Spies of the Balkans (34 page)

The voice on the other end was strained, and barely under control--somewhere between duty and sorrow. "I'm afraid I have bad news for you. Commissioner Vangelis has died, by his own hand. At one-thirty this afternoon, he used his service revolver."

She waited, but Zannis couldn't speak.

"He left," she took a deep breath, "several notes, there's one for you. You're welcome to come over here and pick it up, or I can read it to you now."

"You can read it," Zannis said.

"'Dear Costa: you have been a godson to me, and a good one. I have known, over the years, every sort of evil, but I do not choose to tolerate the evil that is coming to us now, so I am leaving before it arrives. As for you, you must go away, for this is not the time and not the place to give up your life.' And he signs it, 'Vangelis.' Shall I keep the note for you?"

After a moment, Zannis said, "Yes, I'll come by and pick it up. Tomorrow. What about the family?"

"They've been told."

"I'm sorry," he said. "He was--"

She cut him off and said, "There will be a service, we don't know where, but I'll let you know. And now, I have other calls to make."

"Yes, of course, I understand," Zannis said and hung up the phone.

5 April. 8:20 p.m. The captain of the tramp steamer
Bakir
had six passengers for Alexandria and no empty cabins, so he showed them to the wardroom. At least they could share the battered couches for the two-day trip across the Mediterranean--it was the best he could do and he knew it really didn't matter. The other five passengers--an army officer, a naval officer, and three civilians--had obtained passage, Zannis suspected, the same way he had: by means of the discreet yellow envelope. One of the civilians was prosperously fat, with a pencil-thin mustache, very much the Levantine, all he needed was a tarboosh. The second, thin and stooped, might have been a university professor--of some arcane discipline--while the third was not unlike Zannis; well-built, watchful, and reserved. They spoke a little, the man knew who Zannis was and had worked, he said, for Spiraki. And where was Spiraki? Nobody knew. He said. And if they were surprised to find that a woman, a woman like Demetria, was joining them, they did not show it. What the British did, they did, they had their reasons, and here we all are.

At twenty minutes to nine, the captain appeared in the wardroom. Zannis stood up--if the ship was about to sail, he had to get off. "You can sit back down," the captain said. "We're not going anywhere. Not tonight we're not, problems in the engine room. We'll get it fixed by about eight, tomorrow morning, so, if you and your wife, or any of you, want to spend the night ashore, you may do that."

Zannis and Demetria looked at each other, then Zannis gestured toward the passageway. He picked up Demetria's two suitcases, one of which was very heavy. "Silver," she'd told him when he asked. "Something you can always sell."

Back at the Lux Palace, Suite 601 had not been taken, so Zannis and Demetria rode back up on the elevator. The flowers were gone. "Likely the maids took them home," Demetria said. "I hope so, anyhow."

"Are you hungry?"

"No. The opposite."

"Me too."

"I was ready to leave," she said. "Now this."

Zannis sat on the sofa. "Well, a few more hours together," he said. He certainly didn't regret it.

She managed a smile, weak, but a smile. Without saying anything, they agreed that the idea of making love one last time did not appeal to either of them, not at that moment it didn't. They talked for a while, and eventually undressed and tried to sleep, without much success, lying silent in the darkened room. And they were still awake at dawn, as early light turned the clouds to pearl gray, when the first bombs fell on Salonika.

The first one hit somewhere near the hotel--they could feel the explosion and the sound was deafening--and sent Zannis rolling onto the floor, pulling the blankets on top of him. He struggled to his knees and looking across the bed saw Demetria--the same thing had happened to her--staring back at him. He got to his feet and headed for the window, which had cracked from corner to corner. She was immediately behind him, her arms wrapped around his chest, her body pressed against his back. Down on the waterfront he was able, after searching the line of docked ships, to find the
Bakir
. She was tilted awry, with a column of heavy black smoke rising from the foredeck. "Can you see the
Bakir?"
he said.

She looked over his shoulder. "Which one is it?"

"The one on fire. I mean, the second one on fire, in the middle."

"What should we do?"

Toward the eastern end of the city, the smoke and thunder of an explosion; then, two seconds later, another one, closer, then, two seconds, another, each one marching toward them as bombs tumbled down from the clouds. Her arms tightened around him--all they could do was watch and, silently, count. Three blocks away, the roof of a building flashed and a wall fell into the street. One second, two. But there it stopped. From the far end of the corniche, long strings of orange tracer rounds floated upward, aimed at a dive-bomber headed directly at the battery. The gunners didn't stop, the pilot didn't pull up, and the plane caught fire just before it crashed into the guns.

After that, silence. Well to the east, where the oil storage tanks were located, the rolling black smoke of burning oil had climbed high into the air. "The railway station," Zannis said. "Our only chance." They dressed quickly and took the stairs down to the first floor, Zannis carrying Demetria's suitcases.

In the lobby, the hotel staff and a few guests were gathered around a radio. "The Germans have set Belgrade on fire," the bell captain said, "and they're attacking Fort Rupel with paratroops, but the fort still holds."

The Rupel Pass
, Zannis thought, fifty miles north of Salonika. He'd found photographs of the fort carried by a German spy in the Albala spice warehouse, back in October. Now, if the Wehrmacht broke through, they'd be in the city in a few days. "Is there a train this morning?" Zannis said. "Headed east?"

The bell captain looked at his watch. "It's gone. Should have left twenty minutes ago but who knows, this morning. Still, if they can run they will, that's how it is with us."

Zannis picked up Demetria's suitcases. As he did he saw Sami Pal, sitting in a chair in the corner, reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee by his side. Sami Pal? The Hungarian gangster? At the Lux Palace? But Sami seemed to be doing well, wore an expensive sky-blue overcoat, and, absorbed in his reading, apparently did not see Zannis.

Out in the street, a carpet of shattered glass sparkled in the early light. "Off we go," Zannis said. There were no taxis, no cars of any kind, though he could hear sirens in the distance. Demetria and Zannis moved at a fast trot, taking the corniche, coughing from the acrid smoke that hung in the air. "Are you all right?" Zannis said.

Demetria nodded, breathing hard, a line of soot around her mouth and below her nostrils. "We'll get there," she said.

It took fifteen minutes. The station had been hit--a hole in the roof and a black crater in the floor of the platform--but there was a train. Perhaps it had been scheduled to leave but people were still trying to jam themselves into the cars. A conductor stood by the door of one of the coaches. "Where's it going?" Zannis said.

"It's the Athens-Alexandroupolis Express, one stop at Kavala, but it may go all the way to Turkey."

"Why would it go to Turkey?" Demetria said.

"Because it's a Turkish train. Eventually it goes to Edirne, but, today ..."

"Do we need tickets?" Zannis said.

The conductor laughed. "We don't care this morning, try to get on if you can."

The train was packed. At the far end, only four people were standing on the steps of the coach and there was room for one more. Demetria forced her way onto the first step, then put a foot on the second. Above her, a large angry man shoved her back. "No room up here," he said. His face--pitted skin, a well-trimmed beard--was knotted with rage.

"Make a space for the lady, sir," Zannis said. He started to help Demetria up to the step, but this time the man pushed with both hands on her shoulders. Zannis led her back down onto the platform, then turned, climbed on the first step and hit the man in the throat. The man made a choking noise, a woman screamed, and Zannis hit him again, knuckles extended, between the ribs, in the heart, and he folded in two. The woman next to him had to grab him or he would have fallen. "Now make room," Zannis said. "Or I will finish this."

The man moved aside, Demetria stood with one of the suitcases upended between her legs. Zannis was wondering what to do with the other suitcase when Demetria reached down and grabbed him by the lapel. "Please don't leave me here," she said. Beside her, the bearded man was staring at her with pure hatred. Zannis climbed up on the first step and held on to the railing, straddling the second suitcase. He would, he thought, get off at Kavala. When the train jerked forward, Zannis stumbled, put one foot on the platform, and, using the handrail, hauled himself back on. The train jerked again, the crowd on the platform was still trying to find a way to board. Somebody yelled, "The roof! Get on the roof!" Slowly, the train picked up speed. One more man climbed on the bottom step, forcing Zannis against the railing. "Beg pardon," the man said.

"Can't be helped," Zannis said.

An hour passed, then another. They crossed from Macedonia into the province of Thrace, the train chugged past flat farm fields, always twelve miles from the coast. The Turks had built this railroad in the days of the Ottoman Empire and set the tracks inland so that military transport trains could not be bombarded by enemy naval vessels. Zannis hung on every time the train rounded a curve, the gravel by the track only inches from his feet, his hand freezing where it gripped the iron railing. They would soon be in Kavala, where he'd intended to leave the train, but he had two problems. The bearded ape above him, swaying next to Demetria, and the Turkish border post--if the train went that far. Demetria had no entry visa and Zannis well remembered what had happened to Emilia Krebs when she'd tried to bribe her way past the customs officials.

In the event, it was the train's engineer who made the decision. He did not slow down for Kavala, he sped up. Zannis soon saw why. On the station platform, a huge mob of people yelled and waved as the train rumbled past them.

And then, another two hours on, at Alexandroupolis station, the same.

"Where's he taking us?" the man next to Zannis said.

"Edirne. Turkey."

"Well, my wife is waiting for me in Alexandroupolis. She will be extremely annoyed."

Zannis shrugged. "We're at war," he said.

Edirne. 3:50
P.M
. Slowly, the passengers climbed down off the train and joined a long snake of a line, maintained by Greek and Turkish gendarmes who tapped their palms with wooden batons by way of enforcing discipline. Rumors ran up and down the line--some people had visas, and they were allowed to enter Turkey. Those who didn't were being sent back to Greece. This was apparently the case, since a crowd of passengers, looking weary and defeated, began to gather on the Greek side of the customs post.

"Will we get in?" Demetria said.

"We'll try."

"Do you need money?"

"I have Swiss francs, more than enough."
If they'll take them
.

But they wouldn't.

When Zannis and Demetria approached the desk, the Turkish officer said, "Passports and visas, please."

"Here are the passports," Zannis said. "We have no visas."

"You will return to Greece.
Next!"

Zannis brought his hand from his pocket, holding a wad of Swiss francs. The officer met his eyes and began to tap a pencil on his table. "If you dare--" he said.

"Excuse me." This was reeled off in several languages: German, Spanish, French, and English, by a man who had somehow appeared at the table. The officer stared at him--what did he want? Who was he? Bald, with a fringe of dark hair, eyeglasses, and a sparse mustache, he wasn't much: a short, inconsequential little fellow in a tired suit, Mr. Nobody from Nowhere. Now that he had their attention, he consulted a slip of paper in his hand and, speaking to Zannis in French, said, "You are Strathos?"

"No, Zannis. Constantine Zannis."

The man studied the paper. "Oh, of course, my mistake, you're Zannis. Strathos is somebody else." He turned to the officer, drew an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, slid out a letter typed in Turkish, and showed it to the officer. Who stood, saluted Zannis, and said, "Forgive me, Captain Zannis, but I didn't realize.... You are not in uniform. The lady is with you?"

"She is."

"Please," he said, his hand extended, welcoming them to Turkey.

As the little man led them toward a dusty Renault, Zannis said, "Captain Zannis?"

"That's right. You're an officer in the British army. Didn't you know?"

"I didn't," Zannis said.

"Oh well," said the little man. "Always surprises, in this life."

Once the suitcases had been put in the trunk and they were under way, the little man got around to introducing himself. "S. Kolb," he said. "That's what some people call me, though most don't call me anything at all. And, unfortunately, there are those who call me terrible names, but I try, when that happens, to be elsewhere."

Zannis translated for Demetria, sitting in the backseat. Then said to Kolb, "We're going south, not to Istanbul."

"We're going to Smyrna, I mean, Izmir. I can never get used to that."

He was a woeful driver, gripping the wheel as though he meant to choke it, squinting through the cloudy window, slow as a snail and impervious to the horns honking behind him. After battling his way around a gentle curve, he said, "You'll work there, in Smyrna--ah, Izmir. Though I think they meant for you to be in Alexandria, to begin with. Meetings, you know, with the big brass."

"We couldn't get to Alexandria, a bomb hit the ship at the dock." Zannis wondered, briefly, how Kolb knew he'd come to Edirne by rail, then recalled Sami Pal, sitting in the lobby of the Lux Palace.