Alan Furst - Spies of the Balkans

He nodded.

“The situation is worse than what’s written. Bulgaria will sign the pact, some time in the next two weeks. They’ve asked Moscow for help but, to turn the Bulgarian expression around, Uncle Ivan will not be coming up the river. Not this time, he won’t. And, when that’s done, Yugoslavia is next. The regent, Prince Paul, doesn’t care; he stays in Florence and collects art. The real power is in the hands of the premier, Cvetkovic, who is sympathetic to the Nazis, and he will also sign. Then it’s your turn.”

“Not much we can do about it,” Zannis said.

“Unless …”

“Unless?”

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “There is some reason to hope there will be a coup d’etat in Belgrade.”

Zannis was startled and he showed it-such a possibility had never occurred to him.

“A last chance to stop Hitler in the Balkans,” she said.

“Will it stop him?”

“He may not want to fight the Serbs-most of Croatia will side with Hitler, their way out of the Yugoslav state.”

Zannis wanted to believe it. “The Serbs fight hard.”

“Yes. And Hitler knows it. In the Great War, German armies tore Serbia to pieces; people on the street in Belgrade were wearing window curtains, because the German soldiers stole everything . The Serbs remember-they remember who hurts them. So, for the Wehrmacht, it’s a trap.”

“And Greece?”

“I don’t know. But if Hitler doesn’t want war in the Balkans, and the Greek army withdraws from Albania …”

From Zannis, a grim smile. “You don’t understand us.”

“We do try,” she said, very British in the way she put it. “We understand this much, anyhow, Greeks don’t quit. Which is why I’m here, because the same spirit might lead you to help us, in Belgrade.”

“Us,” Zannis said. “So then, your operation.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that, but we can help. And, if the Serbs mean to do it, we must help.”

“And I’m to be part of this?”

“Yes.”

Zannis crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Why me? How the hell did I ever become so … desirable?”

“You were always desirable, dear.” She smiled briefly, a real one this time. Then it vanished. “But you are desirable in other ways. You can be depended on, for one, and you have real courage, for another.”

“Why are you here, Roxanne? I mean you, and not Francis Escovil?”

“He does the best he can but he’s an amateur. I’m a professional.”

“For a long time?”

“Yes. Forever, really.”

Zannis sighed. There was no way to refuse. “Well then, since you’re a professional, perhaps you could be more specific.”

“We know you have friends in the Yugoslav police, and we will need to control certain elements in the army General Staff, not for long, forty-eight hours, but they can’t be allowed to get in our way.”

Zannis was puzzled. “Isn’t it always the army that stages the coup?”

“Air force.” She paused, then said, “There are more particulars, names and so forth, but first make certain of your friends, then contact Escovil and you’ll be told the rest. You won’t know the exact day, so you’ll have to move quickly when we’re ready.” She looked at her watch, then, as she stood, she raised a small leather shoulder bag from her lap and Zannis saw that it sagged, as though it carried something heavy. What was in there? A gun? “I have to say good night now,” she said. “My evening continues.”

He walked her as far as the top of the stairway. “Tell me one more thing,” he said. “When you came to Salonika, was it me you were after? A target? A recruit? It doesn’t matter now, you can tell me, I won’t be angry.”

She stopped, two steps below him, and said, “No, what I told you at the airfield was the truth-I was in Salonika for something else. Then I met you and what happened, happened.” She stayed where she was, and when at last she spoke her voice was barely audible and her eyes were cast down. “I was in love with you.”

As she hurried down the stairs, Zannis returned to his kitchen and lit another cigarette. In the street below, an engine started, lights went on, and the sedan drove away.

1 March. Zannis and Saltiel went to lunch at Smyrna Betrayed and ate the grilled octopus, which was particularly sweet and succulent that afternoon. Always, a radio played by the cash register at the bar, local music, bouzouki songs, an undercurrent to the noisy lunch crowd. Zannis hardly noticed the radio but then, as the waiter came to take away their plates, he did. Because-first at the bar, next at the nearby tables, finally everywhere in the room-people stopped talking. The restaurant was now dead silent, and the barman reached over and turned up the volume. It was a news broadcast. King Boris of Bulgaria had signed the Axis pact; German troops were moving across the Danube on pontoon bridges constructed during the last week in February. The Wehrmacht was not there as an occupying force, King Boris had stated, because Bulgaria was now an ally of Germany. They were there to assure stability “elsewhere in the Balkans.” Then the radio station returned to playing music.

But the taverna was not as it had been. Conversation was subdued, and many of the customers signaled for a check, paid, and went out the door. Some of them hadn’t finished their lunch. “Well, that’s that,” Saltiel said.

“When are you leaving, Gabi? Are you, leaving?”

“My wife and I, yes,” Saltiel said. “Is your offer, of Turkish visas, still possible?”

“It is. What about your kids?”

“My sons talked it over, got their money out of the bank, and now they have Spanish citizenship. It was expensive, in the end I had to help, but they did it. So they can go and live in Spain, though they have no idea how they will support their families, or they can remain here, because they believe they’ll be safe, as Spanish citizens, if the Germans show up.”

Zannis nodded-that he understood, not that he agreed-and started to speak, but Saltiel raised his hands and said, “Don’t bother, Costa. They’ve made their decision.”

“I’ll go to the legation this afternoon,” Zannis said.

“What about your family?”

“That’s next.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Saltiel said.

They paid the check and returned to the Via Egnatia. At the office, Zannis draped his jacket over his chair and prepared to work but then, recalling something he’d meant to do for a while, went back down the five flights of stairs. On the ground floor he passed beneath the staircase to a door that opened onto a small courtyard. Yes, it was as he remembered: six metal drums for the garbage. Two of them had been in use for a long time and their sides had rusted through in places, so there would be a flow of air, just in case you wanted to burn something.

Late that afternoon, the bell on the teletype rang and, as Zannis, Saltiel, and Sibylla turned to watch it, the keys clattered, the yellow paper unrolled, and a message appeared. It was from Pavlic, in Zagreb. Zannis had been worrying about him over the last few days because he’d sent Pavlic a teletype-in their coded way requesting a meeting-the morning after Roxanne said, “Make certain of your friends,” but there had been no answer. Now Pavlic explained, saying he’d received the previous communication but had been unable to respond until their machine was repaired. However, as he put it: PER YOUR REQUEST OF 23 FEBRUARY WILL ALERT LOCAL AUTHORITIES TO APPREHEND SUBJECT PANOS AT ARRIVAL NIS RAILWAY STATION 22:05 HOURS ON 4 MARCH

Zannis had only inquired if they could meet, but Pavlic had sensed the import of Zannis’s query and set a time for the meeting. Nis was seven hours by rail from Zagreb and four hours from Salonika, but this business had to be done in person.