Spies of the Balkans

and passivity in the event of a German occupation of Bulgaria.

What wasn’t in the newspapers: BULGARIA CALLS FOR GENERAL MOBILIZATION! And what, on the sixteenth of February, was: BULGARIA SIGNS NON-AGGRESSION PACT WITH TURKEY! Over his morning coffee, Zannis read a quote from the agreement about the two countries’ intention “to continue their policy of confidence toward each other, which policy assures the security of peace and quiet in the Balkans in a most difficult moment, through mutual consideration of their security.” Which meant: When Bulgaria invades Greece, Turkey will not join the fighting. If Bulgaria invades Greece? The Salonika journalist didn’t think so. Neither did Zannis. And the phrase “peace and quiet in the Balkans” did not originate with either Bulgarian or Turkish diplomats, it was Hitler’s phrase.

So, now everybody knew.

Three days later, on the nineteenth of February, some time after ten in the evening, Costa Zannis lay stretched out on his bed, trying not to think about Demetria. A restless reader, he’d put Inspector Maigret aside in favor of a novel by the Greek writer Kostykas, a lurid tale of love and murder on one of the islands south of the coast. A yacht anchors off a fishing village, an English aristocrat falls in love with a local fisherman. So, who killed Lady Edwina? He didn’t care. Staring blankly at the page, he returned to the night at the hotel, watching Demetria as she slept, the goddess at rest, sleep having returned her face to the composure he’d seen in the backseat of the Rolls-Royce. But she wasn’t at all as he’d thought-now he knew her for an avid and eager lover, without any inhibitions whatsoever. In the past, he’d viewed fellatio as a kind of favor, performed when a woman liked a man to the extent that she would do it to please him. Hah! Not true. He had been simultaneously excited and astonished as he’d watched her, as she’d raised her eyes, pausing for an instant, to meet his. Such recollections were not conducive to reading, and he was about to put the book aside when the telephone rang. It was her!

“Hello,” he said, his voice reaching for tenderness in a single word.

“Costa …?”

Not her. Some other woman.

“It’s me, Roxanne.”

Roxanne? Why now? The ballet school, the love affair, the sudden departure on a small plane-it seemed a long time ago, and over forever, but apparently not. “Why are you calling?”

“I must speak with you, Costa. Please don’t hang up.”

“Where are you?”

“Nearby. I can be at your apartment in a few minutes.”

“Well ….” How to say no?

“We can’t talk on the telephone. What I have to say is, private.” She meant secret. “See you right away,” she said, and hung up.

Now what? But, in a general way, he knew. The newspaper stories told the tale: when the political tides shifted, certain deepwater creatures swam to the surface.

A few minutes later he heard a car. A black sedan, he saw out the window, which rolled to a stop in front of his building, there was barely room for it in Santaroza Lane. As the car’s headlights went dark, a figure emerged from the passenger seat. Zannis headed for the stairs, Melissa watching him, to answer the knock at the street door.

Only a few months since he’d seen her, but she was not the same. Well dressed, as usual, with a horsewoman’s lean body and weathered skin, but had there always been so many gray strands in her hair? And now her eyes were shadowed with fatigue. As they faced each other in the doorway, she offered him a forced smile and touched his arm with a gloved hand. Over her shoulder, he could see that the driver of the sedan had his face turned away.

In the apartment, she kept her raincoat on as they sat at the kitchen table. Zannis lit a cigarette and said, “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks. You’re looking well.”

“So are you.”

“Forgive the sudden visit, will you?”

“Doesn’t matter. I think I ought to let you know right away that I won’t tell you any more about what went on in Paris than I told Escovil. I don’t betray friends; it’s that simple.”

“We don’t care, not now we don’t; you can keep your secrets. Have you been reading the newspapers?”

He nodded.

“The situation is worse than what’s written. Bulgaria will sign the pact, some time in the next two weeks. They’ve asked Moscow for help but, to turn the Bulgarian expression around, Uncle Ivan will not be coming up the river. Not this time, he won’t. And, when that’s done, Yugoslavia is next. The regent, Prince Paul, doesn’t care; he stays in Florence and collects art. The real power is in the hands of the premier, Cvetkovic, who is sympathetic to the Nazis, and he will also sign. Then it’s your turn.”

“Not much we can do about it,” Zannis said.

“Unless …”

“Unless?”

She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “There is some reason to hope there will be a coup d’etat in Belgrade.”

Zannis was startled and he showed it-such a possibility had never occurred to him.

“A last chance to stop Hitler in the Balkans,” she said.

“Will it stop him?”

“He may not want to fight the Serbs-most of Croatia will side with Hitler, their way out of the Yugoslav state.”

Zannis wanted to believe it. “The Serbs fight hard.”

“Yes. And Hitler knows it. In the Great War, German armies tore Serbia to pieces; people on the street in Belgrade were wearing window curtains, because the German soldiers stole everything. The Serbs remember-they remember who hurts them. So, for the Wehrmacht, it’s a trap.”

“And Greece?”

“I don’t know. But if Hitler doesn’t want war in the Balkans, and the Greek army withdraws from Albania …”

From Zannis, a grim smile. “You don’t understand us.”

“We do try,” she said, very British in the way she put it. “We understand this much, anyhow, Greeks don’t quit. Which is why I’m here, because the same spirit might lead you to help us, in Belgrade.”

“Us,” Zannis said. “So then, your operation.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that, but we can help. And, if the Serbs mean to do it, we must help.”

“And I’m to be part of this?”

“Yes.”

Zannis crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Why me? How the hell did I ever become so … desirable?”

“You were always desirable, dear.” She smiled briefly, a real one this time. Then it vanished. “But you are desirable in other ways. You can be depended on, for one, and you have real courage, for another.”

“Why are you here, Roxanne? I mean you, and not Francis Escovil?”

“He does the best he can but he’s an amateur. I’m a professional.”

“For a long time?”

“Yes. Forever, really.”

Zannis sighed. There was no way to refuse. “Well then, since you’re a professional, perhaps you could be more specific.”

“We know you have friends in the Yugoslav police, and we will need to control certain elements in the army General Staff, not for long, forty-eight hours, but they can’t be allowed to get in our way.”

Zannis was puzzled. “Isn’t it always the army that stages the coup?”

“Air force.” She paused, then said, “There are more particulars, names and so forth, but first make certain of your friends, then contact Escovil and you’ll be told the rest. You won’t know the exact day, so you’ll have to move quickly when we’re ready.” She looked at her watch, then, as she stood, she raised a small leather shoulder bag