Spies of the Balkans

the infinitely deflective Englishman. In fact, Zannis didn’t like Escovil, and Escovil knew it.

“Say, could we have lunch sometime?” Escovil said, trying to be casual, not succeeding.

What do you want? “We might, I’m pretty busy myself. Try me at the office-you have the number?”

“I think I might …”

I’ll bet you do.

“… somewhere. Roxanne put it on a scrap of paper.”

Escovil stood there, smiling at him, not going away.

“Are you writing articles?” Zannis asked, seeking safe ground.

“Trying to. I’ve been to all sorts of monasteries, got monks coming out of my ears. Went to one where they haul you up the side of a cliff; that’s the only way to get there. Just a basket and a frayed old rope. I asked the priest, ‘When do you replace the rope?’ Know what he said?”

“What?”

“When it breaks!” Escovil laughed, a loud haw-haw with teeth showing.

“Well, that’s a good story,” Zannis said, “as long as you’re not the one in the basket.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Tasia was headed toward him. “We’ll talk later,” he said to Escovil, and turned to meet her.

“I’m going home,” she said.

“Could you stay a while?”

“I guess I could. Why?”

“I’m the guest of honor, I can’t leave yet.”

“True,” she said. She met his eyes, no smile to be seen but it was playing with the corners of her mouth. “Then I’ll stay. But not too long, Costa. I don’t really know these people.”

He touched her arm, lightly, with two fingers. “Just a little while,” he said.

She had a large apartment, near the city hall and obviously expensive. One always wondered about Tasia and money but she never said anything about it. Maybe her family, he thought. Once inside, she fed her cats, poured two small glasses of ouzo, and sat Zannis on a white couch. Settling herself at the other end, she curled into the corner, kicked off her shoes, rested her legs on the cushions, said, “Salut,” and raised her glass.

After they drank she said, “Mmm. I wanted that all night-I hate drinking wine. Take your shoes off, put your feet up. That’s better, right? Parties hurt your feet? They do mine-high heels, you know? I’m such a peasant. Oh yes, rub harder, good … good … don’t stop, yes, there … ahh, that’s perfect, now the other one, wouldn’t want it to feel neglected … yes, just like that, a little higher, maybe … no, I meant higher, keep going, keep going … … no, don’t take them all the way off, just down, just below my ass … there, perfect, you’ll like that later. Remember?”

He was tired the following day, and nothing seemed all that important. It had been a long while between lovers for Tasia, as it had for Zannis, they were both intent on making up for lost time, and did. But then, a little after eleven, on what seemed like just another morning at work, he got something else he’d wanted. Wanted much more than he’d realized.

A letter. Carried by the postman, who appeared at the door of the office. Not his usual practice, the mail was typically delivered to a letter box in the building’s vestibule, but not that day, that day the postman hauled his leather bag up five flights of stairs, came to Zannis’s desk, took a moment to catch his breath, held up an envelope, and said, “Is this for you?”

Obviously a business letter, the return address printed in the upper left corner:

Hofbau und Sohn Maschinenfabrik GmbH

28, Helgenstrasse

Brandenburg

DEUTSCHLAND

With a typewritten address:

Herr C. N. Zannis

Behilfliches Generaldirektor

Das Royale Kleidersteller

122, Via Egnatia

Salonika

HELLAS

“Yes,” Zannis said. “That’s for me.” The letter was from, apparently, a manufacturer of industrial knitting machines in Brandenburg-not far from Berlin-to the assistant general manager of the Royale Garment Company in Salonika. Well done, he thought.

The postman leaned toward Zannis and spoke in a confidential voice. “I don’t care if you want to do this kind of thing. These days … well, you know what I mean. But I almost took this back to the post office, so in future leave me a note in the letter box, all right?”

“I will,” Zannis said. “But if you’d keep an eye out for, for this sort of arrangement, I’d appreciate it.”

The postman winked. “Count on me,” he said.

As the postman left, Zannis slit the envelope with a letter opener, carefully, and slid out a single sheet of folded commercial stationery; the address printed at the top of the page, the text typewritten below.

30 November 1940

Dear Sir:

I refer to your letter of 17 November.

We are in receipt of your postal money order for RM 232.

I am pleased to inform you that 4 replacement motors, 11 replacement spindles, and 14 replacement bobbins for our model 25-C knitting machine have been shipped to you by rail as of this date.

Thank you for your order. Hofbau und Sohn trusts you will continue to be satisfied with its products.

Yours truly,

S. Weickel

“Sibylla?” Zannis said. He was about to ask her about an iron. Then he stopped cold. She said, “Yes?” but he told her it was nothing, he’d take care of it himself.

Because he saw the future.

Because there was some possibility that the darkest theories of the war’s evolution were correct: Germany would rescue the dignity of her Italian partner and invade Greece. Yes, the British would send an expeditionary force, would honor her treaty with an ally. But Zannis well knew what had happened in Belgium and France-the chaotic retreat from Dunkirk. So it hadn’t worked then, and it might not work this time. The Greek army would fight hard, but it would be overwhelmed; they had no answer to German armour and aircraft. Salonika would be occupied, and its people would resist. He would resist. And that meant, what? It meant clandestine leaflets and radio, it meant sabotage, it meant killing Germans. Which would bring reprisal, and investigation, and interrogation. Saltiel and Sibylla might be questioned, so he could not, would not, compromise them, endanger them, with information they should not have. If they knew, they were guilty.

So Zannis left the office at noon, walked down to the market, found a stall with used irons in every state of age and decay, and bought the best electric model they had. “It works good,” the stall owner said.

“How do you know?”

“I can tell,” the man said. “I understand them. This one was left in the Hotel Lux Palace, and the settings are in English.”

Zannis walked back to his apartment, set the iron on his kitchen table, returned to the office, couldn’t bear to wait all afternoon, and went home early.

First, he practiced, scorched a few pieces of paper, finally set the dial on WARM. Then he laid the letter flat on a sheet of newspaper on the wooden table in the kitchen and pressed the iron down on the letter’s salutation. Nothing. He moved to the text in the middle-“I am pleased to inform you that 4 replacement motors”-but, again, nothing. No! A faint mark had appeared above the p of “pleased.” More heat. He turned the dial to LOW, waited as the iron warmed, pressed for a count of five, and produced parts of three letters. He tried once more, counting slowly to ten, and there it was: “… ress KALCHER UND KRO