been "different," and the family had long ago accepted him for who he was.
It was getting smoky in the car and Saltiel rolled down the window. "Do you think there are men on the moon?" he said.
"I don't know. I suppose anything's possible."
"They were arguing about it, yesterday, in the barbershop."
"Little green men? With one eye? Like in Buck Rogers?"
"I guess so."
"Somebody in your barbershop thinks those movies are true?"
"That's what it sounded like."
"I'd change barbers, if I were you."
3:30 A.M . "Wake up, Gabi."
"I wasn't sleeping. Not really."
"Here he comes."
Of medium height, the man wore a raincoat and carried a briefcase. He had a hard, bony, chinless face beneath a hat with the brim tilted over his eyes. As he neared the end of the pier, Zannis and Saltiel ducked down below the windshield. By now they could hear footsteps, determined and in a hurry, that approached, then faded away from them, headed around the east side of the customshouse, toward the city--to the west lay the warehouse district and the railway station. Zannis made sure of the Walther in the pocket of his jacket, slid out of the passenger seat, and was careful not to slam the door, leaving it ajar. "Give me thirty seconds, Gabi," he said. "Then follow along, nice and slow, headlights off, and keep your distance."
Zannis walked quickly to the east side of the customshouse, paused at the corner, and had a quick look around it. Nobody. Where the hell had he gone? There was only one street he could have taken, which served the warehouses. Zannis, moving at a fast trot, reached the street, turned the corner, and there he was--there somebody was--about two blocks away. Now Zannis realized he was getting wet, put up his umbrella, and moved into the shelter of the high brick wall of the first warehouse. Up ahead the German sped on, with long strides, as though, Zannis thought, he was taking his evening constitutional on a path in some Deutschland forest. A few seconds later the Skoda turned the corner behind him and Zannis signaled, waving his hand backward, for Saltiel to stay where he was. Zannis could hear the engine idling as the Skoda rolled to a stop. Could the German hear it? Doubtful, especially in the rain, but Zannis couldn't be sure--the street was dead silent.
Then the German glanced over his shoulder and turned right, down a narrow alley. He'd likely seen Zannis, but so what? Just a man with an umbrella, trudging along, shoulders hunched, on a miserable night. Zannis walked past the alley, ignoring it, eyes on the ground ahead of him, until he passed the far corner and moved out of sight. He didn't stop there but went farther down the street--if he could hear the German, the German could hear him--then looked for a place to hide. He saw a loading dock across from him and moved quickly, soaking one foot in a puddle between broken cobblestones, hurried up the steps and stood in the angle of the shuttered entryway and the wall, which was blind from the street--as far as the alley, anyhow. The German wasn't going anywhere, Zannis realized, not from this alley, where, a few years earlier, a porter had stabbed Hamid the moneylender in an argument over a few lepta--not even a drachma--and it was blocked by a high stone wall covered with a wisteria vine. Hamid had staggered as far as the wall and pulled at the wisteria, thinking to climb over, but the vine came away from the crumbling stone and he died right there. The porter covered him up with the vine but in a few hours--it was summertime--Hamid had made his presence known and the crime was discovered. A sad business, Zannis thought, the moneylenders preyed on the waterfront laborers like hawks on pigeons. Was this a law of nature? Perhaps it was. A real hawk had once tried to get at one of his little brother's canaries, in a cage on the windowsill, and bent the hell out of the wire frame.
Zannis looked at his watch, 3:39, and settled down to wait. This was a meeting, of course,
It was getting smoky in the car and Saltiel rolled down the window. "Do you think there are men on the moon?" he said.
"I don't know. I suppose anything's possible."
"They were arguing about it, yesterday, in the barbershop."
"Little green men? With one eye? Like in Buck Rogers?"
"I guess so."
"Somebody in your barbershop thinks those movies are true?"
"That's what it sounded like."
"I'd change barbers, if I were you."
3:30 A.M . "Wake up, Gabi."
"I wasn't sleeping. Not really."
"Here he comes."
Of medium height, the man wore a raincoat and carried a briefcase. He had a hard, bony, chinless face beneath a hat with the brim tilted over his eyes. As he neared the end of the pier, Zannis and Saltiel ducked down below the windshield. By now they could hear footsteps, determined and in a hurry, that approached, then faded away from them, headed around the east side of the customshouse, toward the city--to the west lay the warehouse district and the railway station. Zannis made sure of the Walther in the pocket of his jacket, slid out of the passenger seat, and was careful not to slam the door, leaving it ajar. "Give me thirty seconds, Gabi," he said. "Then follow along, nice and slow, headlights off, and keep your distance."
Zannis walked quickly to the east side of the customshouse, paused at the corner, and had a quick look around it. Nobody. Where the hell had he gone? There was only one street he could have taken, which served the warehouses. Zannis, moving at a fast trot, reached the street, turned the corner, and there he was--there somebody was--about two blocks away. Now Zannis realized he was getting wet, put up his umbrella, and moved into the shelter of the high brick wall of the first warehouse. Up ahead the German sped on, with long strides, as though, Zannis thought, he was taking his evening constitutional on a path in some Deutschland forest. A few seconds later the Skoda turned the corner behind him and Zannis signaled, waving his hand backward, for Saltiel to stay where he was. Zannis could hear the engine idling as the Skoda rolled to a stop. Could the German hear it? Doubtful, especially in the rain, but Zannis couldn't be sure--the street was dead silent.
Then the German glanced over his shoulder and turned right, down a narrow alley. He'd likely seen Zannis, but so what? Just a man with an umbrella, trudging along, shoulders hunched, on a miserable night. Zannis walked past the alley, ignoring it, eyes on the ground ahead of him, until he passed the far corner and moved out of sight. He didn't stop there but went farther down the street--if he could hear the German, the German could hear him--then looked for a place to hide. He saw a loading dock across from him and moved quickly, soaking one foot in a puddle between broken cobblestones, hurried up the steps and stood in the angle of the shuttered entryway and the wall, which was blind from the street--as far as the alley, anyhow. The German wasn't going anywhere, Zannis realized, not from this alley, where, a few years earlier, a porter had stabbed Hamid the moneylender in an argument over a few lepta--not even a drachma--and it was blocked by a high stone wall covered with a wisteria vine. Hamid had staggered as far as the wall and pulled at the wisteria, thinking to climb over, but the vine came away from the crumbling stone and he died right there. The porter covered him up with the vine but in a few hours--it was summertime--Hamid had made his presence known and the crime was discovered. A sad business, Zannis thought, the moneylenders preyed on the waterfront laborers like hawks on pigeons. Was this a law of nature? Perhaps it was. A real hawk had once tried to get at one of his little brother's canaries, in a cage on the windowsill, and bent the hell out of the wire frame.
Zannis looked at his watch, 3:39, and settled down to wait. This was a meeting, of course,
Similar Books
The Legacy of Gird
Elizabeth Moon
No More Dead Dogs
Gordon Korman
Claiming Her Innocence
Ava Sinclair
Warrior
Zoe Archer
Find My Baby
Mitzi Pool Bridges
Love, Chocolate, and Beer (Cactus Creek)
Violet Duke
ARC: Cracked
Eliza Crewe
Silent Witness
Diane Burke
Bea
Peggy Webb