious to hear your story. And this would be better in person, not on the telephone.”

Instead of attacking Escovil, because the urge to do that was very powerful, Zannis took a deep breath. “You know where I am.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you downstairs, in the vestibule, in ten minutes. There’s something I have to do first, so you may have to wait for me.”

When Escovil answered, it sounded as though he were reading a sentence he’d written out beforehand. “Actually, my friends would like to meet you. To thank you. In person.”

“Come over here in ten minutes, and come alone. Understood?”

Escovil hesitated, then said, “I’m on my way.”

Zannis hung up, but didn’t leave the receiver on the cradle long enough for a dial tone, so had to do it again.

A maid answered.

“Is Madam Vasilou there?”

“Gone away.” This was a different maid; she barely spoke Greek.

“What do you mean, ‘gone away’?”

She tried harder, raising her voice. “They gone.”

“Where did they go?”

“Gone away,” the maid said, and hung up.

Zannis made himself wait ten minutes, then walked down the stairs. He couldn’t believe what had happened; where were they? Had they left the country? He wanted to break something. And here, on top of it all, was Escovil. Who hadn’t put on a coat, had instead looped a woolen scarf around his neck, stuffed the ends inside his buttoned jacket, and turned the collar up. With the addition of brown leather gloves, he looked like a country squire going up to London on an autumn day.

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.”