Spies of the Balkans (28 page)

What wasn't in the newspapers:
BULGARIA CALLS FOR GENERAL MOBILIZATION!
And what, on the sixteenth of February, was:
BULGARIA SIGNS NON-AGGRESSION PACT WITH TURKEY
! Over his morning coffee, Zannis read a quote from the agreement about the two countries' intention "to continue their policy of confidence toward each other, which policy assures the security of peace and quiet in the Balkans in a most difficult moment, through mutual consideration of their security." Which meant: When Bulgaria invades Greece, Turkey will not join the fighting.
If
Bulgaria invades Greece? The Salonika journalist didn't think so. Neither did Zannis. And the phrase "peace and quiet in the Balkans" did not originate with either Bulgarian or Turkish diplomats, it was Hitler's phrase.

So, now everybody knew.

Three days later, on the nineteenth of February, some time after ten in the evening, Costa Zannis lay stretched out on his bed, trying not to think about Demetria. A restless reader, he'd put Inspector Maigret aside in favor of a novel by the Greek writer Kostykas, a lurid tale of love and murder on one of the islands south of the coast. A yacht anchors off a fishing village, an English aristocrat falls in love with a local fisherman. So, who killed Lady Edwina? He didn't care. Staring blankly at the page, he returned to the night at the hotel, watching Demetria as she slept, the goddess at rest, sleep having returned her face to the composure he'd seen in the backseat of the Rolls-Royce. But she wasn't at all as he'd thought--now he knew her for an avid and eager lover, without any inhibitions whatsoever. In the past, he'd viewed fellatio as a kind of favor, performed when a woman liked a man to the extent that she would do it to please him. Hah! Not true. He had been simultaneously excited and astonished as he'd watched her, as she'd raised her eyes, pausing for an instant, to meet his. Such recollections were not conducive to reading, and he was about to put the book aside when the telephone rang. It was her!

"Hello," he said, his voice reaching for tenderness in a single word.

"Costa ...?"

Not her. Some other woman.

"It's me, Roxanne."

Roxanne? Why now? The ballet school, the love affair, the sudden departure on a small plane--it seemed a long time ago, and over forever, but apparently not. "Why are you calling?"

"I must speak with you, Costa. Please don't hang up."

"Where are you?"

"Nearby. I can be at your apartment in a few minutes."

"Well ...." How to say no?

"We can't talk on the telephone. What I have to say is, private." She meant
secret
. "See you right away," she said, and hung up.

Now what?
But, in a general way, he knew. The newspaper stories told the tale: when the political tides shifted, certain deepwater creatures swam to the surface.

A few minutes later he heard a car. A black sedan, he saw out the window, which rolled to a stop in front of his building, there was barely room for it in Santaroza Lane. As the car's headlights went dark, a figure emerged from the passenger seat. Zannis headed for the stairs, Melissa watching him, to answer the knock at the street door.

Only a few months since he'd seen her, but she was not the same. Well dressed, as usual, with a horsewoman's lean body and weathered skin, but had there always been so many gray strands in her hair? And now her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. As they faced each other in the doorway, she offered him a forced smile and touched his arm with a gloved hand. Over her shoulder, he could see that the driver of the sedan had his face turned away.

In the apartment, she kept her raincoat on as they sat at the kitchen table. Zannis lit a cigarette and said, "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thanks. You're looking well."

"So are you."

"Forgive the sudden visit, will you?"

"Doesn't matter. I think I ought to let you know right away that I won't tell you any more about what went on in Paris than I told Escovil. I don't betray friends; it's that simple."

"We don't care, not now we don't; you can keep your secrets. Have you been reading the newspapers?"

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.

At six o'clock, on the evening of the first of March, Zannis joined the jostling crowd at a newspaper kiosk and eventually managed to buy an evening edition. In the five hours since he'd heard the report on the taverna radio, the situation had changed: armoured Wehrmacht divisions were said to be moving south, to take up positions on the Greek border. Well, as Saltiel had put it, that was that, and Zannis could no longer postpone telling his family they would have to leave Salonika. Newspaper in hand, he went looking for a taxi.

As the driver wound his way through the old Turkish quarter, past walled courtyards and ancient fountains, Zannis rehearsed what he would say, but there was no way to soften the blow. Still, in the event, it was not as bad as he'd feared. His mother insisted on feeding him, and then he explained what had to be done. The family must go to Alexandria, and go soon. There was a large Greek community in the city and he would give his mother enough money to secure an apartment in that quarter where, as he put it, "there are Greek shops and Orthodox churches and our language is spoken everywhere."

However, he would soon enough be fighting in the mountains of Macedonia, and he would not be able to send them any more money. He didn't say the word
charity
because, at that moment, he couldn't bear to. His mother, silent in the face of new and frightening difficulties, responded with a stoic nod, and Ari, who could not hide what he felt, was close to tears. But his grandmother, whose relatives had fought the Turks for decades, simply walked over to the table where she kept the sewing machine, removed its cloth cover, and said, "As long as we have this, my beloved Constantine, we shall not go hungry." And then, moved by his grandmother's example, Ari said, "I will find something, Costa. There's always something. Perhaps they have tram cars in Alexandria." Zannis, swept by emotion, looked away and did not answer. When he'd steadied himself, he said, "I will take you to the Egyptian legation tomorrow, so you will have the proper papers, and then I will buy the steamship tickets. After that, you should probably begin to pack."

Back at Santaroza Lane, as he stroked Melissa's great, noble head, his voice was gentle. "Well, my good girl, you will be going on a sea voyage."