Alan Furst: Spies of the Balkans

“What should we do?”

Toward the eastern end of the city, the smoke and thunder of an explosion; then, two seconds later, another one, closer, then, two seconds, another, each one marching toward them as bombs tumbled down from the clouds. Her arms tightened around him-all they could do was watch and, silently, count. Three blocks away, the roof of a building flashed and a wall fell into the street. One second, two. But there it stopped. From the far end of the corniche, long strings of orange tracer rounds floated upward, aimed at a dive-bomber headed directly at the battery. The gunners didn’t stop, the pilot didn’t pull up, and the plane caught fire just before it crashed into the guns.

After that, silence. Well to the east, where the oil storage tanks were located, the rolling black smoke of burning oil had climbed high into the air. “The railway station,” Zannis said. “Our only chance.” They dressed quickly and took the stairs down to the first floor, Zannis carrying Demetria’s suitcases.

In the lobby, the hotel staff and a few guests were gathered around a radio. “The Germans have set Belgrade on fire,” the bell captain said, “and they’re attacking Fort Rupel with paratroops, but the fort still holds.”

The Rupel Pass , Zannis thought, fifty miles north of Salonika. He’d found photographs of the fort carried by a German spy in the Albala spice warehouse, back in October. Now, if the Wehrmacht broke through, they’d be in the city in a few days. “Is there a train this morning?” Zannis said. “Headed east?”

The bell captain looked at his watch. “It’s gone. Should have left twenty minutes ago but who knows, this morning. Still, if they can run they will, that’s how it is with us.”

Zannis picked up Demetria’s suitcases. As he did he saw Sami Pal, sitting in a chair in the corner, reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee by his side. Sami Pal? The Hungarian gangster? At the Lux Palace? But Sami seemed to be doing well, wore an expensive sky-blue overcoat, and, absorbed in his reading, apparently did not see Zannis.

Out in the street, a carpet of shattered glass sparkled in the early light. “Off we go,” Zannis said. There were no taxis, no cars of any kind, though he could hear sirens in the distance. Demetria and Zannis moved at a fast trot, taking the corniche, coughing from the acrid smoke that hung in the air. “Are you all right?” Zannis said.

Demetria nodded, breathing hard, a line of soot around her mouth and below her nostrils. “We’ll get there,” she said.

It took fifteen minutes. The station had been hit-a hole in the roof and a black crater in the floor of the platform-but there was a train. Perhaps it had been scheduled to leave but people were still trying to jam themselves into the cars. A conductor stood by the door of one of the coaches. “Where’s it going?” Zannis said.

“It’s the Athens-Alexandroupolis Express, one stop at Kavala, but it may go all the way to Turkey.”

“Why would it go to Turkey?” Demetria said.

“Because it’s a Turkish train. Eventually it goes to Edirne, but, today …”

“Do we need tickets?” Zannis said.

The conductor laughed. “We don’t care this morning, try to get on if you can.”

The train was packed. At the far end, only four people were standing on the steps of the coach and there was room for one more. Demetria forced her way onto the first step, then put a foot on the second. Above her, a large angry man shoved her back. “No room up here,” he said. His face-pitted skin, a well-trimmed beard-was knotted with rage.

“Make a space for the lady, sir,” Zannis said. He started to help Demetria up to the step, but this time the man pushed with both hands on her shoulders. Zannis led her back down onto the platform, then turned, climbed on the first step and hit the man in the throat. The man made a choking noise, a woman screamed, and Zannis hit him again, knuckles extended, between the ribs, in the heart, and he folded in two. The woman next to him had to grab him or he would have fallen. “Now make room,” Zannis said. “Or I will finish this.”

The man moved aside, Demetria stood with one of the suitcases upended between her legs. Zannis was wondering what to do with the other suitcase when Demetria reached down and grabbed him by the lapel. “Please don’t leave me here,” she said. Beside her, the bearded man was staring at her with pure hatred. Zannis climbed up on the first step and held on to the railing, straddling the second suitcase. He would, he thought, get off at Kavala. When the train jerked forward, Zannis stumbled, put one foot on the platform, and, using the handrail, hauled himself back on. The train jerked again, the crowd on the platform was still trying to find a way to board. Somebody yelled, “The roof! Get on the roof!” Slowly, the train picked up speed. One more man climbed on the bottom step, forcing Zannis against the railing. “Beg pardon,” the man said.

“Can’t be helped,” Zannis said.

An hour passed, then another. They crossed from Macedonia into the province of Thrace, the train chugged past flat farm fields, always twelve miles from the coast. The Turks had built this railroad in the days of the Ottoman Empire and set the tracks inland so that military transport trains could not be bombarded by enemy naval vessels. Zannis hung on every time the train rounded a curve, the gravel by the track only inches from his feet, his hand freezing where it gripped the iron railing. They would soon be in Kavala, where he’d intended to leave the train, but he had two problems. The bearded ape above him, swaying next to Demetria, and the Turkish border post-if the train went that far. Demetria had no entry visa and Zannis well remembered what had happened to Emilia Krebs when she’d tried to bribe her way past the customs officials.

In the event, it was the train’s engineer who made the decision. He did not slow down for Kavala, he sped up. Zannis soon saw why. On the station platform, a huge mob of people yelled and waved as the train rumbled past them.

And then, another two hours on, at Alexandroupolis station, the same.

“Where’s he taking us?” the man next to Zannis said.

“Edirne. Turkey.”

“Well, my wife is waiting for me in Alexandroupolis. She will be extremely annoyed.”

Zannis shrugged. “We’re at war,” he said.

Edirne. 3:50 P.M. Slowly, the passengers climbed down off the train and joined a long snake of a line, maintained by Greek and Turkish gendarmes who tapped their palms with wooden batons by way of enforcing discipline. Rumors ran up and down the line-some people had visas, and they were allowed to enter Turkey. Those who didn’t were being sent back to Greece. This was apparently the case, since a crowd of passengers, looking weary and defeated, began to gather on the Greek side of the customs post.

“Will we get in?” Demetria said.

“We’ll try.”

“Do you need money?”

“I have Swiss francs, more than enough.” If they’ll take them .

But they wouldn’t.

When Zannis and Demetria approached the desk, the Turkish officer said, “Passports and visas, please.”

“Here are the passports,” Zannis said. “We have no visas.”

“You will return to Greece. Next!”

Zannis brought his hand from his pocket, holding a wad of Swiss francs. The officer met his eyes and began to tap a pencil on his table. “If you dare-” he said.

“Excuse me.” This was reeled off in several languages: German, Spanish, French, and English, by a man who had somehow appeared at the table. The officer stared at him-what did he want? Who was he? Bald, with a fringe of dark hair, eyeglasses, and a sparse mustache, he wasn’t much: a short, inconsequential little fellow in a tired suit, Mr. Nobody from Nowhere. Now that he had their attention, he consulted a slip of paper in his hand and, speaking to Zannis in French, said, “You are Strathos?”