Spies of the Balkans

“Oh Costa I can’t.” But with her voice she let him know how much she wanted to, and, almost better, she had never said his name before and hearing it thrilled him.

“Tomorrow?”

“The day after. He is off to Athens, the maids are going to a christening, and I told everyone I was invited to a mah-jong party. So I can see you at five, and we will have two hours, unless …”

“Unless what?”

“I must warn you, Costa, he is a dangerous enemy, a very dangerous enemy. Some of the people who work for him, they will do … anything.”

He wondered why she thought Vasilou would discover them so quickly, then he knew. “Demetria, do you want to tell him? Now? Leave him and stay with me?”

The line whispered. Finally she said, “Not now. Not yet.”

She was, he thought, testing him. I know you will lie in bed by me, but will you stand by me? “I am not afraid of him, Demetria.”

“You are not afraid of anybody, are you.”

“No. And the day, the hour, you want to leave, it’s done.” When she didn’t speak he said, “Do you still love him?”

“No, I never did, not really. I thought I might, at one time, yes, I suppose I did think that.” After a moment, she continued. “I am, you know, his third wife-he simply wanted something different, a new possession, but even so, I hoped. He was forceful, masculine, rich-who was I to refuse him as a husband? And I had been married-and all that that means in this country-so I was grateful, and he was honorable; he went to my father and asked for my hand. Very old-fashioned, very traditional, and it affected me. I was alone, and getting older, and here was, at least, a luxurious life.”

“That can happen, I think, to anyone.”

“Yes, I guess it might. And I am ‘anyone,’ Costa, inside … all this.”

“I’m afraid you’re not just ‘anyone,’ not to me.”

“I know. I saw that. From the car when you and Vasilou came out of the club.” She hesitated, then sighed. “I want to tell you everything, but not on the telephone.” A pause, then, “You haven’t told me where you live.”

“There are no numbers on Santaroza Lane, but it’s the fourth house up from the corner toward the bay, the door is old wood, unpainted. I have the second floor.”

She waited, said, “So,” then, “I have to go now. But it’s only two days. One day, and part of another.”

“At five,” he said.

“Yes, at five,” she said, her voice lovely, and hung up the phone.

Salonika’s best gun shop was at the western end of the Via Egnatia, in what had been, before the Great Fire, the city’s Jewish district. The owner, called Moises, the Sephardic version of the name, had been there forever, more than thirty years. Still, his sidelocks were not quite gray. He always wore a black Homburg, a formal hat, with a vest and a colorful tie, his shirtsleeves buttoned decorously at the wrists. The shop smelled of gun oil, not far from bananas. Policemen had always received a discount from Moises, so Zannis showed his badge.

Moises said, “You are Costa Zannis, no?”

“That’s right.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I need a Walther, the PPK detective’s model, and a holster. Also a box of ammunition.”

Grimly, Moises shook his head. “I thought maybe you wanted something repaired.”

“No, a new sidearm.”

“Ach, forgive me, but I haven’t got one.”

“Well then, used. Maybe even better.”

“All gone, I’m afraid. New, used, everything.”

“What do you mean, all gone?”

“I’m down to practically nothing-everything’s been bought up: hunting rifles, shotguns, all the handguns.” He shrugged. “I wish I could help you. I write the Walther company, they say next month.”

Zannis thought it over. “Moises, I have to ask you, as a special favor to me, to try and buy one back. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

Moises scratched the back of his head and looked doubtful. “I don’t know, I’ve never done such a thing. Once the customer buys, it’s his, that’s that.”

“Of course. But, this time, I must have one. A PPK.”

“Well, I had one customer who bought twenty model PPKs, I suppose he might make do with nineteen. I wonder, maybe it’s better if you ask him yourself.”

“Would he mind, that you gave me his name?”

Moises considered it. “Not you. Anybody in this city can tell you anything. And, come to think of it, I’d imagine you’re acquainted with him.”

“Who is it?”

“Elias, the man with one name. You know, the poet.”

“Twenty handguns?”

“Not so strange. Who can see into the future?”

“Maybe Elias can. I’ll get in touch with him.”

“Tell him, tell him I was reluctant, to give you his name.”

“He won’t care.”

“Poets buying Walthers,” Moises said. “I don’t remember anything like that, and I’ve been here forever.”

Zannis walked back to the office. Fucking war, he thought. Salonika was preparing for resistance, people buying weapons and hiding them. But Elias, one step ahead of the game, meant to go-bearing gifts-up into the mountain villages where, once the Germans came, the bandits would once again become andartes, guerrilla fighters, as they had during the Turkish occupation.

Zannis telephoned, then met with Elias at a kafeneion an hour later. He’d come away from the gun shop with a belt holster and ammunition, now, ceremoniously, Elias handed over a box containing a Walther. When Zannis reached into his pocket, Elias held up a hand. “Not a drachma shall I take from you, Officer Costa. This is my pleasure. My gift, my gesture. For it’s my job, as a Greek poet, to be oracular, to see into the future, so I know what this weapon will do, and to who. As I said, my pleasure.”

29 January. An excited Costa Zannis left his office at three to pick up the sheets he’d taken to be washed “and ironed, Elena.” Then, once back at the apartment, he made the bed and started to sweep the floor, but stopped, realizing that this chore had to be preceded by another, and began to brush Melissa. Probably she liked food more than a brushing, but it was surely a close second. She rolled over on her side, paws out, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth, so Zannis could brush her chest. “Yes, Melissa, we are going to have a guest. An important guest.” Melissa’s tail gave a single thump against the floor.

He was humming some song, the words forgotten, when there was a sharp knock at the door. Zannis looked at his watch. She’s early! It was not much after four but, who cared; they would have more time together. He opened the door and there stood a detective-Tellos? Yes, he thought so, a few years earlier they’d served in the same squad. What the hell was he doing here?

“Come in,” Zannis said.

“Vangelis sent me to find you,” Tellos said, apologetically. “I went to the office, but you weren’t there. I have a car downstairs.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“No.”

“General Metaxas has died. In a hospital in Athens.”

“Assassinated?”

“No, though people are saying all sorts of things-poisoned by the Italians, you name it, conspiracies of every sort.”

“But not true.”

“No. Vangelis talked to people in Athens. The general had a tonsillectomy and died of toxemia. Anyhow, we may have to deal with demonstrations, riots, who knows what, so there’s a meeting at the mayor’s house, east of