Spies of the Balkans

hours, now here it was. “You mean it might actually happen.”

“I do, and, when it does, if it does, they want me to work with them. And I’m asked to organize a group of police to help. Detectives, I would think,” Zannis said.

“Like me,” Pavlic said.

“Yes.”

“And like my friends in Belgrade.”

“Them too.”

“Which British are we talking about? Diplomats?”

“Spies.”

“I see,” Pavlic said.

Zannis shrugged. “That’s who showed up.”

Pavlic was quiet for a time, then he said, “I might as well help out, if I can. No matter what I do, things won’t stay the same here. If Cvetkovic signs, there’s a good chance we’ll have a guerrilla war in Serbia. Not in Croatia-the Ustashi have been taking money from Mussolini for years, because they want Croatia to be an independent state, an ally of Rome. But the Serbs won’t be governed from Berlin. As soon as Hitler starts to push them around-tries to send the army into Greece, for example-they’ll fight. It will start in the cities and spread to the villages. Assassination, bombing, the traditional Black Hand style.”

“And your friends in Belgrade?”

“They’re Serbs. They’re going to be caught up in whatever happens, but if we get rid of Cvetkovic and his cronies, we might get a few months of peace. What passes for it these days, anyhow-threats, ultimatums, the occasional murder. And, you know, Costa, with time anything can happen. America joins the war, Germany invades Russia, Hitler is assassinated, or who knows what. They’ll take the gamble, my friends will, I think, but I’ve got to tell them what they’re supposed to do.”

“Our job is to make sure that certain elements of the General Staff are kept quiet. Not for long, forty-eight hours.”

“Why would they resist?”

“Cvetkovic allies? Maybe reached by German money? You can’t be sure, down here, about motives. And all it takes, like Sarajevo in nineteen-fourteen, is one determined man with a pistol.”

“How much time do I have?”

“It could happen any day now. In a way, it’s up to Cvetkovic … he might decide not to sign.”

“He will, Costa. Under pressure, he’ll give in.” Pavlic looked at his watch, got down from the cart, and brushed off the seat of his pants. “I think we’d better find somewhere we can get rooms for the night, before they lock the hotels. We’ll talk on the way.”

When he reached Salonika, the following afternoon, Zannis stopped by the Pension Bastasini and told Escovil that his friends in Belgrade would agree to join the operation. Escovil was clearly relieved; one of many things he had to do was now accomplished. Maybe too many things, Zannis thought-he could smell alcohol on Escovil’s breath. “We’ll be in contact,” he told Zannis. What they had to do now was wait.

Back in his office, Zannis made a telephone call to Vangelis, then walked over to see him.

“You may as well close the door,” Vangelis said, a St. Vangelis glint in his eye. He was very much a ruler of the civic kingdom that afternoon, in his splendid office with a view of the harbor: his shirt crisp and white, his tie made of gold silk, his suit perfectly tailored. “Thank you for taking care of our esteemed mayor,” he said. “And, by the way, the lovebirds are back together, all is forgiven.” This was accompanied by a mischievous flick of the eyebrows. “So then, what’s going on with you?”

“I will have to go away for a few days, commissioner, some time soon, but I don’t know exactly when.”

“Again,” Vangelis said.

Zannis nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, apology in his voice. “Again.”

Vangelis frowned. “Saltiel will take care of the office?”

“He will.”

“What are you doing, Costa? Does your escape line need tending?”

“No, sir, this time it’s … a British operation.”

Vangelis shook his head: what’s the world coming to? “So now I’ve got a secret service running on the Via Egnatia, is that it?” But he was only acting his part, stern commissioner, and suddenly he tired of it-perhaps he slumped a little, behind his grand desk-because he knew precisely what the world was coming to. “Oh fuck it all, Costa, you better do whatever you want, and you better do it quickly.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s probably what you should be doing, that sort of thing, though I don’t like admitting it. What’s the matter with me?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“I wish you were right, but you’re not. Anyhow, you should likely go back to work, as long as you can, and I’ll just say farewell.”

The word puzzled Zannis who, having been dismissed, rose slowly from his chair.

“What I mean to say, is, well, may God watch over you, Costa.”

“Over us all, sir.”

“Yes, of course,” Vangelis said.

Somebody was certainly watching over something. Zannis eagerly checked his mailbox when he got home, but what he was looking for wasn’t there. Instead, an official letter from the Royal Hellenic Army, informing Lieutenant Zannis, Constantine, that he was as of this date relieved of active duty in the event of a call-up of reserve units, by reason of “medical condition.” Signed by a colonel. What was this? Zannis read it again. Not, he thought, an error. Rather, it was as though he’d been moved a square on an invisible board by an unseen hand, because he had no medical condition. On the seventh of March, sixty thousand British Commonwealth troops, mostly Australian and New Zealand divisions, disembarked from troop ships at various Greek ports. In Salonika, they were welcomed with flowers and cheers. Help had arrived. And, Zannis thought as the troops marched along the corniche, any nation that would do that might do all sorts of extraordinary things.

Finally, she telephoned.

The call came to the office, late in the afternoon. “I’m at a friend’s house, in Athens,” she said. To Zannis she sounded defeated, weary and sad.

“I was wondering,” Zannis said. “What happened to you.”

“I was afraid of that. Maybe you thought I … didn’t care.”

“No. Well, not really.”

“I’m miserable,” she said.

“Demetria?”

“Yes?”

“Get on a train. Tonight. Call, and I’ll be waiting at the station.”

“I want to….”

“Well then?”

“I don’t know what to do.” Now she was crying.

“I love you, Demetria. I think about you, I want you with me. Is there something you want me to say? Promise? Anything.”

“No! It’s beautiful … what you say.”

“And so?”

Now she didn’t speak.

“Please, don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it.” She snuffled. “Forgive me.”

He paused-was there a worse time to say what now had to be said? “There is something I have to tell you.”

“What?” He’d frightened her.

“I’ll be going away, soon, I don’t know when, and not for long. But I’ll leave a key with the neighbor downstairs, I’ll tell her to expect you.”