Spies of the Balkans (13 page)

He was tired the following day, and nothing seemed all that important. It had been a long while between lovers for Tasia, as it had for Zannis, they were both intent on making up for lost time, and did. But then, a little after eleven, on what seemed like just another morning at work, he got something else he'd wanted. Wanted much more than he'd realized.

A letter. Carried by the postman, who appeared at the door of the office. Not his usual practice, the mail was typically delivered to a letter box in the building's vestibule, but not that day, that day the postman hauled his leather bag up five flights of stairs, came to Zannis's desk, took a moment to catch his breath, held up an envelope, and said, "Is this for you?"

Obviously a business letter, the return address printed in the upper left corner:

Hofbau und Sohn Maschinenfabrik GmbH

28, Helgenstrasse

Brandenburg

DEUTSCHLAND

With a typewritten address:

Herr C. N. Zannis

Behilfliches Generaldirektor

Das Royale Kleidersteller

122, Via Egnatia

Salonika

HELLAS

"Yes," Zannis said. "That's for me." The letter was from, apparently, a manufacturer of industrial knitting machines in Brandenburg--not far from Berlin--to the assistant general manager of the Royale Garment Company in Salonika.
Well done
, he thought.

The postman leaned toward Zannis and spoke in a confidential voice. "I don't care if you want to do this kind of thing. These days ... well, you know what I mean. But I almost took this back to the post office, so in future leave me a note in the letter box, all right?"

"I will," Zannis said. "But if you'd keep an eye out for, for this sort of
arrangement
, I'd appreciate it."

The postman winked. "Count on me," he said.

As the postman left, Zannis slit the envelope with a letter opener, carefully, and slid out a single sheet of folded commercial stationery; the address printed at the top of the page, the text typewritten below.

30 November 1940

Dear Sir:

I refer to your letter of 17 November.

We are in receipt of your postal money order for RM 232.

I am pleased to inform you that 4 replacement motors, 11 replacement spindles, and 14 replacement bobbins for our model 25-C knitting machine have been shipped to you by rail as of this date.

Thank you for your order. Hofbau und Sohn trusts you will continue to be satisfied with its products.

Yours truly,

S. Weickel

"Sibylla?" Zannis said. He was about to ask her about an iron. Then he stopped cold. She said, "Yes?" but he told her it was nothing, he'd take care of it himself.

Because he saw the future.

Because there was some possibility that the darkest theories of the war's evolution were correct: Germany would rescue the dignity of her Italian partner and invade Greece. Yes, the British would send an expeditionary force, would honor her treaty with an ally. But Zannis well knew what had happened in Belgium and France--the chaotic retreat from Dunkirk. So it hadn't worked then, and it might not work this time. The Greek army would fight hard, but it would be overwhelmed; they had no answer to German armour and aircraft. Salonika would be occupied, and its people would resist.
He
would resist. And that meant, what? It meant clandestine leaflets and radio, it meant sabotage, it meant killing Germans. Which would bring reprisal, and investigation, and interrogation. Saltiel and Sibylla might be questioned, so he could not, would not, compromise them, endanger them, with information they should not have. If they knew, they were guilty.

So Zannis left the office at noon, walked down to the market, found a stall with used irons in every state of age and decay, and bought the best electric model they had. "It works good," the stall owner said.

"How do you know?"

"I can tell," the man said. "I understand them. This one was left in the Hotel
Lux Palace
, and the settings are in
English."

Zannis walked back to his apartment, set the iron on his kitchen table, returned to the office, couldn't bear to wait all afternoon, and went home early.

First, he practiced, scorched a few pieces of paper, finally set the dial on
WARM.
Then he laid the letter flat on a sheet of newspaper on the wooden table in the kitchen and pressed the iron down on the letter's salutation. Nothing. He moved to the text in the middle--"I am pleased to inform you that 4 replacement motors"--but, again, nothing. No! A faint mark had appeared above the
p
of "pleased."
More heat
. He turned the dial to
LOW,
waited as the iron warmed, pressed for a count of five, and produced parts of three letters. He tried once more, counting slowly to ten, and there it was: "... ress
KALCHER UND KRO ...
"

Ten minutes later he had the whole message, in tiny sepia-colored block letters between the lines of the commercial text:

Reply to address KALCHER UND KRONN, attorneys, 17, Arbenstrasse, Berlin. Write as H. H. STRAUB. 26 December man and wife traveling under name HARTMANN arrive Budapest from Vienna via 3-day excursion steamer LEVERKUSEN. He 55 years old, wears green tie, she 52 years old, wears green slouch hat. Can you assist Budapest to Belgrade? Believe last shipment lost there to Gestapo agents. Can you find boat out your port? Please help.

Last shipment
meant the Rosenblum sisters, he thought, unless there had been others he didn't know about. Also lost. Budapest? How the hell could he help in
Budapest?
He didn't know a soul in Hungary; why would he? Why would Emilia Krebs think he did? What was wrong with this woman?
No, calm down
, he told himself. It isn't arrogance. It is desperation. And, on second thought, there might be one possibility. Anyhow, he would try.

He never really slept, that night. Staring at the ceiling gave way to fitful dozing and awful dreams which woke him, to once again stare at the ceiling, his mind racing. Finally he gave up and was at the office by seven-thirty. December weather had reached them: the clammy chill of the Mediterranean winter, the same grisaille, gray days, gray city, that he'd come to know in Paris. He turned on the lights in the office and set out his box of five-by-eight cards. Yes, his memory had not betrayed him:
Sami Pal
. His real--as far as anybody knew--Hungarian name,
Pal
not an uncommon surname in Hungary. Or, perhaps, a permanent alias.

Szamuel "Sami" Pal. Born Budapest 1904. Hungarian passport B91-427 issued 3 January, 1922, possibly counterfeit or altered. Also uses Nansen passport HK33156. Resident in Salonika since 4 May, 1931 (renewable visa) at various rooming houses. Operates business at 14, Vardar Square, cellar room rented from tenant above, Madame Zizi, Fortune Teller and Astrologer. Business known as Worldwide Agency--Confidential Inquiries. Telephone Salonika 38-727.

According to Salonika police records: investigated (not charged) for removal of documents from office of French consul, May '33. Arrested, September '34, accused by British oil executive R. J. Wilson of espionage approach to valet. Released, valet refused to testify, likely bribed. Arrested June '38, accused of selling stolen passport. Released when witness could not be found. Investigated by State Security Bureau (Spiraki) November '39. (Salonika police consulted.) No conclusion reported to this office.

Previous to arrival in Salonika, Sami Pal is thought to have escaped from prison, city unknown, country said to be Switzerland by local informant, who claims Pal deals in merchandise stolen from port storage, also in stolen passports and papers.

9 December. For this interview, Zannis borrowed an interrogation room at the police station in the Second District--his last headquarters when he'd worked as a detective. His old friends were pleased to see him. "Hey Costa, you fancy sonofabitch, come back to join the slaves?"

Sami Pal was waiting on a bench in the reception area--had been waiting for a long time, Zannis had made sure of that--amid the miserable crowd of victims and thugs always to be found in police stations. For the occasion, Zannis had chosen two props: a shoulder holster bearing Saltiel's automatic--his own weapon having disappeared in the collapse of the Trikkala school--and a badge, clipped to his belt near the buckle, where Sami Pal was sure to see it.

Summoned by telephone the previous afternoon, Sami was looking his best. But he always was. A few years earlier, he'd been pointed out by a fellow detective in a taverna amid the bordellos of the Bara and, as the saying went, Zannis had seen him around. Natty, he was, in the sharpest cheap suit he could buy, a metallic gray, with florid tie, trench coat folded in his lap, boutonniere--a white carnation that afternoon--worn in the buttonhole of his jacket, a big expensive-looking watch that might have been gold, a ring with what surely wasn't a diamond, and a nervous but very brave smile. As Zannis got close to him--"Hello, Sami, we'll talk in a little while"--he realized from the near-dizzying aroma of cloves that Sami had visited the barber. To Zannis, and to the world at large, Sami Pal, with the face of a vicious imp, was the perfection of that old saying, "After he left, we counted the spoons."

The interrogation room had a high window with a wire grille, a battered desk, and two hard chairs. Zannis introduced himself by saying, "I'm Captain Zannis," lowering his rank for the interview.

"Yes, sir. I know who you are, sir."

"Oh? Who am I, Sami?"

Sami's prominent Adam's apple went up, then down. "You're important, sir."

"Important to you, Sami. That's the truth."

"Yes, sir. I know, sir."

"You like it here, in Salonika?"

"Um, yes. Yes, sir. A fine city."

"You plan on staying here?"

After a pause, Sami said, "I'd like to, sir."

Zannis nodded. Who wouldn't want to stay in such a fine city? "Well, I think it's possible. Yes, definitely possible. Do you have enough work?"

"Yes, sir. I keep busy. Always husbands and wives, suspecting the worst, it's the way of love, sir."

"And passports, Sami? Doing any business there?"

Once again, the Adam's apple rose and fell. "No, sir. Never. I never did that."

"Don't lie to me, you--" Zannis let Sami Pal find his own word.

"Not now, sir. Maybe in the past, when I needed the money, I might've, but not now, I swear it."

"All right, let's say I believe you."

"Thank you, sir. You can believe Sami."

"Now, what if I needed a favor?"

Sami Pal's face flooded with relief, this wasn't about what he'd feared, and he'd had twenty-four hours to consider his recent sins. He fingered his carnation and said, "Anything. Anything at all. Name it, sir."

Zannis lit a cigarette, taking his time. "Care for one of these?" He could see that Sami did want one but was afraid to take it.

"No, sir. Many thanks, though."

"Sami, tell me, do you have any connections in Budapest?"

Sami Pal was stunned; that was the very last thing he'd thought he might hear, but he rallied quickly. "I do," he said. "I travel up there two or three times a year, see a few friends, guys I grew up with. And my family. I see them too."

"These friends, they work at jobs? Five days a week? Take the pay home to the wife? Is that what they do?"

"Some of them ... do that. They're just, regular people."

"But not all."

"Well ..." Sami's mouth stayed open, but no words came out.

"Sami, please don't fuck with me, all right?"

"I wasn't, I mean, no, yes, not all of them, do that. One or two of them, um, make their own way."

"Criminals."

"Some would say that."

"This
is
the favor, Sami. This
is
what will keep you in this fine city. This
is
what may stop me from putting your sorry ass on a train up to Geneva. And I can do that, because you were right, I am important, and, just now,
very
important to you."

"They are criminals, Captain Zannis. It's how life goes in that city, if you aren't born to a good family, if you don't bow down to the bosses, you have to find a way to stay alive. So maybe you do a little of this and a little of that, and the day comes when you can't go back, your life is what it is, and your friends, the people who protect you, who help you out, are just like you, outside the law. Well, too bad. Because you wind up with the cops chasing you, or, lately, some other guy, from another part of town, putting a bullet in your belly. Then, time to go, it's been great, good-bye world. That's how it is, up there. That's how it's always been."

"These friends, they're not what you'd call 'lone wolves.'"

"Oh no, not up there. You won't last long by yourself."

"So then, gangs? That the word? Like the Sicilians?"

"Yes, sir."

"With names?"

Sami Pal thought it over, either preparing to lie or honestly uncertain, Zannis wasn't sure which. Finally he said, "Sometimes we use the--um, that is, sometimes
they
use the name of a leader."

This errant pronoun
we
interested Zannis. One end of a string, perhaps, that could be carefully pulled until it led somewhere, maybe stolen merchandise or prostitutes traveling between the two cities. And not years ago, this week. But the clue was of interest only to Zannis the detective, not to Zannis the operator of a clandestine network. So he said, "And which one did you belong to, Sami? Back in the days when you lived up there?"