join him. "What's it called, this department?" Saltiel said. "It doesn't need a name," Zannis answered. Ten seconds passed, a long time on the telephone. Finally, Saltiel said, "When do I start?"
Now Zannis headed for the taxi, gave the driver some money, thanked him, and sent him home. When Zannis slid into the passenger seat of the Skoda, Saltiel said, "So, what's going on?"
Zannis repeated the port captain's story, then said, "As long as he doesn't enter the city, we leave him alone. We'll give him a few hours to do something, then, if he's still holed up in the ship, I'll get some detectives to replace us."
"What if he waits until morning, strolls down here and shows a passport to the control officer?"
"Follow him," Zannis said. "I don't want him running loose in the city."
"German, you said."
"Reads a German newspaper, who knows what he is."
"A spy, you think?"
"Could be. The Turkish captain more or less said he was. With a look."
Saltiel laughed. "The Levant," he said. "A look indeed--I wouldn't live anywhere else." After a moment he added, "What's a spy after in Salonika? Any idea?"
"Who knows. Maybe just the war, coming south."
"Don't say such things, Costa. Down here, at the ass-end of the Balkans, who cares?"
"Not Hitler. Not according to the newspapers. And he has to know what goes on here, up in the mountains, when we're occupied."
Saltiel looked thoughtful. "Still," he said.
"What?"
"Well, I have a nephew who teaches at the technical school. Geography, among other things. A smart boy, Manni, he says that as long as Hitler stays allied with the Russians, we're safe. But, if he attacks them, we could be in for it. On the map of Europe we're the right flank--if somebody's headed east, the right flank that goes to the Caucasus, for the oil. Anyhow, that's Manni's theory."
"Believe it?"
Saltiel shrugged. "Hitler's cunning, I wouldn't say intelligent, but cunning. Jews he attacks, Russians he leaves alone."
Zannis nodded, it sounded reasonable. "Before I forget," he said, "did you bring what I asked for?"
"In the glove box."
Zannis opened the glove box and took out a Walther PPK automatic, the German weapon preferred by Balkan detectives. There were bright metal scratches on the base of the grip. "What have you been doing with this?"
"Hanging pictures," Saltiel said. "The last time I saw my hammer, one of the grandkids was playing with it."
"Kids," Zannis said, with a smile.
"I'm blessed," Saltiel said. "You ought to get busy, Costa, you're not getting any younger."
Zannis's smile widened. "With Roxanne?" he said, naming his English girlfriend.
"Well ...," Saltiel said. "I guess not."
8:20 P.M . It had started to rain again, a few lightning flashes out in the Aegean. "You awake?" Zannis said.
"Just barely."
"You want a nap, go ahead."
"No thanks. Maybe later."
10:30 P.M . "By the way," Zannis said, "did you telephone Madam Pappas?"
"This morning, about eleven."
"And she said?"
"That she hated her husband and she's glad he's dead."
"That's honest."
"I thought so."
"Anything else?"
"No, she was getting ready to scream at me, so I got off the phone--you said to go easy."
Zannis nodded. "Let the detectives deal with her."
"She kill him?"
"She did."
"Naughty girl."
1:15 A.M . Quiet, in the city behind them. Only faint music from the tavernas on the seafront corniche and the creaking of the pier as the tide worked at the pilings. The sound was hypnotic and Zannis fought to stay awake. He took a cigarette from the flat box in his pocket--a Papastratos No. 1, top of the line in Greece--and struck a wooden match alight with his thumbnail. Expensive, these things, so a luxury for him. He made good money now, Vangelis had seen to that, but good money for a cop, which wasn't very much, not with four people to feed. His younger brother Ari, for Aristotle, sometimes made a few drachmas by carrying messages in the city. Poor soul, he did the best he could but he wasn't quite right, had always
Now Zannis headed for the taxi, gave the driver some money, thanked him, and sent him home. When Zannis slid into the passenger seat of the Skoda, Saltiel said, "So, what's going on?"
Zannis repeated the port captain's story, then said, "As long as he doesn't enter the city, we leave him alone. We'll give him a few hours to do something, then, if he's still holed up in the ship, I'll get some detectives to replace us."
"What if he waits until morning, strolls down here and shows a passport to the control officer?"
"Follow him," Zannis said. "I don't want him running loose in the city."
"German, you said."
"Reads a German newspaper, who knows what he is."
"A spy, you think?"
"Could be. The Turkish captain more or less said he was. With a look."
Saltiel laughed. "The Levant," he said. "A look indeed--I wouldn't live anywhere else." After a moment he added, "What's a spy after in Salonika? Any idea?"
"Who knows. Maybe just the war, coming south."
"Don't say such things, Costa. Down here, at the ass-end of the Balkans, who cares?"
"Not Hitler. Not according to the newspapers. And he has to know what goes on here, up in the mountains, when we're occupied."
Saltiel looked thoughtful. "Still," he said.
"What?"
"Well, I have a nephew who teaches at the technical school. Geography, among other things. A smart boy, Manni, he says that as long as Hitler stays allied with the Russians, we're safe. But, if he attacks them, we could be in for it. On the map of Europe we're the right flank--if somebody's headed east, the right flank that goes to the Caucasus, for the oil. Anyhow, that's Manni's theory."
"Believe it?"
Saltiel shrugged. "Hitler's cunning, I wouldn't say intelligent, but cunning. Jews he attacks, Russians he leaves alone."
Zannis nodded, it sounded reasonable. "Before I forget," he said, "did you bring what I asked for?"
"In the glove box."
Zannis opened the glove box and took out a Walther PPK automatic, the German weapon preferred by Balkan detectives. There were bright metal scratches on the base of the grip. "What have you been doing with this?"
"Hanging pictures," Saltiel said. "The last time I saw my hammer, one of the grandkids was playing with it."
"Kids," Zannis said, with a smile.
"I'm blessed," Saltiel said. "You ought to get busy, Costa, you're not getting any younger."
Zannis's smile widened. "With Roxanne?" he said, naming his English girlfriend.
"Well ...," Saltiel said. "I guess not."
8:20 P.M . It had started to rain again, a few lightning flashes out in the Aegean. "You awake?" Zannis said.
"Just barely."
"You want a nap, go ahead."
"No thanks. Maybe later."
10:30 P.M . "By the way," Zannis said, "did you telephone Madam Pappas?"
"This morning, about eleven."
"And she said?"
"That she hated her husband and she's glad he's dead."
"That's honest."
"I thought so."
"Anything else?"
"No, she was getting ready to scream at me, so I got off the phone--you said to go easy."
Zannis nodded. "Let the detectives deal with her."
"She kill him?"
"She did."
"Naughty girl."
1:15 A.M . Quiet, in the city behind them. Only faint music from the tavernas on the seafront corniche and the creaking of the pier as the tide worked at the pilings. The sound was hypnotic and Zannis fought to stay awake. He took a cigarette from the flat box in his pocket--a Papastratos No. 1, top of the line in Greece--and struck a wooden match alight with his thumbnail. Expensive, these things, so a luxury for him. He made good money now, Vangelis had seen to that, but good money for a cop, which wasn't very much, not with four people to feed. His younger brother Ari, for Aristotle, sometimes made a few drachmas by carrying messages in the city. Poor soul, he did the best he could but he wasn't quite right, had always
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