Spies of the Balkans: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  "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."

  "Where are you going?"

  "It's for work. A few days, only."

  For a time she was quiet, then she said, in a different voice, "I understand, you can't say. But, what if you don't come back?"

  "I will, don't worry about that."

  "Do you have a pencil?"

  "Yes."

  "My friend's number is Athens, 34-412. Her name is Theodora. Telephone her when you return."

  "Three, four? Four, one, two?"

  "Yes. You don't know when you're leaving?"

  "Days, maybe a week, maybe more. It doesn't matter."

  "It doesn't? What if the war comes?"

  Then you will be safe only with Vasilou. On his white ship. Finally, resignation in his voice, he said, "I don't know."

  She sighed. "Nobody knows. All they do is talk." She regretted having asked him a question he couldn't answer, so now they would be strong together, not like the people who just talked.

  "You won't come here now?"

  "Telephone when you return," she said firmly. "Then I'll be ready. I'll be waiting."

  He said he would. He told her again that he loved her, and they hung up.

  Zannis looked around the o
ffice, Saltiel and Sibylla had their heads down, engrossed in their work.

  On 13 March, Hitler again demanded that Yugoslavia sign the Axis pact. They didn't say no, they said, We're thinking about it, the "no" of diplomacy. Which might have worked, but for the weather. Spring, the war-fighting season in Europe, was just beginning: once the fields were planted, the men of the countryside would take up their weapons, as they had since the Middle Ages. The March chill receded, the rain in Central Europe and the Balkans was a light rain, a spring rain, a welcome rain. Winter was over, now it was time for action, no more speeches, no more negotiation--certain difficult matters had to be settled, once and for all. Hitler loved that phrase, "once and for all," and so, on the nineteenth of March, he issued an ultimatum. Do what I say, or you will be bombed and invaded. Costa Zannis paced his bedroom, smoked too much, found it hard to sleep. Yes, he had papers and steamship tickets for his family, but the earliest sailing he'd been able to reserve was on 30 March. Eleven days in the future. Would Hitler wait?

  On the afternoon of the twentieth, he stood on the railway platform where passengers were boarding the express to Istanbul and said good-bye to Gabi Saltiel and his wife. As the train rolled out of the station, Zannis watched it go by until the last car disappeared in the distance. He wasn't alone, there was a line of people, all up and down the platform, who waited until the train was gone.

  24 March. Belgrade was quiet that night, people stayed home, or spent long hours in the coffeehouses. In the larger towns, special Serbian police had been assigned to ensure peace and quiet in the streets. The newspaper Politika, the most esteemed journal in the Balkans, and read by diplomats all across Europe, had that morning been forced to print an editorial supporting Yugoslavia's signature on the Axis pact. Just before midnight, two armoured cars brought Premier Cvetkovic and his foreign minister to Topchidersko railway station so they could board a train to Vienna. There they would sign.

  Costa Zannis had arrived in Belgrade that same evening, met by Pavlic and taken to the Hotel Majestic on the Knez Mihailova, the main shopping street in the city. As they drove down the avenue, Zannis saw a huge swastika flag hung from the balcony of a five-story office building. "What's that?" he said.

  "The office of the German Travel Bureau," Pavlic said. "Getting an early start on the celebration."

  In the Majestic, Zannis stowed a small valise in his room and went downstairs to the hotel bar. There, Pavlic introduced him to a bulky pale-haired Serb called Vlatko--from the spread of his shoulders and neck, every inch a cop. "He's from the homicide office," Pavlic said, as the two men shook hands. "And he speaks German."

  They ordered slivovitz, then Vlatko said, "It's quiet here, but that's just on the surface. The people are in shock."

  "It won't last," Pavlic said.

  "No, big trouble tomorrow." With this he grinned. He took, Zannis realized, great pleasure, a patriot's pleasure, from the anticipation of big trouble.

  Both Pavlic and Vlatko, taking turns, told Zannis the news of the day: a terrific fistfight in the bar of Belgrade's best hotel, the Srbski Kralj, King of Serbia. Two American foreign correspondents and an Italian woman, their translator, on one side, five Wehrmacht officers--from the German legation--on the other. The Americans ordered whiskies, the Germans ordered schnapps; the Germans demanded to be served first, the barman hesitated. Next, savage insults, tables turned over, broken dishes. The Italian woman had thrown a drink in a German's face, he hit her on the head, then the New York Times reporter, a good-sized Texan, had fought two of the Germans. "Knocked them down," Vlatko said, ramming a huge fist into a meaty palm for emphasis. "Out cold. On the floor." Once again, he grinned.

  "And broke his hand," Pavlic said.

  "Both hands, I heard."

  "One hand," Pavlic said. "I hope we can do without that, tomorrow."

  Vlatko shrugged. "We shall see."

  From his inside pocket, Zannis brought out the sheet of paper Escovil had given him: a typed list of twenty-seven names. He laid it on the table and smoothed out the folds with his hands. "Here it is," he said. "We have a day to find out the addresses."

  Pavlic and Vlatko put their heads together over the list. Vlatko said, "Who are these people? Military, some of them, I can see that."

  "Not people who get their names in the newspapers," Zannis said.

  "Traitors," Vlatko said.

  "Possible troublemakers, anyhow," Zannis answered.

  "Well, we'll find them."

  "Tomorrow night," Zannis said. "When they're at home. We don't want to arrest them at staff headquarters, we don't want gun battles."

  "No, I guess not," Vlatko said, bringing forward, with some effort, the sensible side of his nature. "Pavlic and I have enlisted fifteen detectives, so we'll work in groups of three--that should be sufficient. Do these people," he paused, then said, "form a conspiracy?"

  Zannis didn't think so. "I doubt it," he said. "The wives won't warn their husbands' friends, if that's what you're thinking."

  "Would be best to start at seven--before people go out to restaurants or whatever it is they do."

  "They won't go out tomorrow night," Pavlic said. "They'll stay home with the radio on."

  "We can't all come here," Zannis said. "Vlatko, can you have them meet at six? You'll have to distribute the names this afternoon, so we'll divide up the names now and make new lists."

  "Where do we take them?"

  "There's a holding cell," Pavlic said, "at the prefecture near the foreign legations, on Milosha Velikog. They're going to move their prisoners--to make room for ours."

  "Stack them one on the other," Vlatko said. "Who cares?"

  "These people might be needed later," Zannis said. "We want them out of circulation for a day and a half--for them an anecdote, not a nightmare. We'd put them in a spa, if we could."

  Vlatko looked at him. "You're very kind, in Salonika."

  "As long as it works, we are. If it doesn't, then we do it the other way."

  "Really? I guess we think differently, up here."

  A group of men came laughing into the bar, calling for slivovitz. They wore--Pavlic explained in an undertone--the black fur hats of the Chetniks, the ancient Serbian resistance movement, with skull and crossbones insignia on the front.

  "They've come in from the villages," Pavlic said. "They're gathering."

  Back upstairs, Zannis was restless. The street below his window was deserted, the city quiet. No, not quiet, silent, and somehow sinister. Thousands of conversations in darkened rooms, he thought; they could not be heard but they could be felt, as though anger had its own special energy. And this, despite his better, too-well-learned instincts, he found exciting.

  At seven the following morning, the telephone rang in his room, no name, no greeting, just an upper-class British voice, clipped and determined.

  "Have you everything you need?"

  "I do."

  "Tomorrow's the day. I know you'll do your best."

  "Count on it," Zannis said, hoping his English was proper.

  "That's the spirit."

  No way to go back to sleep. He dressed, holstered his Walther, and went downstairs for coffee. When he returned, an envelope had been slid beneath his door: a local phone number, and a few words directing him to maintain contact, using street call boxes or telephones in bars, throughout the following day. Pavlic was going to pick him up at ten and drive him around the city. Until then, he didn't know what to do with himself so he sat in a chair.

  Outside, the people of the city began their day by breaking glass. Big plate-glass windows, from the sound of it, broken, then shattering on the pavement. Accompanied by a chant: Bolje rat, nego pakt! This much Serbo-Croatian he could understand: Better war than the pact! Outside, more glass came crashing down. He could see nothing from his room but, going out into the hall, he found a window at the end of the corridor. Down in the street, students were chanting and breaking store windows. As cars drove by, the drivers honked furiously, waved
, and chanted along with the students: "Bolje rat, nego pact!" One of them stopped long enough to tear up a copy of Politika and hurl it into the gutter.

  At nine-fifty, Pavlic's car rolled to the curb in front of the Majestic. Vlatko was sitting in the passenger seat so Zannis climbed in the back where, on the seat beside him, he discovered a pump shotgun with its barrel and stock sawed off to a few inches. As Pavlic drove away, a group of students ran past, waving a Serbian flag. "Brewing up nicely, isn't it," Pavlic said.

  Vlatko was wearing a hat this morning, with the brim bent down over his eyes, and looked, to Zannis, like a movie gangster. He turned halfway round, rested his elbow on top of the seat and said, "They're out on the streets, in towns all over Serbia and Montenegro, even Bosnia. We've had calls from the local police."

  "They're trying to stop it?"

  From Vlatko, a wolf's smile. "Are you kidding?"

  "Rumors everywhere," Pavlic said. "Hermann Goring assassinated, mutinies in Bulgarian army units, even a ghost--a Serbian hero of the past appeared at Kalemegdan fortress."

  "True!" Vlatko shouted.

  "Well I'll tell you what is true," Pavlic said. "At least I think it is. Prince Peter, Prince Paul's seventeen-year-old cousin, has supposedly returned from exile. Which means he'll be crowned as king, and the regency is over, which is what the royalists have wanted for years, and not just them."

  Zannis liked especially the ghost; whoever was spreading the rumors knew what he was doing. Ten minutes later, Vlatko said, disgust in his voice, "Look at that, will you? Never seen that in Belgrade." He meant two SS officers in their black uniforms, strolling up the street in the center of the sidewalk. As Zannis watched, two men coming from the opposite direction had to swing wide to avoid them, because they weren't moving for anybody. Pavlic took his foot off the gas and the car slowed down as they all stared at the SS men, who decided not to notice them.

  They drove around for an hour, locating the addresses that made up their share of the list. Two of the men lived in the same apartment building, two others had villas in the wealthy district north of the city, by the Danube--in Serbia called the Duna. Heading for the prefecture with the holding cell, they drove up the avenue past the foreign legations. The Italian, Bulgarian, and Hungarian legations, in honor of the newly signed pact, were all flying the red-and-black swastika flag. "Does that do to you what it does to me?" Pavlic said.