Spies of the Balkans

“Real things.”

Saltiel’s face tightened. “Bad news for us, chief, if that’s true, because it’s our turn next.”

Zannis agreed. “What would you want to do, if that happened? Because-well, if the Germans take the city, they’ll be interested in our office.”

“They know about us?”

“I think we’d better assume they do. And, if they do, once things quiet down they’ll come calling. Polite at first, then not.”

“Costa?” Saltiel leaned back in his chair. “What are you saying?”

“Make plans, Gabi. Then get out.” After a moment he added, “Even if you didn’t work for the office you ought to think about it. Because, for the Jews-”

“I know,” Saltiel said. “We’re all talking about it. Talking and talking.” They were silent for a time, then Saltiel forced his attention back to the conversation. “So, get out. When, next week?”

“If the Wehrmacht moves across the Danube, from Roumania to Bulgaria …”

“It’s very hard to think about this, Costa,” Saltiel said, his tone faintly irritated. “To leave the place where you’ve always lived because something may happen later.” He shook his head. “Have you talked to Sibylla?”

“Not yet. I will.”

Saltiel thought for a time, then said, “How long will it take, this, this potential German advance? Not a lot of bridges over the Danube, you know; those countries don’t like each other.”

“I don’t know,” Zannis said. “Days. Not weeks.”

“Will they use the railroad bridge, at Vidin?”

“They could use pontoon bridges.”

“Here comes the waiter,” Saltiel said, stubbing out his cigarette emphatically.

They ate for a time, dutifully, Zannis telling himself that if he didn’t eat something he’d be hungry later. Then Saltiel said, “Oh, by the way, did you hear about the man in the synagogue-”

Zannis looked up, knife and fork suspended above his plate. Was this a joke?

“-photographing books?”

“What?”

“You know that the synagogues in Salonika are famous for their sacred texts: ancient books, Talmuds, Torahs, five, six hundred years old. Very valuable, if anybody ever sold anything like that. So last week, the rabbi at the synagogue on Athonos Street left his eyeglasses in his office, then, late that night he went back to get them and discovered some guy, using a desk lamp, had some of the books out and was taking photographs.”

“Did the man taking photographs say anything?”

“He ran. The rabbi is eighty years old, he couldn’t chase him. Maybe he yelled at him, I don’t know. Then he talked to two or three rabbis at other synagogues, and one of them said he’d found his books in the wrong order, though he didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

Zannis put his knife and fork down on his plate, so much for lunch. “Nothing stolen,” he said.

“No. Photographed.”

“Which means,” Zannis said slowly, “somebody is taking an inventory, in order to know what to steal.” He paused, then added, “At some time in the future.”

The waiter noticed that Zannis wasn’t eating his lunch and walked over to the table. “Everything all right, gentlemen?”

Zannis stared at him. I’ve had enough of tentacles for one day. “It’s just,” Zannis said, “I’m not hungry.”

As they walked back toward the Via Egnatia, they passed Sami Pal, sharp as ever, a red carnation boutonniere in the buttonhole of his jacket, standing in the doorway of a tobacco shop. “Good afternoon, captain,” he said.

“Sami,” Zannis said.

As they went around the corner, Saltiel said, “Ah, the slick Sami Pal. You’re a captain, now?”

“He thinks so.”

“There are things you don’t tell me, chief.”

“There are. And I may have to, one of these days. In the meantime, Turkish visas. What will you need?”

Saltiel turned his head toward Zannis and raised an eyebrow. “What have you been doing, Costa?”

“Private business. How many?”

It took Saltiel a while. “Strange, you never count your family,” he said. “There are, with the grandkids, ten of us. Is it possible that you have a way of getting ten Turkish visas?”

“Yes.”

“What will this cost?”

“I’ll worry about that.”

Almost to himself, Saltiel said, “How in God’s name would I ever make a living in Turkey?”

“When the Wehrmacht reaches the Macedonian border, something will occur to you.”

Saltiel thought for a time. “Don’t do anything right away, I have to talk this out with the family. Is there a time limit?”

Zannis thought about that, then said, “Not right now.”

*

Back in the office, Zannis grabbed the telephone and called Vangelis, repeating Saltiel’s story, asking what could be done. “Not much,” Vangelis said. “I assume they lock the synagogue doors. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

“This could be coming out of the German legation.”

“I suppose,” Vangelis said. “It’s possible.”

“You understand what it means?”

“Of course I do.” Vangelis’s voice was sharp. “The Nazis have some kind of commission for the study of Jewish culture and religion, maybe it’s them. They steal everywhere else, why not here?”

“What if I interviewed the consul? Asked him about it?”

“Von Kragen? He’d just tell you, politely, to go to hell.”

“What about Spiraki?”

“No, he wouldn’t be interested.”

“Then what?”

“Leave it alone, Costa. Go break your balls on something else.”

Zannis, looking out the office window, found himself going back over his conversation with Saltiel. Ten visas. He knew that the more visas he requested, the harder Madam Urglu would press him: tell me something. And then, how much money did he have left? Enough, he thought, though if Emilia Krebs’s operation went on for months, the bribes and the payments to Gustav Husar would deplete his secret bank account. Then he’d have to contact Vasilou. Did he have the telephone number? He thumbed through his card index, yes, there it was, the office on the waterfront, the number at home. The number at home.

The number at home.

There were reasons he shouldn’t. One reason: if Vasilou found out … But he won’t find out. And, if he did, there were other wealthy men in the city, including wealthy Jews, who might be the best people to approach. One hand resting on the phone, Zannis fought it out with himself but the outcome was never really in doubt. In his imagination, Demetria once again pressed herself against the back of the sofa. Look what I have for you. That’s what she meant. And then? Then this: soon enough the world was going to end, the world he knew, and his life-he wasn’t going to run away-would end with it. So, to love one last time before that day comes …

He dialed the number.

Made a mistake? A man answered and said, “Plakos here.”

Tried again. Now, a woman’s voice: “The Vasilou residence.”

“Is Madam Vasilou there?”

“Just a minute, please.”

He could hear a vacuum cleaner, a voice gave instructions, then the telephone was picked up and the voice