Spies of the Balkans: A Novel

by Alan Furst

So, yet another ride out to Dahlem. Lord, this neighborhood was a dissident nest! But, in the end, there wasn't much to see. Hauser and Matzig sat in the front seat, talking idly from time to time, waiting, the principal activity of the investigative life. The winter darkness came early, a light snow began to fall, and eventually the colonel came home from work, dropped off at his door by a Wehrmacht car. The colonel disappeared into his house and, though the two officers waited another hour, that was it for the day.

  They tried earlier the following day, waited longer, and were rewarded with a view of the Krebses going out for dinner. Thus Hauser and Matzig got to wait outside Horcher's while the couple dined. No fun at all, visiting the best restaurants in Berlin, but not a morsel of food. After dinner, the couple went home. Matzig drove the Mercedes to their chosen vantage point, Hauser lit a cigar and said, "Let's go home, Matzi. We'll give it one more day, tomorrow." All he could afford, really, because like any job you had to show your bosses some success, some production, and there was nothing yet to warrant even the most diffident interview.

  But then there was. Patience paid off, at least sometimes, because just after five on the third day, the lovely Emilia Krebs, in sober gray coat and wide-brim gray hat, briefcase in hand, left her house, walked quickly down the path that led to the sidewalk, and turned left, toward downtown Berlin. As she passed the low hedge that bordered her property, here came a fellow in a dark overcoat: half-bald, heavy, wearing glasses--some sort of intellectual, from the look of him. For the length of a block, he matched her pace. Hauser and Matzig exchanged a look; then, no discussion required, Matzig turned on the ignition, put the car in gear, and drove past Emilia Krebs to a side street with a view of the nearest tram stop.

  She arrived soon after, followed by the man in the dark overcoat. They stood at a distance from each other, mixed in with a few other people, all waiting for the trolley. Five minutes later it appeared, bell ringing, and rolled to a stop. Emilia Krebs and the others climbed on, but the man in the overcoat stayed where he was and, once the trolley moved away, he turned and walked back the way he'd come.

  "Did you see what I saw?" Hauser said.

  "A trailer, you think?" The function of a trailer, in clandestine practice, was to make sure the person ahead wasn't being followed.

  "What else?"

  6 February. Paris. Occupied Paris: triste and broken, cold and damp, the swastika everywhere. Following the operational plan, Zannis played the role of a Greek detective in Paris, come to escort a prisoner back to Salonika. In trench coat and well-worn blue suit, heavy shapeless black shoes, and holstered pistol on his belt, he took a taxi to the commercial hotel Escovil had named--on a little street near the Gare du Nord--and slept all afternoon, recovering from days of train travel. Then, around eight in the evening, he ventured forth, found a taxi, and went off in search of Parisian food and Parisian sex. So, if anybody was watching, that's what they saw.

  He left the taxi at the Place de la Bastille, found the proper cafe on the second try, and the woman right away. She was, according to plan, reading Le Soir, the evening tabloid, and marking the classified ads with a pencil.

  "Excuse me," Zannis said, "are you waiting for Emile?" He hadn't been in France since the time he'd worked as a Parisian antiquaire, more than ten years earlier, but the language, though halting and awkward, was still there.

  "I'm waiting for my grandfather," she said, completing the identification protocol. Then, looking at her watch, added, "We'd better be on our way. You shall call me Didi."

  Didi! Good God. For whoever she was--and she'd given Didi her best effort: neckline much too low, "diamond" earrings, scarlet lipstick--this woman had never been picked up in a cafe, she'd never met a woman who'd been picked up in a cafe. What was she, a baroness? Possible, Zannis thought: narrow head, small ears, thin nostrils, aristocratic tilt to the chin. Didi? Oh fuck, these people are going to get me killed.

  "Off we go, honey," Zannis said, with a coarse grin, a nod toward the door, and a proffered arm.

  The aristocrat almost flinched. Then she recovered, stood, took his arm, pressed it to her champagne cup of a noble breast, and off they went--circling the Place Bastille, heading for a brasserie down a side street. Zannis took a deep breath. These people were brave, were resisting the Occupation, were putting their lives in jeopardy. They were, he told himself, doing the best they could.

  So the Greek detective, in case anybody was watching--and there was no way to know whether they were or not--had found a girl for the evening and would now take her out for dinner. The restaurant was called the Brasserie Heininger, a man in an apron and a fisherman's waterproof hat was shucking oysters on a bed of shaved ice by the entryway.

  When Zannis opened the door, the interior hit him hard--much fancier than any place he'd been to when he'd lived in Paris. The brasserie was fiercely Belle Epoque: red plush banquettes, polished brass, and vast gold-framed mirrors lining the walls, the waiters in muttonchop whiskers, the conversation loud and manic, the smoky air scented by perfume and grilled sausage. And, as the maitre d' led them to a table--that sexy slut Didi had reserved ahead--Zannis saw what looked to him like half the officer class of occupied Paris, much of it in Wehrmacht gray, with, just to set off the visual composition, a sprinkling of SS black. As they wove their way among the tables, the aristocrat crushed Zannis's arm against her breast so hard he wondered why it didn't hurt her, or maybe she was so scared she didn't notice. At last they were seated, side by side on a banquette at a table where the number 14 was written on a card supported by a little brass stand. The aristocrat settled close to him, then took a deep breath.

  "You're all right?" Zannis said.

  She nodded, gratitude in her eyes.

  "Good girl," he said. "Didi."

  She gave him a conspiratorial smile; the waiter brought menus in golden script. "Here one takes the choucroute garnie," she said. "And order champagne."

  Sauerkraut? Oh no, not with the way his stomach felt. On the surface, Zannis showed a certain insouciant confidence, but every muscle in his body was strung tight; he was ready to shoot his way out of this restaurant but not at all prepared for sauerkraut. "Maybe they have a fish," he said.

  "Nobody orders that."

  He searched the menu. "Shellfish," he said.

  "If you like."

  He looked up for a moment, then said, "What the hell is that? Behind your shoulder, in the mirror."

  "It's very famous," she said. "A memorial to a Bulgarian waiter, slain here a few years ago."

  "It's a bullet hole."

  "Yes, it is."

  "They don't fix it? Back where I come from, they have them fixed the next day."

  "Not here."

  The waiter returned. "'Sieur et 'dame?"

  Zannis ordered the seafood platter, which he would try to eat, followed by the choucroute, which he would not, and a bottle of champagne. As the waiter hurried off, Zannis discovered his neighbors in the adjacent booth: two SS officers with French girlfriends; puffy and blond, green eyeshadow, pouty lips. One of the SS men looked like a precocious child, with baby skin, a low forehead, and eyeglasses in tortoiseshell frames. The other--Zannis understood immediately who he was, what he was--turned to face him, rested an elbow on the plush divider, and said, "Bonsoir, mon ami." The set of his face and the sparkle in his eyes suggested a view of the world best described by the word droll, but, Zannis saw, he was a certain kind of smart and sophisticated German who'd found, in the black uniform and death's-head insignia, a way to indulge a taste for evil.

  "Bonsoir," Zannis said.

  "Your girl's a real looker." He moved his head to get a better view of Didi, said, "Hello, gorgeous," with a sly smile and waggled his fingers by way of a waved greeting. The aristocrat glanced at him, then looked down. The SS officer, at that stage of inebriation where he loved the world, said, "Aww, don't be shy, gorgeous."

  Zannis turned back and began to make conversation. "Had much snow this winter?"

  Fro
m behind him: "Hey! I was talking to you!"

  Zannis faced him and said, "Yes?"

  "You Frenchmen can be very rude, you know."

  "I'm not French," Zannis said. Maybe the SS officer wouldn't figure it out but the girlfriends certainly would.

  "No? What are you?"

  "I'm from Greece."

  The officer spoke to his friends. "Say, here's a Greek!" Then, to Zannis, "What brings you to Paris, Nick?"

  Zannis couldn't stop it: a hard stare that said Shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you. Then, making sure his voice was soft, he said, "I'm a detective, I'm here to bring back a murderer."

  "Oh," the officer said. "I see. Well, we're friendly types, you know, and we were wondering what you were doing after dinner."

  "Going home," Zannis said.

  "Because I have this very grand apartment up on the avenue Foch, and you and Gorgeous are invited, for, well, some ... champagne."

  The aristocrat sank her clawed fingernails into Zannis's thigh; he almost yelped. "Thanks, but the lady is tired, I'll take her home after dinner."

  The officer glared at him, his head weaving back and forth.

  The woman beside him said, "Klaus? Are you ignoring us?"

  Thank God for Frenchwomen, puffy blond or not! "Enjoy your evening, my friend," Zannis said, employing a particular tone of voice--sympathetic, soothing--he'd used, all his years with the police, for difficult drunks.

  And it almost worked; the officer couldn't decide whether he wanted to end this battle or not. Then he lurched, and his face lit up. What went on? Maybe his girlfriend's hand had done something under the table, something more enticing than the aristocrat's. Whatever it was it worked, and the officer turned away and whispered in girlfriend's ear.

  "Plat de la mer!" the waiter cried out, wheeling to a stop at the table, a gigantic platter of crustaceans held high, balanced on his fingertips.

  A taxi was waiting in front of the brasserie, and Zannis directed the driver back to his hotel. A much-relieved aristocrat sank back against the seat and said, voice confidential, "Thank God that's over. I was afraid you were going to shoot him."

  "Not likely," he said. This thing in the holster is just for show. And so he'd believed, until his third and final meeting with Escovil. Who'd said, just before they parted, "Finally, I must say something a bit ... sticky. Which is, you mustn't allow Byer to be taken by the Germans, we cannot have him interrogated. So, if it looks like the game is up, you'll have to, to, to do whatever you must." Zannis hadn't answered: at first he couldn't believe what he'd heard, then he had to, but such madness, murder, was far beyond what he was willing to do.

  At war, the city was blacked out; every window opaque, the occasional lighted streetlamp painted blue, car headlights taped down to slits, so the taxi moved cautiously through the silent, ghostly streets. When they reached the hotel and were alone as they approached the doorway, his companion said, "Not long now. Your friend has been brought to the hotel, and you're meant to catch the early train."

  "The five-thirty-five."

  "Yes, the first train to Berlin. You have all the papers?"

  "Stamped and signed: release from the Sante prison, exit visas, everything."

  The night clerk was asleep in a chair behind the reception desk, a newspaper open across his lap. They made sure they didn't wake him, climbing the stairs quietly as he snored gently down below. When they reached the third floor, Zannis stood by his door and said, "Where is he?"

  The aristocrat made an upward motion with her head. "Forty-three."

  In his room, Zannis shed his trench coat and had a look at his valise, which appeared to be undisturbed, but, he well knew, an experienced professional search would leave no evidence. The aristocrat, waiting at the door, said, "Ready to go?" In her voice, as much impatience as, true to her breeding, she ever permitted herself to reveal. These people were amateurs, Zannis thought, and they'd had all they wanted of secrecy and danger.

  They climbed another flight, the aristocrat tapped twice on the door, then twice again, which was opened to reveal a darkened room. The man who'd opened the door had a sharp handsome face, dark hair combed straight back, and stood as though at attention. A military posture; he was perhaps, Zannis thought, a senior officer. The aristocrat and the officer touched each other's cheeks with their lips, Paris style, murmuring something that Zannis couldn't hear but certainly an endearment. So these two were husband and wife. The officer then said, to Zannis, "I can't tell you my name," as though it were an apology. "You are Zannis?"

  "I am."

  They shook hands, the officer's grip powerful and steady. "Your problem now," he said, nodding toward the interior of the room.

  In the shadows, the silhouette of a small man sat slumped on the edge of the bed. Zannis said, "Harry Byer?"

  A white face turned toward him. "Yes," the man said in English. "More or less."

  Zannis went downstairs to his room and collected his trench coat and valise. When he returned to Room 43, the officer said, "We've arranged a car. At oh-four-forty hours. A police car, actually. So your arrival at the Gare du Nord, which is closely guarded, will look authentic."

  "Stolen?"

  "Borrowed."

  "Better."

  "And driven by a policeman. Well, at least somebody wearing the uniform."

  The aristocrat laughed, silver chimes, at the idea of whatever old friend this was, playing the role of a policeman. As she started to remove her earrings, Zannis noticed a bare ring finger. Now he realized that these two were probably not married but were, instead, lovers. This sent his mind back to Salonika and a fleeting image of Demetria, by his side, in an occupied city.

  Zannis crossed the room, the bare boards creaking beneath his weight, and shifted the room's single chair so that he sat facing Byer. Then, very laboriously, in his primitive English, he explained how the operation would work. When he showed Byer his photograph in the Greek passport, he was rewarded with at least a flicker of hope in the man's eyes. "It might even work," Byer said. He took the passport and studied it. "I do speak a little French, you know. I took it at school."

  "He does," the officer said. "If you speak slowly."

  Zannis was relieved and switched to a mix of the two languages, making sure at the end of every phrase that Byer understood what he'd been told. "At the borders, Harry, and on the trains--at least as far as Yugoslavia--you can't say anything at all, because you're supposed to be Greek. And nobody will speak to you, once you're wearing these." He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. Byer stared at them. Zannis said, "Better than a POW camp, right?"

  Byer nodded. "What did I do, to be in the Sante?"

  "You murdered your wife and her lover, in Salonika."

  After a moment, Byer said, "Not the worst idea."

  Zannis ignored the irony. "It had to be a murder of some kind, for the Germans to believe that we'd gotten the French police to arrest you, after you'd fled to Paris." He paused, then said, "The only plausible crime would be a crime of passion. You don't much look like a gangster."

  Zannis stood, took a cigarette from his packet, then offered the packet around. Only the officer accepted, inhaling with pleasure as Zannis extinguished the match. He started to speak, but something caught his attention and he looked at his watch and said, almost to himself, "It's too early for the police car." Then, to Zannis, "Can't you hear it?"

  In the silence of the room, Zannis listened intently and discovered the low beat of an idling engine. The officer went to the window and, using one finger, carefully moved the blackout curtain aside, no more than an inch. "Come have a look," he said.

  Zannis joined him at the window. Across the street from the hotel, a glossy black Citroen, the luxury model with a long hood and square passenger compartment, was parked at the curb. The air was sufficiently cold to make the exhaust a white plume at the tailpipe.

  The officer kept his voice low, his words meant for Zannis and nobody else. "The only people who driv
e these things in Paris are the Gestapo and the SS. It's the official German car."

  Zannis understood immediately, though he found it hard to believe. "We had a problem at the restaurant," he said, "with an SS officer. It seems he followed us back here."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "He wanted your woman friend. He was very drunk."

  "Then let's hope it's him."

  "Why?"

  "Because if it isn't, we've been betrayed."

  "Is that possible?"

  "I'm afraid it is."

  The aristocrat joined them at the window. "What's going on?"

  "There's a car out there. See it? Zannis thinks some SS man followed you home from the restaurant."

  The aristocrat peered past the curtain. She swore, then said, "Now what?"

  "We'll have to think of something."

  "Will they search the hotel?" she said.

  Byer said, "What's going on?" His voice rose to a whine. "What is it?"

  The officer said, "Keep quiet, Harry." Then, "They might search the hotel. Maybe he's waiting down there for a squad to show up."

  "Is there a back door?" Zannis said.

  "There is, but it's padlocked. And, even if we got out that way, what happens when our friend shows up with the police car?"

  They were silent for a moment. The officer again moved the curtain and said, "He's just sitting there."

  "There were two of them, and their girlfriends," the aristocrat said. "Maybe they'll just go away. They have to assume I'm in this hotel for the night."

  "Maybe they will. Or maybe they'll wait until morning," the officer said.

  "Could anybody be ... that crazy?"

  Nobody answered. Finally Zannis said, "Can you somehow contact your friend and warn him off?"

  The officer looked at his watch. "No, he's left his hotel by now. The police car is up at Levallois, in a garage. The owner helps us."

  Again, silence.

  Zannis's mind was racing. He had seen, when he'd first entered the hotel, a metal shutter pulled down over a broad entryway. Not a shop, he guessed, because the sidewalk ended at either side of the shutter and a cobblestone strip led to the street. "If Byer and I aren't here," he said, "would it matter if a Gestapo squad searched the hotel?"