Spies of the Balkans

“I came up here to rescue an Englishman, Uncle Anastas.”

“Oh, I see. You’re involved in … secret work?”

“Yes.”

“Bad business, dear nephew, they kill people who do that.”

“I know. But what happened last night was accidental-we were supposed to leave here quietly. Now we’re stuck.”

“Oh, ‘stuck’ I don’t know. All sorts of people in hiding here, waiting for the war to end, waiting for the Americans to stop sitting on their asses and do something.”

“I can’t wait, uncle. I have to get out, and I have to get my Englishman out.”

Anastas thought it over, finally said, “Not easy.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“But not impossible. Do you have any money?”

“Plenty. Grandma sewed it in the lining of my jacket.”

“Because that’s what it takes. And if you don’t have enough-”

“No, uncle, I have a lot. In dollars.”

“Dollars! Skata, I haven’t seen dollars in a long time. How much, hundreds?”

“Thousands.”

“Constantine!”

“It’s the war, uncle. Everything’s expensive.”

“Still, you must be very important. I mean, thousands.”

“The English do not want this man captured.”

From outside the stall, a low two-note whistle. Zannis could see, in the space between the bottom of the shutter and the ground, a pair of shoes, which then moved away. “What goes on?” he said.

“Police.” He tugged the little chain on the lamp, darkening the stall, then rested an elbow on his knee and rubbed the corners of his mouth with thumb and index finger. “What to do with you,” he said. “Where have you hidden your Englishman?”

Zannis described the building and the courtyard.

“He’ll be safe there, but not for long. When these clowns go away, you’ll bring him to my apartment.”

“Thank you, Anastas,” Zannis said.

“What the hell, you’re family. And maybe I have one idea.”

“Which is?”

“I know somebody.”

“Always good, to know somebody.”

“You’d better,” Anastas said. “Otherwise …”

In the apartment, Zannis and Byer settled down to wait. Byer would sleep on a chaise longue, Zannis on a tasseled couch. And, later that morning, one of Anastas’s card-playing friends took a can of blue paint and a license plate over to the courtyard where they’d hidden the Peugeot. He then drove the newly painted car to a nearby village, parked it on a mud flat by the river, and took a train back to Paris. “I suspect it was gone before I got on the train,” he told Anastas. “Into a barn until the war ends.”

“Harder than I thought,” Anastas said at dinner. His French wife had prepared steaks, with spinach and onions sauteed in oil, and they drank a very good red wine in unlabeled bottles. “The man I know …?” Anastas paused to chew his steak, then took a sip of the wine. “Well, he had to go to a man he knows.” Anastas met his nephew’s eyes, making sure he understood the magnitude of such an event. “So prepare to pay, nephew.”

“When do I meet him?” Zannis said.

“After midnight, two-thirty. A car will come for you.”

Byer looked up from his plate and said, “Thank you, madame, for this wonderful dinner.”

“You are welcome,” she said. “It is in your honor, monsieur, and Constantine’s. To wish you safe journey.” She smiled, warm and affectionate. If the occupation had affected her, there was no evidence that Zannis could see.

“We drink to that,” Anastas said. And they did.

2:30 A.M. The glossy black automobile was surely worth a fortune, Zannis had never seen one like it and had no idea what it was. It rolled to a stop in front of Anastas’s apartment building in Saint-Ouen, the back door swung open, and Zannis climbed in. The interior smelled like expensive leather. The driver turned to face him, holding him with his eyes for a long moment, likely making sure Zannis knew who he was dealing with. He knew. He recognized the breed: confident young men to whom killing came easily and smart enough to profit from it. Then the driver rested his hands on the wheel but the car never moved, simply sat there, the huge engine purring softly.

Zannis had known corrupt men of every sort, high and low, over the years he’d been with the police, but the friend of the friend, sitting next to him, was something new. He looked, Zannis thought, like a French king; prosperously stout, with fair, wavy hair parted to one side, creamy skin, a prominent nose, and a pouch that sagged beneath his chin. “I’m told you wish to leave France,” he said, his voice deep and used to command.

“That’s right.”

“The price, for two individuals, is two thousand dollars. Have you the money with you?”

“Yes.”

“I believe you are the man who shot a German officer. Did you do this because you have a hatred of Germans?”

“No. My friend was lying on the floor of the car, the officer would have seen him, so I had to do it. Why do you want to know?”

“To inform certain people-the people who need to know things. They don’t care what is done, they simply require information.”

“Germans?”

The man was amused. “Please,” he said, not unkindly. Then, “It doesn’t matter, does it?” It was as though he enjoyed innocence, found Zannis so, and instinctively liked him. “Now,” he said, “there are two ways for you to leave France. The first choice is a freight train controlled by Communist railway workers. Traveling in this way you may go to Germany, Italy, or Spain. However, once you’ve crossed the border-there will be no inspection of papers-you are on your own. Hopefully, you’ve made arrangements that will allow you to proceed from one of those countries.”

“I haven’t.”

“I see. In that case, you may wish to travel by airplane.”

“By airplane?” Zannis was incredulous.

“Yes, why not? Are you reluctant to fly?”

“Just … surprised.”

The man’s shrug was barely detectable. “If you wish to leave tomorrow, and for you that might not be a bad idea, the plane is going to …” He leaned forward, toward the driver, and said, “Leon?”

“Sofia.”

“Yes, Sofia.”

“That would be best,” Zannis said.

“Very well.” He held out a hand, creamy and fat, palm up, and said, “So then …”

Zannis had removed the money from his jacket lining and put the thick wad of bills in the pocket of his coat; now he counted out two thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills. The man next to him, the French king, stowed the money in a leather briefcase, probing first to make room for it. Then he gave Zannis directions: the name of a village, how to identify the road that led to an airstrip, and a time. “All memorized?” he asked Zannis.

“Yes, I won’t forget.”

“When you describe your adventures in France, as no doubt you will have to, I would take it as a personal favor that you remain silent about this particular chapter, about me. Do I have your word?”

“You have it.”

“Do you keep your word?”

“I do.”