His uncle turned, his eyes widened with disbelief, then he shouted, “Constantine!” rose to his feet, and embraced his nephew. Strong as an ox, Uncle Anastas, who held him tight while Zannis felt, on his cheek, tears from his uncle’s eyes. “Oh my God, I thought I’d never see you again,” Anastas said. Then took him by the arms, stepped back, stared at him lovingly, and said, “Constantine, my own nephew, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“A long story, uncle.”
“My brother’s son,” Anastas said to his friends. “Look at him.”
“A handsome boy,” one of them said, in Greek.
“Are you still playing, Anastas?” said the other.
“I fold my cards,” Anastas said, wiping his eyes.
Uncle Anastas wanted to show him off at the antiquaires’ cafe but Zannis told him, as gently as he could, that they should close the booth and speak inside, so Anastas shooed his friends off, lowered the shutter over the front of the stall, then went to the cafe and returned carrying coffees spiked with Calvados. Zannis had meanwhile discovered-lying on a demilune table artfully coated with dust-a copy of that morning’s Le Matin. On the front page a headline: SS MAJOR SHOT BY JEWISH GANGSTERS!
His uncle, having had time to think things over on his walk to the cafe, was good and worried by the time he returned. He waited one sip of coffee, then said, “You better tell me the story, Constantine.”
Zannis held up the newspaper.
“Skata! You’re not a Jew.”
“Not a gangster either.”
Anastas switched on a lamp with a colored-glass shade, read the first few sentences of the article, then said, “Well, it’s in the Zannis blood. I got my first Turk when I was sixteen. A gendarme, but only a corporal, not a major.”
“I remember the story,” Zannis said.
Anastas put the paper down and looked puzzled. “But tell me something, why did you have to come all the way to Paris to do this thing? You could’ve waited, you know, they’ll be in Greece soon enough.”
“I came up here to rescue an Englishman, Uncle Anastas.”
“Oh, I see. You’re involved in … secret work?”
“Yes.”
“Bad business, dear nephew, they kill people who do that.”
“I know. But what happened last night was accidental-we were supposed to leave here quietly. Now we’re stuck.”
“Oh, ‘stuck’ I don’t know. All sorts of people in hiding here, waiting for the war to end, waiting for the Americans to stop sitting on their asses and do something.”
“I can’t wait, uncle. I have to get out, and I have to get my Englishman out.”
Anastas thought it over, finally said, “Not easy.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“But not impossible. Do you have any money?”
“Plenty. Grandma sewed it in the lining of my jacket.”
“Because that’s what it takes. And if you don’t have enough-”
“No, uncle, I have a lot. In dollars.”
“Dollars! Skata, I haven’t seen dollars in a long time. How much, hundreds?”
“Thousands.”
“Constantine!”
“It’s the war, uncle. Everything’s expensive.”
“Still, you must be very important. I mean, thousands.”
“The English do not want this man captured.”
From outside the stall, a low two-note whistle. Zannis could see, in the space between the bottom of the shutter and the ground, a pair of shoes, which then moved away. “What goes on?” he said.
“Police.” He tugged the little chain on the lamp, darkening the stall, then rested an elbow on his knee and rubbed the corners of his mouth with thumb and index finger. “What to do with you,” he said. “Where have you hidden your Englishman?”
Zannis described the building and the courtyard.
“He’ll be safe there, but not for long. When these clowns go away, you’ll bring him to my apartment.”
“Thank you, Anastas,” Zannis said.
“What the hell, you’re family. And maybe I have one idea.”
“Which is?”
“I know somebody.”
“Always good, to know somebody.”
“You’d better,” Anastas said. “Otherwise …”
In the apartment, Zannis and Byer settled down to wait. Byer would sleep on a chaise longue, Zannis on a tasseled couch. And, later that morning, one of Anastas’s card-playing friends took a can of blue paint and a license plate over to the courtyard where they’d hidden the Peugeot. He then drove the newly painted car to a nearby village, parked it on a mud flat by the river, and took a train back to Paris. “I suspect it was gone before I got on the train,” he told Anastas. “Into a barn until the war ends.”
“Harder than I thought,” Anastas said at dinner. His French wife had prepared steaks, with spinach and onions sauteed in oil, and they drank a very good red wine in unlabeled bottles. “The man I know …?” Anastas paused to chew his steak, then took a sip of the wine. “Well, he had to go to a man he knows.” Anastas met his nephew’s eyes, making sure he understood the magnitude of such an event. “So prepare to pay, nephew.”
“When do I meet him?” Zannis said.
“After midnight, two-thirty. A car will come for you.”
Byer looked up from his plate and said, “Thank you, madame, for this wonderful dinner.”
“You are welcome,” she said. “It is in your honor, monsieur, and Constantine’s. To wish you safe journey.” She smiled, warm and affectionate. If the occupation had affected her, there was no evidence that Zannis could see.
“We drink to that,” Anastas said. And they did.
2:30 A.M. The glossy black automobile was surely worth a fortune, Zannis had never seen one like it and had no idea what it was. It rolled to a stop in front of Anastas’s apartment building in Saint-Ouen, the back door swung open, and Zannis climbed in. The interior smelled like expensive leather. The driver turned to face him, holding him with his eyes for a long moment, likely making sure Zannis knew who he was dealing with. He knew. He recognized the breed: confident young men to whom killing came easily and smart enough to profit from it. Then the driver rested his hands on the wheel but the car never moved, simply sat there, the huge engine purring softly.
Zannis had known corrupt men of every sort, high and low, over the years he’d been with the police, but the friend of the friend, sitting next to him, was something new. He looked, Zannis thought, like a French king; prosperously stout, with fair, wavy hair parted to one side, creamy skin, a prominent nose, and a pouch that sagged beneath his chin. “I’m told you wish to leave France,” he said, his voice deep and used to command.
“That’s right.”
“The price, for two individuals, is two thousand dollars. Have you the money with you?”
“Yes.”
“I believe you are the man who shot a German officer. Did you do this because you have a hatred of Germans?”
“No. My friend was lying on the floor of the car, the officer would have seen him, so I had to do it. Why do you want to know?”
“To inform certain people-the people who need to know things. They don’t care what is done, they simply require information.”
“Germans?”
The man was amused. “Please,” he said, not unkindly. Then, “It doesn’t matter, does it?” It was as though he enjoyed innocence, found Zannis so, and instinctively liked him. “Now,” he said, “there are two ways for you to leave France. The first choice is a freight train controlled by Communist railway workers. Traveling in this way you may go to Germany, Italy, or Spain. However, once you’ve crossed the border-there will be no inspection of papers-you are on your own. Hopefully, you’ve made arrangements that will allow you to proceed from one of those countries.”