A green Jeep was parked beside the path. The head of a huge Doberman poked out from behind the front wheel. The dog charged forward and stopped only a foot in front of her, barking and growling.
As the dog wrinkled its snout to show its teeth, she recalled the fragment of a wolf documentary she’d seen on Yavor’s television. She gasped and took a few steps back. But that only seemed to further infuriate the Doberman. She screamed when it leaped forward and sank its fangs deep into her left calf. The dog jerked its head as if it wanted to tear her whole leg off.
A middle-aged man with a large wart on his chin came running and shouting out of the house. He was holding a large stick, and when he raised it above his head, the dog released her from its grip and skulked toward him.
“How—how could you’ve let this—this—beast without a leash?” Jasmin shouted as she clasped her hands over her bleeding calf. She was shaking all over, and cold sweat poured down her knotted spine.
“What the hell is it to you?” the man shouted back in fluent but heavily accented English. “This is my property, and you had no right to trespass. Now get out of here!”
The man grabbed the growling dog by the collar and dragged it to the Jeep. He opened the back door, made the dog jump in, and shut it close.
“Has the dog at least been vaccinated against rabies?” she asked, clenching her calf so tightly her hands cramped.
“There’s no rabies in my country,” the man growled proudly as if it was he who’d eradicated the disease in Bulgaria. “Now get out of my property!”
The man turned around and walked toward the house. He was nearly at the front door when she shouted, “Your dog attacked me, and I’m bleeding. If you don’t at least lend me a first-aid kit, I’ll report you.”
He turned around and scowled. The hate that suddenly swamped his eyes was nearly inhuman. “That you’ll report me?” he shouted over the renewed barking of the Doberman. “I leave the dog run free in case some fucking thieves come round to rob me. I’ve got every right to protect my property!”
“So this is your property?” she asked, pointing to the trail at her feet. “This path leads from the road to the canal, where it joins another trail, so I highly doubt you have a right to treat it as your private driveway. Or do you?”
The man opened his mouth, but not a sound came out of his throat, and so he just glared. Jasmin was sure nobody had ever talked to him like this in his entire life. A flash of satisfaction momentarily overcame her pain.
“What the fuck do you know?” he snapped at last. “I told you to get the hell out of here. Now!” He turned around and disappeared into the house.
Jasmin limped after him, determined to make him give her at least some iodine and a roll of bandages. Blood streaked down her calf and soaked her sock as she walked. She tried the door. It was open. She walked through a musty hallway and peeked into the living room.
The man with the wart was pouring himself a drink at an old-fashioned liquor cabinet. Another man was sitting by a large, barred window with a cigarette in his hand. A black flag hung above the fireplace.
“Get the fuck out of here or I’ll break your jaw!” the house owner growled when he noticed her at the door. He stomped toward her to shove her outside. But there was no need to do that.
Like in a trance, Jasmin turned around and rushed out of the house. She limped toward the path, completely forgetting about her bleeding calf and ignoring the barking Doberman, which was trying to get at her through the Jeep’s half-open window.
Her search was finally over.
The black flag she’d seen above the fireplace resembled a pirate flag, except that two crossed axes—rather than crossbones—projected from behind a grinning skull. The crimson letters below the skull spelled out Satan’s Axers. Although she hadn’t seen Panzer’s recent photos, she suddenly realized that the grainy pictures she remembered from old police files strongly resembled the man who’d just cursed her out of his house.
Then there was the old man she’d spotted by the barred window, the man with a few strains of white hair tied into a limp ponytail. Renard had hardly noticed her. But she had recognized him the second she’d seen him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The phone call came the next morning at about nine. Jasmin was already up, of course, and far away from Yavor’s kitchen. Forgetting about the bite wound, she’d strolled around the Sea Garden park, and then she’d bought a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a piece of cheese pastry—her first breakfast in months—to eat on the beach.
Sitting on the sand, she sipped the coffee and watched the gentle waves of the Black Sea scurry toward her. She threw a few bits of the pastry to five or six sandpipers that were running madly back and forth along the shore, and she shared the rest with a stray mutt that had come to greet her. The city was full of these unfortunate creatures, and she fed them whenever she could. They loved to bark at passing cars, but she knew they were mostly harmless.
The birds ignored her as soon as the food was gone. The dog, however, had decided to adopt her. He lay down beside her, put his grizzled muzzle on his thin paws, and apprised her with his sad brown eyes. While she was wondering where she could buy him more food, her cell phone rang in her shorts pocket.
“This is Inspector Boris Varbanov.” She heard laborious but correct English on the other end. “We met yesterday?”
“Of course!”
She had limped to the Varna police headquarters straight from Panzer’s house, and it was Varbanov she had reported Panzer and Renard to. This young inspector had been very keen to help. He’d insisted on personally treating her wound, and he’d promised to call her the moment there were any new developments.
“I’ve got some news, Ms. Bierce.” His voice trembled with excitement, and Jasmin’s heart lurched into a gallop. The dog stood up and tilted his head as if to ask who was calling. “I hope I didn’t wake you up?”
“Oh no, I’ve been awake for a . . . Is it good news?”
“Well, we sent some plainclothes officers over to Asparuhovo yesterday to confirm your claim that Panzer resides in that house by the canal. And at about two this morning, our SWAT team stormed the place. We’ve been incredibly lucky because we found not only Panzer but also Graham Renard, who was sleeping in the guest bedroom.”
Jasmin shot to her feet so violently the sandpipers flew up and the dog put his tail between his legs and trotted a few yards away. The bite wound flared through her flesh, but she hardly noticed. “That is great news! Thank you, inspector!”
“Well, thank you! We’ve been looking for this Panzer character for a long time. And we’ve been very concerned about having an American gangster here in Varna. You have been very brave and smart, Ms. Bierce! We should give you a medal!”
Jasmin chuckled politely, but a sudden whiff of sadness snuffed her elation. Sid would be alive if I’d only been less brave and a little smarter half a year ago.
“Anyway,” Varbanov continued, “I’ve already sent a report to our counterparts in Anchorage. I’m sure they will be very relieved to hear that Renard is behind bars. He’ll surely be extradited. I suggest you return home as soon as possible in order to give your testimony.”
“I believe I will,” she said, and her sadness was gone. “Congratulations on the arrest, by the way.”
“Oh, it could only happen thanks to you, Ms. Bierce. Well, good luck, and all the best.”
“Thank you, inspector. Same to you.”
As they said goodbye, Jasmin realized she was grinning. It was her first happy smile since Sid’s murder.
THE SUNSHINE LOOKED more cheerful than ever before as she fled the noisy apartment the following morning. The tall tilia trees shielded her kindly from the strong rays. A fresh but gentle breeze came from the sea to caress her face and ruffle her hair. Heading for the train station, Jasmin almost regretted her decision to leave so soon.
Nevertheless, her job was done in Bulgaria, and although she knew it would be months before R
enard got extradited and she was called to appear in court as a witness, it was time to go. As she was already in Europe, however, she decided to visit her father’s home country first and fly to Alaska from there.
Jasmin had found a bargain flight from the Czech Republic to the States. Surprisingly, the tickets from Varna to Prague were nearly the same price, and so she opted for a train. And since the timetables on the Bulgarian Railways website were as comprehensible as Egyptian hieroglyphics, she’d decided to buy the ticket in person.
Having passed through the train station’s main entrance, Jasmin stepped into the crowded hall. Buffeted by clashing emotions, she never noticed the man with wide sideburns who had followed her all the way from her apartment building and entered the station a few seconds after her.
Jasmin made her way to the international ticket counter and stood behind a short man with a flaky bald spot. Although there were only four people in front of them, Jasmin braced herself for a long wait: the locals liked to take their time. When it was his turn, the bald man and the female clerk argued about something for at least fifteen minutes, and Jasmin stared at his flaking head with an increasing impatience. Finally, the man took his ticket and left.
“Are there any direct trains to Prague, please?” Jasmin asked the fat, bespectacled woman behind the counter.
“No!” the woman barked, reminding Jasmin of Panzer’s Doberman.
Bulgarians were generally friendly, and they had wonderful customs, such as exchanging yarn bracelets to celebrate the arrival of spring or giving out chocolates to celebrate everything else. Nevertheless, local clerks and cashiers often seemed to take it as a personal affront when someone dared bother them.
“How can I get there, then?” Jasmin asked.
“This is no information booth,” the fat woman snapped, her double chin jiggling with irritation.
Staring at the woman in disbelief, Jasmin twitched when she felt someone’s hand tap her shoulder. She turned around to a skinny old man with a face like a dry, gray prune who had been waiting behind her.
“Excuse me, lady,” he said, smiling awkwardly as if he were ashamed of his nasty compatriot. “But the best for you is to go to Budapest, Hungary, and change trains there. There’s a train that goes every day from Budapest to Berlin, and it stops in Prague. You can buy both tickets here.”
“Thank you so much!” Jasmin said to the man, feeling like kissing his wrinkled cheek. Then she turned to the clerk and said with a victorious grin, “A ticket to Budapest for tomorrow. And one for the connecting train to Prague.”
“Passport,” the woman ordered, her glasses steaming with self-importance.
Jasmin flung the passport on the counter, and she smiled at the man while the clerk filled in two blank tickets.
“Two hundred and eighty leva!” the woman ordered.
Without a word, Jasmin handed out the money and pocketed the passport and the tickets. Then she thanked her rescuer one more time and left the station.
The man with wide sideburns left his hideout behind a nearby column and pushed and elbowed his way to the counter. He produced a police badge and waved it in front of the clerk’s fat face. “Police! I need to know where the girl is going.” The badge said Inspector Boris Varbanov.
THE SUN HAD CLIMBED a little higher. It poured through the barred window and painted Panzer’s and Renard’s faces with light and dark stripes.
Panzer stirred in his chair, and then he stretched and yawned. His fingers inadvertently touched the wart on his chin as if to make sure it was still there. Renard coughed and ran his liver-spotted hand over his balding head. Then he reached into his breast pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Having stuck one in his mouth, he reached over the table and handed one to Panzer, who nodded and rolled it between his thick fingers. Renard patted his pockets, found a lighter, and lit his cigarette. Panzer leaned over to have his cigarette lit as well. “What a stupid whore,” he growled as he exhaled the first cloud of smoke.
“She sure is, ol’dude.”
“I can’t believe she stumbled on us like that. And that she happened to recognize you!”
“What a fucking coincidence, huh?” Renard flicked the ashes into a jar where crooked cigarette stubs swam like orange worms in an inch of filthy water. “I’m sure this fucking slut came to Bulgaria just to sniff me out. And she did—can you believe that?”
Panzer snarled and shook his head.
“Listen up, ol’dude,” Renard said, leaning over the table. “I won’t leave it like this. I want this bitch—”
The roar of a powerful engine drowned out his weak voice. The two men looked out of the barred window. They saw a man in a Wehrmacht helmet and a leather vest approaching on a Harley.
It was Inspector Boris Varbanov.
But he wasn’t here to interrogate prisoners. He had come to visit friends.
Varbanov’s bike fishtailed on the muddy forest path and skidded to a halt beside Panzer’s Jeep. The Doberman barked loudly and galloped forward as the rider dismounted. Instead of attacking, however, the dog licked the cop’s hand and wagged its stumpy tail when Varbanov scratched its head.
Panzer smiled as he got up and crossed the living room to unlock the front door. Like the dog, he was also fond of his loyal follower. If it wasn’t for Varbanov, he and Renard would be in jail.
Varbanov followed Panzer into the house. He took off his helmet and put it on the mantelpiece, below the black Satan’s Axers flag. He was a tall man in his late twenties. His dirty blond hair was cropped short. His wide sideburns crept down his hollow cheeks toward a pair of stern lips.
“I really owe you one, ol’dude,” Renard said as he stood up and shook Varbanov’s hand. “I still can’t believe that the only cop the bitch happened to speak with was you—a member of Axers!”
“So she really thinks we’ve got busted, huh?” Panzer asked as they all sat down.
“Sure does, boss,” replied Varbanov. “I’ve been following her since yesterday, and she keeps smiling as if she’s been smoking weed. Oh, and a few hours ago, she bought a train ticket.”
Renard and Panzer leaned toward him. Pleased by their attention, Varbanov ran his fingers over his sideburns and continued, “She’s taking a train to the Czech Republic early tomorrow morning. She’ll have to change trains in Hungary, and she’ll arrive in Prague the following afternoon. Supposedly, she’ll be flying to the States from there.”
“Good riddance,” growled Panzer.
“Yeah . . . but the problem is far from solved,” Renard said, striving to add depth to his shrill voice. “She’s dug up all kinds of dirt on me, which she might publish as soon as she finds out I wasn’t really busted. Because of her, I’ll be afraid to stick my fucking nose out of Bulgaria. I might never go home again, damn it!”
Although he tried not to show it, Renard felt far from safe even in this house. Panzer knew Renard was a former police snitch. What he didn’t know, however, was that Renard had been a Hells Angel, a mortal rival of most other bikers, including Satan’s Axers. If Jasmin revealed that, Renard would have nowhere to run because his Bulgarian allies would turn into his enemies.
Renard’s hands shook more than usual as he lit another cigarette and continued, “What I’m trying to say is that I want this bitch killed.”
The three men twitched when they heard the Doberman bark. Their eyes shot toward the barred window, but they relaxed when they saw the dog’s head was turned up toward the crown of a spruce. It was probably just a squirrel that had encroached on its territory. The living room was full of embarrassed coughs and side glances. The men had all jumped at the sudden barking, and each of them hoped the others hadn’t noticed.
“Anyway, tell your boys I’m willing to pay five thousand dollars for the bitch’s death,” Renard said to Panzer.
Varbanov gave Renard a quick look and sucked air with his puckered lips. The dog stopped barking, and they could hear the light hum of the traffic coming from the bridge. A fly buzzed
in through the open window. It made a few circles above the men’s heads before it flew off to the kitchen. Varbanov ran his fingers over his bristling sideburns. Then he said, “I’ll do the hit myself.”
“You?” Renard asked.
“Why not? Killing a bitch that’s almost put my boss in jail, and pocketing five grand on top of that, is a pretty sweet deal if you ask me. Plus, I don’t want her babbling to the American cops and asking them how come you haven’t been extradited: could cause me tons of trouble. So I’ll simply take a few days off and shut her up forever.” He turned to Panzer. “Is it okay with you, boss?”
Panzer frowned in deep thought. The fly was back, but when he swatted at it, it escaped through the bars in the window. Its buzzing spilled into silence.
“It’s okay with me if you give ten percent of the bounty to the Axers’ fund,” Panzer said at last. “And I don’t want any killing here in town. We’ve been incredibly lucky, but we shouldn’t push it. There are many other cops who go after us like hounds, and they could eventually link her death to us. We’ve got to think about this really carefully.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EXCITEMENT HAD BEEN slapping Jasmin from her sleep the whole night, and her last morning in Varna was the first morning when she woke up before Yavor. As she walked down the murky hallway toward the front door, Yavor’s puffy face poked out of his bedroom.
“Hey, Miss Jasmin—big bag on back,” he murmured, eyeing the backpack she’d hoisted on her slight shoulders.
“Yes, it is. Well, I’m off, Yavor.”
“Good you go, Miss Jasmin,” Yavor said as he rubbed his hands, suddenly looking very much awake. “Good you go. Soon, inside of Varna, atomic bomb. Escape, escape, ha, ha, ha! Hey, Miss Jasmin? Inside of Varna, atomic bomb. Miss Jasmin? Atomic bomb destroy all!”
“Yes, Yavor. You take good care of yourself. Remember to get fresh air from time to time. And try to eat regularly, okay?”
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