Spies of the Balkans

…”

Ten minutes later he had the whole message, in tiny sepia-colored block letters between the lines of the commercial text:

Reply to address KALCHER UND KRONN, attorneys, 17, Arbenstrasse, Berlin. Write as H. H. STRAUB. 26 December man and wife traveling under name HARTMANN arrive Budapest from Vienna via 3-day excursion steamer LEVERKUSEN. He 55 years old, wears green tie, she 52 years old, wears green slouch hat. Can you assist Budapest to Belgrade? Believe last shipment lost there to Gestapo agents. Can you find boat out your port? Please help.

Last shipment meant the Rosenblum sisters, he thought, unless there had been others he didn’t know about. Also lost. Budapest? How the hell could he help in Budapest? He didn’t know a soul in Hungary; why would he? Why would Emilia Krebs think he did? What was wrong with this woman? No, calm down, he told himself. It isn’t arrogance. It is desperation. And, on second thought, there might be one possibility. Anyhow, he would try.

He never really slept, that night. Staring at the ceiling gave way to fitful dozing and awful dreams which woke him, to once again stare at the ceiling, his mind racing. Finally he gave up and was at the office by seven-thirty. December weather had reached them: the clammy chill of the Mediterranean winter, the same grisaille, gray days, gray city, that he’d come to know in Paris. He turned on the lights in the office and set out his box of five-by-eight cards. Yes, his memory had not betrayed him: Sami Pal. His real-as far as anybody knew-Hungarian name, Pal not an uncommon surname in Hungary. Or, perhaps, a permanent alias.

Szamuel “Sami” Pal. Born Budapest 1904. Hungarian passport B91-427 issued 3 January, 1922, possibly counterfeit or altered. Also uses Nansen passport HK33156. Resident in Salonika since 4 May, 1931 (renewable visa) at various rooming houses. Operates business at 14, Vardar Square, cellar room rented from tenant above, Madame Zizi, Fortune Teller and Astrologer. Business known as Worldwide Agency-Confidential Inquiries. Telephone Salonika 38-727.

According to Salonika police records: investigated (not charged) for removal of documents from office of French consul, May ‘33. Arrested, September ‘34, accused by British oil executive R. J. Wilson of espionage approach to valet. Released, valet refused to testify, likely bribed. Arrested June ‘38, accused of selling stolen passport. Released when witness could not be found. Investigated by State Security Bureau (Spiraki) November ‘39. (Salonika police consulted.) No conclusion reported to this office.

Previous to arrival in Salonika, Sami Pal is thought to have escaped from prison, city unknown, country said to be Switzerland by local informant, who claims Pal deals in merchandise stolen from port storage, also in stolen passports and papers.

9 December. For this interview, Zannis borrowed an interrogation room at the police station in the Second District-his last headquarters when he’d worked as a detective. His old friends were pleased to see him. “Hey Costa, you fancy sonofabitch, come back to join the slaves?”

Sami Pal was waiting on a bench in the reception area-had been waiting for a long time, Zannis had made sure of that-amid the miserable crowd of victims and thugs always to be found in police stations. For the occasion, Zannis had chosen two props: a shoulder holster bearing Saltiel’s automatic-his own weapon having disappeared in the collapse of the Trikkala school-and a badge, clipped to his belt near the buckle, where Sami Pal was sure to see it.

Summoned by telephone the previous afternoon, Sami was looking his best. But he always was. A few years earlier, he’d been pointed out by a fellow detective in a taverna amid the bordellos of the Bara and, as the saying went, Zannis had seen him around. Natty, he was, in the sharpest cheap suit he could buy, a metallic gray, with florid tie, trench coat folded in his lap, boutonniere-a white carnation that afternoon-worn in the buttonhole of his jacket, a big expensive-looking watch that might have been gold, a ring with what surely wasn’t a diamond, and a nervous but very brave smile. As Zannis got close to him-“Hello, Sami, we’ll talk in a little while”-he realized from the near-dizzying aroma of cloves that Sami had visited the barber. To Zannis, and to the world at large, Sami Pal, with the face of a vicious imp, was the perfection of that old saying, “After he left, we counted the spoons.”

The interrogation room had a high window with a wire grille, a battered desk, and two hard chairs. Zannis introduced himself by saying, “I’m Captain Zannis,” lowering his rank for the interview.

“Yes, sir. I know who you are, sir.”

“Oh? Who am I, Sami?”

Sami’s prominent Adam’s apple went up, then down. “You’re important, sir.”

“Important to you, Sami. That’s the truth.”

“Yes, sir. I know, sir.”

“You like it here, in Salonika?”

“Um, yes. Yes, sir. A fine city.”

“You plan on staying here?”

After a pause, Sami said, “I’d like to, sir.”

Zannis nodded. Who wouldn’t want to stay in such a fine city? “Well, I think it’s possible. Yes, definitely possible. Do you have enough work?”

“Yes, sir. I keep busy. Always husbands and wives, suspecting the worst, it’s the way of love, sir.”

“And passports, Sami? Doing any business there?”

Once again, the Adam’s apple rose and fell. “No, sir. Never. I never did that.”

“Don’t lie to me, you-” Zannis let Sami Pal find his own word.

“Not now, sir. Maybe in the past, when I needed the money, I might’ve, but not now, I swear it.”

“All right, let’s say I believe you.”

“Thank you, sir. You can believe Sami.”

“Now, what if I needed a favor?”

Sami Pal’s face flooded with relief, this wasn’t about what he’d feared, and he’d had twenty-four hours to consider his recent sins. He fingered his carnation and said, “Anything. Anything at all. Name it, sir.”

Zannis lit a cigarette, taking his time. “Care for one of these?” He could see that Sami did want one but was afraid to take it.

“No, sir. Many thanks, though.”

“Sami, tell me, do you have any connections in Budapest?”

Sami Pal was stunned; that was the very last thing he’d thought he might hear, but he rallied quickly. “I do,” he said. “I travel up there two or three times a year, see a few friends, guys I grew up with. And my family. I see them too.”

“These friends, they work at jobs? Five days a week? Take the pay home to the wife? Is that what they do?”

“Some of them … do that. They’re just, regular people.”

“But not all.”

“Well …” Sami’s mouth stayed open, but no words came out.

“Sami, please don’t fuck with me, all right?”

“I wasn’t, I mean, no, yes, not all of them, do that. One or two of them, um, make their own way.”

“Criminals.”

“Some would say that.”

“This is the favor, Sami. This is what will keep you in this fine city. This is what may stop me from putting your sorry ass on a train up to Geneva. And I can do that, because you were right, I am important, and, just now, very important to you.”

“They are criminals, Captain Zannis. It’s how life goes in that city, if you aren’t born to a good family, if you don’t bow down to the bosses, you have to find a way to stay alive. So maybe you do a little of this and a little of that, and the day comes when you can’t go back, your life is what it is, and your friends, the people who protect you, who help you out, are just like you, outside the law. Well, too bad. Because you wind up with the cops chasing you, or, lately, some other guy, from another part of town, putting a bullet in your belly. Then, time to go, it’s been great, good-bye world. That’s how it is, up there. That’s how it’s always been.”

“These friends, they’re not what you’d call ‘lone wolves.’”