Spies of the Balkans

“Yes. It must be a detective.”

“I got that. It’s easy.”

“Just give me a name.”

“First the dollars, mister.”

“In a week.”

“You don’t have with you?”

Zannis shook his head.

Husar almost laughed. “Only a cop-”

“You will have the money.”

“Okay. Come back here tonight. Then, maybe.”

Zannis stood up. Husar also rose and they shook hands. Husar said, “It’s not for me, the money. Me, I might just do it for the hell of it, because I don’t like the Germans, and they don’t like me. So, let’s see about you, I’ll call Sami today.”

“I’ll be back tonight,” Zannis said.

It snowed again that evening, big slow flakes drifting past the streetlamps, but Ilka’s Bar was warm and bright and crowded with people. A thieves’ den, plain to be seen, but the sense of family was heavy in the air. Gustav Husar laughed and joked, rested a big arm across Zannis’s shoulders, marking him as okay in here, among Husar’s boys. Thugs of all sorts, at least two of them with knife scars on the face, their women wearing plenty of makeup. There was even a kid-size mascot, likely still a teenager, with dark skin and quick dark eyes, who told Zannis his name was Akos. He spoke a little German, did Akos, and explained that his name meant “white falcon.” He was proud of that. And, Zannis sensed, dangerous. Cops knew. Very dangerous. But, that night, friendly as could be. Zannis also met Ilka, once beautiful, still sexy, and it was she who gave him a piece of paper with the name of a detective, a teletype number, and a way to send the money-by wire-to a certain person at a certain bank.

Very organized, Zannis thought, Sami Pal’s crowd.

19 December. Vangelis might have waited weeks to connect Zannis with secret money, and Zannis wouldn’t have said a word, but there were newspaper headlines every morning, and speeches on the radio, and talk in the tavernas, so nobody waited weeks for anything, not any more they didn’t.

Thus Vangelis telephoned on the morning of the nineteenth; come to lunch, he said, at the Club de Salonique at one-thirty, yes? Oh yes. The twenty-sixth of December, when the “Hartmanns” would be leaving Berlin, was closing in fast, and Zannis knew he had to get the two thousand dollars into the account Husar controlled in Budapest.

Zannis was prompt to the minute, but he’d got it wrong-his first thought, anyhow. From the glasses on the table and the ashtray, he could see that Vangelis and Nikolas Vasilou had been there for a while. Then, as both men rose to greet him, Zannis realized this was simply St. Vangelis at work, making time to say things to Vasilou about him that couldn’t be said once he’d arrived. “Am I late?” Zannis said.

“Skata! My memory!” Vangelis said. Then, “It’s all my fault, Costa. But no matter, here we are.”

Vasilou was taller than Zannis, lean and straight-backed, with a prominent beak of a nose, sharp cheekbones, ripples of oiled silver hair combed back from his forehead, and a thin line for a mouth. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said, his eyes measuring Zannis. Friend? Foe? Prey?

They ordered a second bottle of retsina, with lamb and potatoes to follow, and they talked. The war, the local politics, the city, the weather, the war. Eventually the main course showed up and they talked some more. Zannis contributed little, his status well below that of his partners at luncheon. Smiled at their quips, nodded at their insights, tried not to get food on his tie. Finally, as triangles of tired-looking baklava arrived on the club’s French china, Vangelis excused himself to go to the bathroom.

The businessman Vasilou wasted no time. “The commissioner tells me that you need, how shall we say … private money? A secret fund?”

“That’s true,” Zannis said. He sensed that Vasilou had not made up his mind, so the instinct to persuade, to say more, to say too much, was strong inside him but, with difficulty, he fought it off.

“Money that cannot, he tells me, come from the city treasury.”

Zannis nodded. After a moment he said, “Would you like me to explain?”

“No, not the details,” Vasilou said, protecting himself. “How much are we talking about?”

Zannis gave the number in drachma, two hundred and fifty thousand, his tone neutral, and not dramatic. “It will have to be paid out in dollars,” he said, “the way life works in Europe these days.”

“A lot of money, my friend. Something short of twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“I know,” Zannis said, looking gloomy. “Perhaps too much?”

Vasilou did not take the bait and play the tycoon. He looked, instead, thoughtful-what am I getting myself into? The silence grew, Zannis became aware of low conversation at other tables, the discreet music of lunch in a private dining room. Vasilou looked away, toward the window, then met Zannis’s eyes and held them. “Can you confirm,” he said, “that this money will be spent for the benefit of our country?”

“Of course it will be.” That was a lie.

And Vasilou almost knew it, but not quite. “You’re sure?” was the best he could do.

“You have my word,” Zannis said.

Vasilou paused, then said, “Very well.” Not in his voice, it wasn’t very well, but he’d been trapped and had no way out.

Vangelis returned to the table but did not sit down. “I’ve got to forgo the baklava,” he said, glancing at his watch.

“They will wrap it up for you,” Vasilou said, looking for the waiter.

“No, no. Another time. And I really shouldn’t.” Vangelis shook hands with both of them and made his way out of the dining room.

“A valued friend,” Vasilou said. “He speaks well of you, you know.”

“I owe him a great deal. Everything. And he believes in … what I’m doing.”

“Yes, I know he does, he said he did.” Vasilou paused, then said, “He also told me you might some day become commissioner of police, here in Salonika.”

“Far in the future,” Zannis said. “So I don’t think about things like that.” But you’d better.

Vasilou reached inside his jacket-revealing a swath of white silk lining-and took out a checkbook and a silver pen. “Made out to you? In your name?” he said. “You can convert this to dollars at the bank.” Vasilou wrote out the check, signed it, and handed it to Zannis.

They spoke briefly, after that, a reprise of the lunch conversation, then left the club together. Walked down the stairs and out the front door, where a white Rolls-Royce was idling at the curb. As they said good-bye, Zannis looked over Vasilou’s shoulder. The face of the woman, staring out the window of the backseat, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Olive skin, golden hair-truly gold, not blond-pulled straight back, eyes just barely suggesting an almond shape, as though wrought by a Byzantine painter.

Vasilou turned to see what Zannis was looking at and waved to the woman. For an instant her face was still, then it came alive, like an actress before the camera: the corners of the full lips turned up, but the rest of the perfect face remained perfectly composed. Flawless.

“Can we drop you somewhere?” Vasilou said. He didn’t mean it; Zannis had had from him all he was going to get for one day.

“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

Slowly, the window of the Rolls was lowered. She was wearing a bronze-colored silk shirt and a pearl necklace just below her throat. “Can you get in front, darling?” she said. “I’ve got packages in back.”

Vasilou gave Zannis a certain look: women, they shop. A chauffeur slid from behind the wheel, circled the car, and opened the front door.

“Again, thank you,” Zannis said.

Vasilou nodded, brusque and dismissive, as though Zannis, by taking his money, had become a servant. Then walked quickly to his car.